Gemotions

The weight room felt colder than usual, the metal equipment glinting ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights. Coach Reynolds stood by the bench press, his face grim. Mark, his best lineman, stood before him, muscles tense, awaiting instruction. Reynolds hated this. He'd been coaching Mark since he was a scrawny freshman.

He pointed to a stack of papers on a nearby table, his finger trembling slightly. “The cuts are posted,” he managed, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn't meet Mark's eyes. He felt a sickening wave of guilt wash over him, a cold tide threatening to drown him.

Mark’s jaw tightened. He walked to the table, his steps slow and deliberate. He picked up the paper, his hands shaking so violently it was hard to hold. He stood still for a moment, then crumpled it up and threw it at the floor.