Gemotions

"Just tell me," Ben said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. Coach Davies averted his gaze, fiddling with the whistle around his neck. The metal felt cold against his fingers. He hated himself at that moment.

The gymnasium air was thick with the scent of stale sweat and regret. Ben’s usually exuberant demeanor was replaced with a stoic mask. The silence was deafening. He hated the way his own hands were shaking.

He wanted to rewind the clock, to find a way to avoid this. To somehow magically make Ben a better player, somehow save him from the heartache. He took a deep breath, the air burning his lungs. "I'm sorry, Ben. It's not a reflection of your effort..." he began, the words tasting like ash.