Gemotions

The clipboard felt heavy in Coach Miller's hands. It was like carrying a weight he couldn't set down, the names etched on the paper a series of judgments that gnawed at his resolve. He stood at the edge of the court, the afternoon sun a mocking spotlight on his predicament. The air seemed thick, the sounds of the dribbling ball and shouted encouragement all blurring into a discordant symphony. He watched as Sarah, his best point guard, practiced her free throws, each shot a perfect arc, each basket a reminder of what he had to do. He felt his chest tighten, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of practice. Sarah jogged towards him, a hopeful grin on her face. He forced a smile, a weak imitation of his usual jovial self. “Sarah, could you stay behind for a moment, please?” he managed, his voice sounding distant, foreign. He knew what he had to say, the script rehearsed a dozen times in his head, but the words felt like lead in his throat.