Gemotions

He stared at his hands, fists clenched. "We need you in the outfield, Jack." The coach's casual statement had hit him like a fastball to the gut. Jack, the catcher, the voice of reason behind the plate, the one who called the game. He felt as if the ground had suddenly given way beneath him.

He was speechless. The bright stadium lights seemed to throb, to pulse, reflecting off the shiny metal of the bats.

He wandered towards the dugout, the rhythmic thwack of batting practice sounding distant, muffled. His mouth was dry, his throat constricted. The familiar scent of leather and grass felt different, tainted somehow.