Gemotions

He bounced on the balls of his feet, the repetitive motion a desperate attempt to burn off the excess energy coursing through him. His palms felt slick, and he surreptitiously wiped them on his faded jeans. The field was bathed in the harsh glare of the late afternoon sun, the golden light reflecting off the shiny metal of the tryout cones. Every muscle in his body felt coiled, ready to spring, but for what, he wasn't sure. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Coach Miller's whistle shrilled, slicing through the air. The other hopefuls began to huddle around, their faces a mix of hopeful expectancy and grim resignation. James watched them, a strange detachment washing over him. He felt as if he were observing a scene from a play, and he, the audience.

The names were read, slowly, deliberately. Each syllable was a hammer blow to his carefully constructed facade of calm. His name was missing. He felt a hollowness spread through his chest, like a vacuum.