Gemotions

He’d been practicing his free throws for nearly an hour, the rhythmic swish of the ball a feeble attempt to quell the churning in his gut. James missed one. Then another. He usually didn't miss. Coach Reynolds had called him into his office after practice. That's never good news. Each rebound of the ball seemed to echo the unsettling thoughts swirling in his head.

He glanced at the door leading to the gym. The fluorescent lights hummed, a monotonous drone that amplified the prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling slightly. He felt a profound disorientation, like he was floating outside his own body, observing the tense figure on the court.