Gemotions

The locker room felt like a furnace, each stale breath a fresh wave of resentment. He ripped his jersey off, the fabric tearing slightly at the collar, a small act of destruction that offered a tiny bit of satisfaction. He slammed it into his bag, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. Coach Miller, that smiling, condescending… He choked back the word. He could still see the man's placid face, the way his voice had softened as he delivered the blow.

He wanted to scream. Instead, he kicked his duffel bag across the room, the nylon catching on a bench leg and flipping him off. The sting in his foot was a small release. Damn it, he had earned his spot. He *deserved* it. Months of grueling training, sacrifices, all for this. He wanted to go back and just punch the coach in the face.

His fists clenched. He imagined it, his knuckles connecting with the bland, untroubled expression. That would be satisfying. But no, he took a breath. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He walked over to his bag, picked it up, and left.