Gemotions

The rhythmic *thwack* of the racquetball against the wall in the court was supposed to soothe David, but today it was making it worse. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. This was supposed to be his escape, his hour of power, a release from the week’s pressures. Now, his son, Leo, was shadowing him, mimicking every shot, every grunt, every strategic pause. The boy, barely tall enough to see over the net, had become a miniature version of him.

"Leo, go sit down," David snapped, his voice rough. He could feel the pulse in his temple.

Leo’s face crumpled. "But Dad, I want to play."

David missed the next shot, the ball smacking hard against the floor. He wanted to shatter something, the ball, the wall, the whole darn world. This was his thing, and Leo was ruining it. He hated how he was the one that was in the wrong.