Gemotions

The silence in the cramped office was deafening. The ticking clock on the wall seemed to amplify the tension. Coach Peterson shifted in his chair, feeling the scratchy fabric of the upholstery against his skin. The feeling wasn't unpleasant.

He stared at the player's file, at the photograph, at the statistics that told a story he didn't want to hear. He hated these decisions. He felt the heat in his chest, a slow burn.

He looked up as the player, Ben, knocked softly on the doorframe. “Come in,” he managed, his voice sounding oddly formal, even to his own ears. He felt the blood rush to his face.