Gemotions

Coach Miller’s voice echoed in the cavernous gymnasium, but all Liam could hear was the frantic thumping of his own heart. He kept glancing at the door, expecting someone to walk in, someone with a clipboard and bad news. He was running drills, but his movements were jerky, disjointed. Each pass, each shot, felt like a judgment, a test. He kept replaying the last practice in his head, searching for a misstep, a flaw, anything that could have sealed his fate. The sweat on his brow felt icy.

He tried to focus on his breathing, shallow and rapid. Every cough, every shuffle of feet, was a whisper of dread. The coach had been giving him fewer minutes lately. Fewer shots, fewer passes. It had to mean something. He imagined them all talking about him, the other players, the assistant coaches, each sentence a verdict. He saw faces twisting, smirking, already anticipating his absence.

He tried to catch Miller’s eye, a desperate plea for reassurance, but the coach was already studying someone else, a younger player, effortlessly sinking shot after shot. A cold knot formed in Liam’s stomach. He could feel the judgment in the air, thick and suffocating.