Gemotions

The locker room air felt thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and desperation. Coach Miller stood before the assembled team, his weathered face etched with a regret I could feel mirrored on my own. It wasn't my place to feel it, not really. But I did.

I watched as he called out names, the chosen ones, the ones who would continue the battle for the championship. Each name was met with a chorus of cheers, quickly followed by the hushed silence that fell after each omission.

Then came the final name. "Mark Johnson." A collective gasp rippled through the room. Mark, a quiet kid, always gave it his all, the first one there, the last one to leave. I saw his shoulders slump, his eyes downcast. I found myself instinctively stepping forward. It wasn't my decision, I knew that. But someone had to say something.

"Coach," I began, my voice surprisingly steady, "I think we can all agree that Mark's always been a team player."