Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Marco's forehead as he stormed out of the coach's office. The crumpled piece of paper in his hand felt like a live coal. He ripped it in half, then again, and again, until the tiny scraps littered the hallway floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound that seemed to mock his every step. Each footfall on the linoleum echoed his frustration. He wanted to scream.

He kicked a water cooler, the metallic clang a brief, satisfying release. His fists clenched and unclenched. He'd poured his heart and soul into this team, every practice, every drill. Now, just like that, he was gone. He glared at the closed door, the name "Coach Miller" neatly printed on a small silver plaque. The injustice of it all simmered inside him.

He pictured Miller's bland, overly-sympathetic face. He spat on the ground and pushed the door to the outside. The sun felt too bright, the world too loud. He had to get away, to find a place where he could think without throttling something.