Gemotions

"No, no chance," muttered Ben, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. The fluorescent lights of the pool hall seemed to flicker in his vision. The coach's explanation about "team needs" and "skill sets" seemed like some kind of cruel joke.

He grabbed the nearest cue stick, the polished wood cold against his palm. He slammed it against the table with a sound that echoed through the otherwise empty room. His shoulders felt tight, and his stomach churned.

He paced back and forth, muttering under his breath. He hated this feeling. This hollow emptiness. The injustice of it all. He slammed his fist down on the table, startling himself, and anyone that might have been there.