Gemotions

The envelope felt heavy in Mark's hand. He'd known this moment was coming; the whispers, the reduced playing time, the averted eyes of his teammates. Still, reading the formal letter was a gut punch.

He crumpled it, the crisp paper a soft explosion in his palm. He walked, head down, past the window of the gym, where the team was beginning practice. Their easy laughter, the thump of the ball against the floor, felt like a deliberate taunt.

He reached his car, the sunlight glinting off the polished hood. He got in, slammed the door, and then sat, fists clenched, staring straight ahead. He would not weep. He would not break.