Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the air, a thick, suffocating fog. "We need you at center, Johnson." His voice, usually jovial, was now flat, devoid of warmth. Johnson swallowed, the action feeling like a monumental effort. His stomach clenched. He’d spent his whole life perfecting the art of the outside shot, the graceful arc of the ball through the net. He was a shooter, not a bruiser. The thought of battling in the paint, of elbows and close-quarters combat, made him want to bolt from the gymnasium.

He looked at his teammates, their faces a blur of concern and… pity? He felt a sudden, desperate urge to disappear, to melt into the polished wooden floor. His hands started to sweat, the familiar leather of the basketball feeling suddenly alien and slick in his grip.

His throat constricted. He managed a strained, "But… I’m a guard, coach." He hated the tremor in his voice. He hated the way his knees felt wobbly, as if they might give way. The court seemed to tilt slightly, the basket a distant, mocking circle.