Gemotions

Coach Miller called Maya into his office after practice. The fluorescent lights hummed, a familiar, sterile sound, but today it grated on her ears. Her stomach felt like a knotted rope. He sat behind his desk, hands steepled, and the silence stretched. Was this about the missed free throws? Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet.

“Maya,” he began, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I need to tell you something that’s not easy.” She swallowed hard, trying to moisten her suddenly dry throat. The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. The knot in her stomach tightened.

He explained the need to reduce the roster. Maya listened, her gaze fixed on a loose thread on his worn carpet. It refused to unspool, just like the meaning of his words seemed to refuse to sink in. She couldn't understand.