Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the athletic trainer’s office seemed to close in around Chloe. She kept replaying the tryouts in her head, each missed shot, each fumble, a fresh stab of regret. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something akin to the bitter taste of defeat. Her breath hitched.

She twisted the strap of her duffel bag, her fingers raw with nervous energy. The clock on the wall seemed to be ticking in slow motion, each second an eternity. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against the rising tide of panic. She could feel the sting of unshed tears behind her eyes.

Coach Peterson’s voice, when he finally spoke, was muffled, like he was talking through a thick blanket. The room went silent.