Gemotions

Coach Ramirez’s office smelled of stale coffee and old sweat. I sat across from him, legs bouncing. The worn leather chair felt stiff and unforgiving. The silence hung in the air, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. Each tick was a hammer blow against my skull.

I kept my gaze fixed on the framed team photo on the wall, cataloging the faces of my teammates, searching for any sign of understanding or empathy. My hands were balled into fists. The small details of the photo came into clear focus, as if they were magnified.

"Ethan..." Coach Ramirez finally began, his voice surprisingly gentle.