Gemotions

The locker room felt cavernous, the fluorescent lights humming a dull, persistent song. He dragged his feet, the laces of his cleats scuffing the worn linoleum. The crisp, pre-game air that usually invigorated him felt thick, heavy, like wading through molasses. He avoided eye contact with his teammates, already suited up and buzzing with energy. A knot tightened in his stomach as he slowly peeled off his jersey, the number 14 suddenly feeling like a brand.

His hands fumbled with the clasp on his bag, dropping his water bottle with a clatter. It rolled under the bench, out of reach. He didn't bother to retrieve it. Coach Miller's words echoed in his head, a relentless drumbeat: “We need to make some cuts.”

He sank onto the bench, the cold metal seeping into him. The vibrant energy around him, the shouts, the laughter, all seemed distant and muffled, like he was watching a movie through a thick pane of glass.