Gemotions

The clipboard practically vibrated in Maya's hand. The list was posted, final, definitive. Her name wasn't there. She scanned it again, the cheap paper crinkling under her furious grip. Three years of grueling practices, countless hours spent perfecting her backstroke, and for what? To be cut? The team she'd bled for, the team she *deserved* to be on, was now a distant, mocking fantasy. A knot tightened in her chest, a physical manifestation of her outrage.

She stalked across the pool deck, her competitive spirit now twisted into a bitter knot. Coach Thompson, his face a bland mask of forced pleasantness, was already surrounded by celebrating swimmers. Maya refused to acknowledge their triumphant shouts, the excited chatter that felt like needles scraping against her skin. She wasn't one of them. She was, in this moment, an outsider.

"Coach," she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. "I'd like a word."