Gemotions

He felt his cheeks burning. The fluorescent lights of the gymnasium seemed to magnify everything: the sweat beading on his forehead, the tremor in his hands, the knot forming in his stomach. He was the one who was cut. Not someone else. Him.

He avoided eye contact with everyone. The other players' faces were a blur, a collection of curious and sympathetic expressions he couldn’t decipher. He found himself staring at a crack in the wooden floorboards, tracing its path with his eyes.

Coach Peterson stood before him, the clipboard held close. The words, "I'm sorry, but..." hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. He mumbled a quiet "Okay," the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. He turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched, his legs leaden.