Gemotions

“Come on, Jackson.” The coach's voice, usually jovial, sounded unusually flat. Jackson followed him into the empty equipment room, the door clicking shut behind them with a decisive finality. The scent of stale sweat and worn leather hung in the air, a familiar but unwelcome aroma now. He felt the blood drain from his face.

He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting with the frayed edge of his jersey. The silence stretched, each second an eternity. He stared at his feet, unable to meet the coach’s eye. This was it.