Gemotions

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker. Sweat clung to everything, the stale smell of athletic tape and disappointment thick in the air. Mark slammed his fist against the metal of his locker, the reverberation a dull thud that did nothing to soothe the raw ache in his chest. His breath hitched in ragged gasps. He’d poured his heart into this, every single practice, every grueling workout, every sacrifice. Now, Coach Miller stood before him, the man's expression a mask of practiced neutrality. It wasn't fair. None of it was.

“I understand this is tough, Mark,” Miller said, his voice flat.

Mark barked out a humorless laugh. “Tough? You think this is just…tough?” He turned away, unable to meet the coach’s eye. The red jersey, his jersey, lay discarded on the bench. Useless.

His hands trembled as he gathered his things, the rhythmic thumping of his own pulse a relentless drumbeat in his ears. Every piece of equipment felt heavier than usual, a physical manifestation of the crushing weight of rejection.