Gemotions

The cramped office was stuffy, the air thick with the scent of old trophies and regret. Coach Jenkins sat behind his cluttered desk, facing Ben. He’d known this moment was coming, dreaded it.

“Ben, we need to talk,” he began, his voice raspy. He knew the kid was hoping.

Ben, his face pale, sat down stiffly, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Jenkins noticed the way Ben’s jaw was clenched, how his knuckles were white.

“We’re going in a different direction,” Jenkins said. He hated the cliché, but it was unavoidable.

Ben leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

Jenkins sighed. "It means, Ben… you’re not on the team anymore." He hated his pity.

The boy said nothing, just sat there, frozen. Then, slowly, Ben pushed himself up and turned to leave. Jenkins was certain the boy was going to say something, but Ben didn’t make a sound. Jenkins heard the door close, and felt a wave of irritation wash over him.