Gemotions

He waited. Every sound, every movement in the hallway outside Coach Evans’ office, seemed amplified, each step a prelude to doom. The cheap linoleum floor felt cold under his worn sneakers. He pressed his palms against his thighs. The faint smell of chlorine from the pool permeated the air. He tried to think of something else. He ran all the plays in his head.

He could feel the blood pumping hard in his ears. The door clicked open.

"Come in, Michael," Coach Evans said, his voice flat.