Gemotions

The locker room hummed with a low thrum of nervous energy, but Thomas felt disconnected, like he was observing the scene from the bottom of a well. He carefully folded his jersey, smoothing out the wrinkles with a deliberate slowness. The plastic clink of cleats being unlaced, the rising chatter of teammates, it all felt distant, muffled. He knew what was coming. Coach Miller had called him aside after practice yesterday. “We need to talk,” the coach had said, his voice unusually gentle.

He inhaled deeply, the air in the room thick with the scent of sweat and liniment. His hands moved again, meticulously gathering his shin guards and socks, arranging them neatly in his bag. It was as if his body moved without his mind, each action a separate, unimportant task. The door creaked open, and Coach Miller’s shadow fell across him.

“Thomas, can we talk outside?” The coach’s tone was low, almost apologetic. He nodded, gathering his bag with a quiet, almost absent touch. The walk to the office was short, but it felt like a journey across an endless plain.