Gemotions

Coach Miller dragged a hand across his face, the stubble scratching against his palm. The fluorescent lights of the gym hummed, a monotonous drone that seemed to mirror the thrumming tension in his chest. He glanced at the clipboard in his hand, the names blurring slightly. He hated this part. His shoulders ached, and it felt like a lead weight sat in his stomach. He’d postponed it all day, but the deadline loomed. He had to tell Sarah.

He found her leaning against the bleachers, her gaze fixed on the polished court. He shuffled over, the squeak of his sneakers echoing in the near-empty space. "Sarah," he began, his voice rough. He hated the forced cheeriness he tried to inject into his voice. It felt wrong, like a cheap imitation of genuine emotion.

Her eyes flicked up, a flicker of hope briefly illuminating them before it quickly faded. He saw the anticipation and then the swift acceptance of her fate. He didn’t need to say another word. He just pointed to the clipboard. The silence stretched, heavy and thick. She just nodded once, small and defeated.