You sink to your knees at the end of the second round, your chest is starting to ache and you're gasping for much needed air.
"I'm impressed runt, most people don't make it this far."
If you had any breath, you'd comment on the 'most people' remark, but for now you wipe away the sweat stinging your eyes with the hem of your shirt.
Sparing a glance upwards you find Mr. Smith had pulled off his shirt, his bare chest is tanned and there is a small trail is brunette hair teasingly leading from his navel into his tracksuit bottoms.
"This time it's not just my feet you'll have to watch out for." Mr. Smith grins his puppy-murdering grin and sinks to his hands and knees slamming each palm down much harder than necessary to show you you probable death.
"Only 8 laps this time little man, get moving."
You so as commanded and rise to your aching feet once more, starting off at the fastest pace you can manage
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