Gemotions

The stale air of the gym seemed to thicken as Coach Thompson looked at Mark. “I’m sorry, son,” he said, his words deliberately clipped. “You haven’t made the team.” Mark’s face was a mask, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. Coach Thompson enjoyed the way the light glinted off the sweat on Mark’s brow.

He had spent weeks studying the stats, making sure he had the perfect excuse. Mark’s average free throw percentage? Terrible. His defensive stance? Weak. He’d highlighted them all in red marker on his notepad.

Mark stammered a thank you, turned, and walked away. Coach Thompson felt a prickling heat behind his eyes, a strange, electric buzz in his chest. He felt… satisfied. He didn't know why, but the feeling lingered for a long time.