<div class="floatleft">(http://)</div><strong>Name/True Identity</strong>: Phil Satyrios<br/><strong>Location</strong>: his office, headed for the workout areas<br/><strong>Doing</strong>: ready to start rolling heads<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Meg<br/><br/>The sound of someone small and light of foot in his doorway brought Phil's eyes up, expecting one of the cheerleader and faintly nonplussed to see an unknown brunette standing there, every inch of her body language screaming an assload of defiance.<br/><br/>Good for her.<br/><br/>She wanted something and he instantly growled, "don't hover, girlie. Park it or move on. Give me a sec to finish this up and I'll be with you."<br/><br/>Thusly dismissed, he utterly ignored her as he pounded at his keyboard for another moment and sent the documents through the ether to be printed elsewhere. While he'd taken precious seconds of his always insanely busy days to finish the latest bit of paperwork harassment, he had wracked his steel-trap of a mind for who the hell the unexpected drop in could be. He liked that people only saw the screaming little maniac with a napoleon complex. It kept the stupid and arrogant away and acted as camouflage to what was actually a brilliant coach, a very smart man, and a dedicated father figure. Besides, his reputation gave him carte-blanche to toss out annoyances on their ear. Or at least publicly humiliate them. What high-strung coach didn't love that?<br/><br/>"Interviewer, right? Well, come on then. I don't have any time to waste and my goddamn slacker squad I'm quite sure is beating off like a bunch of fucking monkeys."<br/><br/>She'd follow and have the nerve to insert herself into his day, or get left in his dust.