Sweat slicked over Maya's palms as Coach called her name. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She’d been the starting shortstop for three years, her glove a familiar extension of her arm. Now, he was gesturing towards the outfield, a polite smile plastered on his face. She gripped her bat tighter, knuckles bone-white. The other girls were looking at her; she could feel their gazes, dissecting her reaction.
“Maya, we think you'd be a great asset in center field,” the coach said, his voice smooth and measured. She nodded stiffly, the words catching in her throat. The infield felt like home, where she knew every blade of grass, the bounce of the ball. The outfield was vast, a green expanse where anything could happen. She looked at the other girls, their faces expectant.
The next day, Maya found herself standing under the scorching sun, eyes scanning the horizon. Each movement of the opposing team's players, each adjustment of her own feet, was meticulously considered. A fly ball arced towards her, a dark speck against the blinding blue. Time slowed. She tracked the ball's trajectory, every muscle in her body tensed, preparing for action.