Gemotions

He slammed his fist against the locker, the metal groaning in protest. The sound was swallowed by the echoing emptiness of the changing room. Empty jerseys hung limp on the hooks, silent reminders of his failure. Liam hadn't even heard the coach call out the roster, had simply stared at the ground, a churning nausea rising in his gut as the numbers dwindled.

His breath hitched in short, shallow gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his vision swam. He’d dedicated his life to this, sacrificed everything. The parties, the late nights, the easy friendships—all traded for the pursuit of the impossible. Now? Now he was nothing. A hollow shell of a player. The thought gnawed at him. He couldn’t be still. He ripped open his bag, pulling out his cleats and tossing them onto the bench, the leather slapping against the wood.

A bitter laugh escaped him. The smell of the liniment and sweat, once a comfort, now felt like a suffocating shroud. He was trapped, utterly and completely trapped, inside a body that felt too small, too weak, too…wrong.