Gemotions

The clipboard felt heavy in Coach Miller's hand, like a brick. He hated this part of the job, the soul-crushing part. Especially when it was young Timmy Henderson, a kid who’d always given it his all. Now, he had to tell him he wasn’t good enough. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, a gesture he did far too often these days. The fluorescent lights in the gymnasium seemed to buzz louder than usual, assaulting his senses. He took a long, slow breath, trying to regain some composure before calling Timmy over. His stomach churned.

He heard the squeak of sneakers on the polished floor. Timmy, beaming, trotted towards him, expecting praise. Miller forced a smile, but it felt stiff, unnatural. The poor kid. This was going to be a disaster.

“Timmy, let’s go sit over here,” Miller said, his voice unusually gravelly. He gestured towards the bleachers, avoiding eye contact. The space between them felt enormous.