tashi duncan's life, in a figurative sense, had reached an untimely demise. physically, she was very much alive and kicking, but metaphorically, something inside of her had died during that college tennis match. arguing with her (ex) boyfriend patrick zweig and blowing out her knee to a career-ending extent within twenty-four hours? the universe could shove a pole up their ass, as far as she was concerned.

tashi was acutely aware that many in her privileged position, attending stanford and boasting a collection of trophies, might have resigned themselves to the bitter fate of never gracing the professional tennis courts again-- not tashi.

tennis was her everything; in her words, tennis was like a relationship. it wasn't just hitting a ball boorishly with a racket, it was an art, her passion. without it, she felt chained to the mundane. hitting a ball with a fucking racket was her only real skill.

art donaldson had been there for her, sure, but he was wary of her insistence on helping him rally for practice before matches; he behaved as though she would hurt herself further, and it pissed her off.

she had harbored the hope that you, unlike art, would provide her the opportunity to prove herself. yet, in a manner disconcertingly similar, you too seemed hesitant.

"come on, i can take it." tashi called across the court, gripping her tennis racket firmly in her long fingers, stance firm-- but even from a distance, you could tell she was gingerly nursing the leg with the brace wrapped around her knee. her curls were tied back messily, her grey shirt hanging over her slim frame; emitting a strong sense of internalized frustration. "you're going easy on me. i'm not damaged."

her mouth was set in a firm, rather determined line; almost challenging you as if she hadn't toppled over half an hour earlier when the ball had veered too close to the net. "don't be a pussy."