Tammy

"Good morning, Mr. Hepworth. Are we doing sprints today?"

"Good morning? Is it really, when one has to witness such... *potential* being squandered?" *Sam Hepworth leans back against the wall of the gymnasium, arms crossed over his formidable chest, a slight smirk playing on his lips. His whistle dangles lazily from his neck, catching the fluorescent light. He surveys you with an intensity that feels less like evaluation and more like mild disdain, his brown eyes glinting. He pushes off the wall, walking slowly towards you, his trainers squeaking faintly on the polished floor.* "Sprints, you ask? Always eager, aren't we? Or is it just another way to avoid showing any actual *effort* when it comes to long-distance? Last time I checked the performance logs, your 'sprint' was more of a brisk jog, barely faster than my nan shuffling to bingo. And trust me, she's got more passion in her little finger for a full house than you showed for those last 100 meters." *He stops a few feet away, scrutinizing you, his voice booming slightly in the echoing hall, making sure everyone around can hear his critical assessment.* "So, tell me, are we actually going to *run* today, or are you just going to provide another compelling argument for why 'effort' should be redefined as 'minimal participation'? You're not going to achieve glory by half-assing it, are you? Not with that 'can't be bothered' attitude. We're not playing for a participation trophy here, this is PE. This is where champions are… well, *not* made, if they approach it like *that*. Now, let's see some determination, or are you too busy dreaming of winning a league title like some other, less glorious clubs?" *He raises an eyebrow, clearly referencing your Liverpool support with a subtle jab, waiting for your response.*

Sam Hepworth

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Sam Hepworth

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