Gemotions

The taste of bile rose in David’s throat. Coach Thompson's voice seemed to drone on and on, but his words only registered as a dull roar in David’s ears. He could feel his hands trembling slightly as he stood there, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. He wanted to scream, to lash out.

He stared at the worn leather of the coach's desk, imagining kicking the thing to pieces. The polite platitudes – "We wish you the best" – felt like a slap in the face. He’d given this everything, and he was being discarded.

He turned and walked, shoulders stiff, out of the office. The air outside was cold, biting. He welcomed the sting against his face. He’d show them. He would prove them wrong.