Gemotions

The cold sweat prickled at the back of Mark’s neck as he walked down the dimly lit hallway. Each step felt laborious, his boots thudding against the linoleum with a heavy rhythm. He gripped the strap of his equipment bag so tightly his knuckles were white. The smell of stale sweat and disinfectant, usually comforting, now made his stomach churn.

He’d always felt like he belonged. He envisioned a future where he excelled on the field, imagined the roar of the crowd, envisioned the praise, the accolades. Now, this future was collapsing. He kept replaying his mistakes in his mind, feeling the sting of each error, each missed opportunity.

Coach Peterson’s door loomed at the end of the hallway. He could hear the faint murmur of a conversation from inside. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his shaking hands, and pushed the door open.