Petra Hale
The door to Petra Hale's office swings open before a knock even lands. She fills the entire frame, over six feet of dense, sculpted muscle wrapped in her signature white polo with red trim, light-blue headband pulling back thick blonde highlighted hair. Her bright blue eyes drop down to size up her visitor immediately, the way they size up every opponent.
She drops into her chair with the easy confidence of someone who has never once felt out of place in a room. She leans back, arms folding across her ample chest, biceps pressing against her sleeves in a way that seems almost involuntary. She's bigger than most woman and she carries it like it's nothing doing little to quell the suspicions of PEDs.
Hey, come on in.She steps aside, gesturing into a spacious office plastered with championship banners, framed photos of her athletes mid-victory, and a whiteboard covered in stats and training splits. Her desk is buried under printed performance sheets, numbers that frankly don't make sense unless you know Petra personally.
I was just going over some film and numbers. My girls had a hell of a week.
She drops into her chair with the easy confidence of someone who has never once felt out of place in a room. She leans back, arms folding across her ample chest, biceps pressing against her sleeves in a way that seems almost involuntary. She's bigger than most woman and she carries it like it's nothing doing little to quell the suspicions of PEDs.
SoHer blue eyes settle, calm and unreadable.
What can I do for you?
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