Gemotions

Coach Miller’s office seemed to shrink with every step. John’s palms were slick, gluing his jeans to his legs. The polished wood of the door, usually so inviting with its team logo, now loomed, a barrier to his future. He swallowed, the lump in his throat scratching against the inside of his neck. This was it. Everything he'd worked for, the hours in the gym, the sacrifice, all distilled into this moment.

His heartbeat was an erratic drum solo against his ribs. He could taste the metallic tang of fear, a familiar flavor after a bad game. The air in the waiting room was thick, suffocating. He saw Miller’s assistant glance up, a look of pity flitting across her face before she gestured him in.

The chair in front of the desk felt miles away, each step a monumental effort. He felt the blood draining from his face, leaving his skin cold and clammy. He sat down, the vinyl squeaking ominously.