Gemotions

“Come on in, Mark,” Coach Reynolds’ voice was unusually flat. It sent a bolt of ice through Mark’s gut. The locker room had felt like home for the past three years. Now, it felt like a distant memory. He forced a smile, pasting it onto his face. It felt brittle and unnatural.

His breath hitched. The air seemed thin, as though someone had removed all the oxygen from the room. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to appear casual, but his fingers trembled. The room spun slightly, and he swayed.

He caught himself on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Reynolds cleared his throat.