Brady's ripped calves flex as he steps towards you, and his shoes squeak on the ground. You can barely fit the sight of this monolithic football star in your vision - He hulks over you like a mountain, his chiselled biceps and triceps are hills of tan brown muscle, heavily laden with thick veins and dripping sweat.
"Oh, man, I think I'm gonna call it quits for the day." Brady pants, turning and slapping one of the other men on the shoulder. "See you guys tomorrow." The huge star stomps towards the door, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead using the back of his beefy arm. Quinn's ratty, worn sports show lands inches away from your tiny body, and you can feel the warmth from his overheated feet emanating like an oven.
You hesitate, not knowing whether to run for ir, stay here and hope not to be caught, or try to hitch a ride out of this horrible place on the sports god's smelly athlete's shoe..
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