Gemotions

Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. Liam’s vision swam, the gymnasium lights blurring into dancing halos. The coach’s words – “Liam, you haven’t made the A-team” – echoed in his ears, a cruel, relentless mantra. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him feeling hollow, a statue of disbelief. His hands, usually sure and strong, trembled as he gripped the worn leather of the basketball.

He mumbled a choked, “Okay, Coach,” then turned away, the roar of the celebration around him receding into a dull ache. Every cell in his body screamed, a silent, agonizing protest. He couldn't meet his teammates' eyes, each well-wisher a fresh blow, a reminder of the chasm that had opened beneath his feet. He had to get out, away from the victorious cheers, the lingering scent of floor wax, and the crushing weight of his failure.