Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window in Mr. Henderson's office seemed to stab at Marcus’s eyes. He fidgeted, rearranging the stack of pamphlets on his lap. His palms were slick with perspiration. He couldn’t seem to stop tapping his foot, a nervous rhythm against the wooden floor.

The coach, a man he'd always admired, was silent, studying him with an unreadable gaze. The silence was a physical weight, pressing down on him. Each tick of the clock was a tiny hammer blow against his sanity.

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat. "Marcus, sit down." The simple phrase felt like a sentence. Marcus lowered himself slowly into the chair, the springs groaning in protest. He found himself staring at his calloused hands, suddenly fascinated by their details.