Gemotions

The locker room was a cathedral of stale sweat and anxious silence. Sunlight sliced through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Marco’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the coach’s quiet, deliberate footsteps. He’d never been this close to the man, not really. Coach Miller was a legend, a granite statue come to life, and Marco felt the urge to curtsy, to bow, to simply...disappear. He fiddled with the laces of his cleats, the leather suddenly feeling unfamiliar and clumsy beneath his trembling fingers.

The coach stopped directly in front of him. Marco’s breath hitched. He smelled of liniment and something else, something undefinable that spoke of dedication and sacrifice. “Marco,” the coach began, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Come with me for a minute.” He gestured towards the door, and Marco, in a daze, followed.