Gemotions

A wave of heat flushed through Maya’s cheeks as the coach announced the change during the team huddle. “Maya, we need you at center field.” Maya, a shortstop who lived and breathed infield dirt, felt her fingers clench into fists. The outfield? It was a place for the slow, the uncoordinated, the players who couldn't handle the pressure of the infield.

She took a long, deep breath, struggling to keep her face neutral. The infield was her kingdom. She commanded the space, anticipated the plays, felt the rhythm of the game in her bones. She wasn’t sure how to handle herself in the outfield. The sun beat down on her, magnifying the discomfort. She didn’t like it.

As the team broke from the huddle, she lagged behind, feigning to adjust her glove. She watched the others drift toward their new assignments, a cold wash of resentment coursing through her. She dragged her feet, heading toward center, her steps heavy. She’d play the position, alright, but she wouldn’t like it. Not one bit.