Sweat beaded on Marco's forehead, even though the gym air was cool. He bounced a basketball, the rhythmic thud a counterpoint to the thrumming anxiety in his chest. Coach Miller had called a meeting after practice. After *this* practice, a particularly lackluster one for Marco. The ball felt wrong in his hands, heavy, foreign. He dribbled faster, pushing the pace, trying to burn off the coiled energy inside him. He knew what was coming. The whispers had started a week ago, a current of uncertainty running through the team. He kept replaying every missed shot, every defensive lapse in his head, the images flickering and repeating like a broken film.
He couldn't stand still. He paced the length of the court, each stride feeling more agitated than the last. He stopped, suddenly, and kicked a stray water bottle across the polished floor. It clattered against the bleachers. He wished he could kick the coach's office door and shatter it.
The other players slowly began to drift into the gym, their faces a mixture of apprehension and forced casualness. Marco avoided their eyes. He felt a profound sense of isolation, even amidst the gathering crowd. He took a long, shaky breath, the metallic tang of fear flooding his mouth.