Gemotions

The clipboard felt heavy in Coach Miller's hand, a physical manifestation of the annoyance churning in his gut. He stared at the name, Sarah Chen, and the numbers next to it, the poor stats mocking him. He’d seen her lack of hustle on the court, her hesitant passes, the way she’d always been a step behind. He should have cut her weeks ago, but the kid’s pleading eyes and the assistant coach’s hesitant pleas had stalled him. Now, there was no choice. The final game was approaching, and she was dragging the whole team down.

He walked toward the bench, the squeak of his sneakers amplifying the silence of the nearly empty gym. Chen sat with her head down, fiddling with a water bottle. Her posture screamed defeat before he even opened his mouth. Good. Maybe she'd finally understand her place.

"Sarah," he began, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. He watched the way her shoulders stiffened, the way she didn't meet his gaze. It was almost comical, the way she anticipated the inevitable.

"I need you to turn in your jersey." The words felt like a cold, hard stone in his chest. A small, almost imperceptible smirk flickered across his face.