Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Maya’s brow as Coach Miller called her over. She chewed the inside of her cheek, the taste of blood a familiar comfort. He gestured towards the infield, his voice booming across the empty stadium. "Maya, we're moving you from center field to catcher." Her stomach lurched. Catcher? She'd spent her whole life practicing her throws, honed for the long distances. Now, she was expected to squat, to take the brunt of every pitch. Her palms grew damp.

She looked at her center field glove, laying forgotten at her feet, and then at the catcher's mitt Coach held out to her. A knot formed in her throat. "But Coach," she stammered, her voice thin. "I… I don't know how to catch." The pressure in her chest felt like a vise tightening.