Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the athletic training room felt cold against his skin. The air smelled of antiseptic and Ben-Gay. He fidgeted with the elastic band of his wrist sweatband, the familiar motion offering little comfort. He hadn't slept well in days. Now, Coach Evans stood before him, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with a somber seriousness that felt like a punch to the gut.

He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. He just stared, feeling utterly frozen. The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room, each tick a hammer blow. He felt his legs tremble.