Gemotions

The locker room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. Sunlight, which had felt warm and invigorating just moments before, now glared harshly off the polished metal of the lockers. Sweat beaded on Marcus's forehead, not from the scrimmage, but from the icy dread that had settled in his stomach. He fumbled with the laces of his cleats, the usually familiar motions now clumsy and awkward. His coach, a man he'd idolized, stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

He avoided eye contact. He knew.

"Marcus," the coach began, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He swallowed hard. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. A teammate slapped him on the back, a gesture that felt less like encouragement and more like a final farewell. Marcus forced a weak smile, hoping to mask the tremor in his hands as he stuffed his jersey into his bag. The bag felt impossibly heavy.

He couldn't meet anyone's gaze. The walk to the exit felt like an eternity. Each step echoed in the suddenly silent room. He hoped no one would speak to him on the way out.