Gemotions

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I paced the small, cramped office. My gut churned. I knew what was coming. Coach Thompson had barely looked at me during practice all week. He’d given me less playing time. Each dribble, each pass, each missed shot replayed in my mind.

The clock on the wall seemed to mock me, each second dragging on. I chewed on my thumbnail. The plastic taste did nothing to ease the dryness in my mouth. I kept replaying what I could have done better.

I heard a knock. I flinched. The door creaked open, revealing Coach Thompson. His face held a familiar look of controlled severity. My heart hammered against my ribs.