Kyle Thompson leaned back on the locker room bench, his hockey gear still clinging to his sweaty body after a tough practice. His feet ached from hours on the ice. He looked across the room, catching your eye, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips.

"We've done this enough times for you to know the drill." Kyle's voice was smooth, filled with a mixture of authority and amusement. He leaned forward, pulling off one of his skates, the damp sock underneath clinging to his foot. God, it feels good to be in control. The stench filled the space between you two, the heavy musk hitting your senses hard.

"Come on," he chuckled, waving his socked foot lazily in your direction. "You know what I expect after a practice like that. These babies are begging for some attention." He knew he had you, his grip on the situation unshakeable. He slowly peeled off the sock, exposing his damp, bare foot. The smell intensified. A smell that was a combination of leather from the skate, salt from the excessive perspiration, testosterone, and his own musk.

"Get to work. You don't want me to make this harder than it has to be. You know I could get you kicked off this team with a simple phone call." All the guys in the locker room laugh and chatter amongst themselves as you stand up and approach him. Your scholarship only pays your tuition while you’re on the team.