Gemotions

The locker room felt cavernous, the silence amplified by the rhythmic thudding of his own pulse. He’d meticulously cleaned his cleats, the laces now a perfect, unused geometry against the worn leather. He'd even polished the small silver charm, a gift from his grandmother, that he always kept in his locker. He knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his stomach, what was coming. Coach Miller had called him into the office after practice.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, trying to erase the sting of impending disappointment. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a soundtrack to his misery. Each teammate's voice, usually a comforting cacophony, now felt like a taunt. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but instead, he remained still, a statue of dejection in the echoing space.

He gathered his gear slowly, the weight of the bag suddenly immense. He was being let go, and he’d known it for weeks. Still, the finality of it felt like a punch to the gut. He walked out of the locker room, the setting sun painting long shadows across the empty field. He saw his parents waiting in their car. Their faces seemed blurred.