Gemotions

Coach Miller called him into the cramped office, smelling of stale coffee and desperation. Michael gripped the worn leather of the chair, his knuckles white. He knew what was coming. He could feel the familiar knot twisting in his gut, the defiant clench of his jaw. He’d worked harder than anyone. He’d stayed late every day, shooting until his arms ached, running until his lungs burned. There had to be a mistake.

“Michael,” Miller began, his voice softer than usual, “I have to… I have to make a decision.” He fiddled with a pencil, avoiding eye contact.

Michael crossed his arms, the action a rigid shield. He would not crack. He would not plead. He would stare Miller down until the man broke. He wouldn’t let the coach see him waver. He thought of all the times he'd heard the other players make fun of him, and he let the anger fuel him.