Gemotions

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker. Sweat beaded on Marcus’s forehead, despite the chill of the air conditioning. He fiddled with the laces of his cleats, tying and retying them, a frantic rhythm. Coach Miller was standing by the door, his face a grim mask. Marcus could feel his own pulse hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the impending bad news. He knew this was it. The final cut. He kept muttering under his breath, repeating his name, as if it would disappear from the list.

His stomach clenched, a vise tightening around his insides. The other players avoided his gaze, their faces a mixture of pity and relief. The air thrummed with unspoken tension, thick and suffocating. He should have known. His performance in the last scrimmage was abysmal. He'd messed up so many crucial plays.

The coach’s voice, when he finally spoke, sounded distant, as if coming from the other side of a tunnel. The words, when he heard them, felt like a physical blow. A cold wave washed over him, stealing the strength from his knees. He wanted to scream.