Gemotions

The locker room felt cold, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. Sarah traced patterns on the damp wooden bench with her fingernail, the wood rough against her skin. Coach Miller’s voice, a gravelly rumble, echoed from the office. Every footfall on the linoleum floor felt like a hammer blow in her chest. She hadn't played well in the scrimmage, she knew that. But the thought of not being on the team, of letting her teammates down, made her stomach clench.

She heard the door creak open, and a figure stood silhouetted against the light. Coach Miller, his face a mask of practiced neutrality. “Sarah, can you come in here for a minute?” The words were soft, but their meaning sliced through her. She felt her throat constrict.

She stood slowly, her legs feeling like lead. The walk to the office was a slow march to the gallows.