Gemotions

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker. Sweat clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mirroring the tension in his chest. He ripped his jersey off, the fabric catching and snagging against his skin, a minor irritation that only amplified the rage simmering inside. The announcement, the coach's carefully chosen words, were still echoing in his ears. He was cut.

He slammed his locker shut, the metal door reverberating through the small space. His fingers tightened around the handle of his bag, knuckles white. He could feel the stares, the pitying glances. He avoided eye contact, focusing on the scuff marks on his cleats, the insignificant details that provided a temporary distraction from the gut-wrenching betrayal he felt.

He shoved past the other players, muttering a curt “See ya” that barely masked the tremor in his voice. He imagined their whispers, their speculations. They'd probably be glad to see him go. He practically spat out the words, "Good riddance," under his breath.