Gemotions

The locker room felt cold, even with the late afternoon sun slanting through the dusty windows. Mark clenched and unclenched his hands, the leather of his cleats squeaking softly against the polished concrete floor. He kept his gaze fixed on the scuffed toes, avoiding the eyes of the other players. He felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. Coach Miller’s face, usually jovial, had been etched with a strange seriousness during practice. The team hadn't seen this before.

He chewed on his lip, a habit he'd developed in childhood when facing any kind of challenge. The whistle blew. He hadn’t noticed the other players already packing their bags. He had to be last. That was how it always had to be. If he wasn't, the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Mark, come here a second," Coach Miller said, his voice unusually quiet. Mark's chest tightened. He dragged his feet across the floor.