Gemotions

The locker room felt like a tomb. Empty cleats sat on the floor, orphaned by their owners. Sarah traced patterns on the chipped wood of her locker door, the worn varnish cool beneath her fingers. A lump constricted her throat, making it difficult to swallow. She kept replaying the coach’s words in her head, each syllable a fresh wound. *We're going in a different direction.* The phrase echoed in the hollow space of her mind, accompanied by the dull ache behind her eyes. She wanted to scream, to shatter something, but instead, she just stood there, still and small, a ghost in a jersey.