Gemotions

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as Mark started the story of their winning goal, the one that got them the championship. He leaned forward slightly, every muscle in his body taut. Mark was smiling, all teeth and boastful exaggeration. This wasn't how it had happened.

“I remember sprinting past their defense, the ball glued to my foot!” Mark exclaimed, gesturing wildly. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he didn't appear to notice. John kept his gaze fixed on Mark’s face, searching for a trace of acknowledgement, a flicker of uncertainty. There was none.

He recalled the moment differently, a haze of adrenaline and exhaustion. He remembered the pass, his pass, that *had* put Mark in front of the goal. He recalled the opponent, not the sprint. He felt a rising heat in his chest, an urge to correct, to clarify.

“And you definitely remember the crowd!” Mark finished. He laughed, slapping his knee. John found himself unable to return the gesture. The memory was twisting, morphing, and John felt the ground shift under his feet. He had to be careful; he had to keep listening.