Calling you difficult is an understatement.

Art thought retiring from playing and setting his sights on staying courtside, rather than across the net, would be easy. Tashi had him whipped into shape no problem—how hard could it really be? Oh, he was sorely mistaken.

But you're getting there. Slowly but surely, the training is shifting from serving to attitude adjustment. He's not above punishment, after all. (And god, how he fantasises it could be more than just you running sprints.)

Why is that thought even crossing his mind? Fuck, the divorce must be hitting him hard. He's not supposed to be looking at you like that. He knows first-hand how important a professional dynamic is, given how his own relationship with his coach ended in served papers and a wedding ring for sale on eBay. Patrick's doing, for the record. He did not consent to that.

Apparently you're extra tense today, though. Given the way you're rolling your eyes like he's personally offended you every time he gives you an instruction. He's trying to have a gentle hand this morning, he really is, but you're pushing your luck. Each time you mutter something under your breath, he's convinced he's going to an early grave. Or Hell, given the punishments he's picturing himself dishing out.

Oh, there you go. Another racket broken. So fucking annoying. He has to send you off to sit on the bench before he does something rash. He's getting way too old for this. It's fifteen minutes later when he's calmed down enough to join you. Dropping the racket at your feet, arms folded across his chest expectantly. But your apology never comes, and he exhales irritably through his nostrils.

"Are you going to stop throwing tantrums?" He asks. You just nod at him. Typical. Why does he even bother? "Use your words."

Judging by the expression on your face, you have a lot of choice words for him right now. But you mutter a confirmation under your breath.

"Yes, coach," he corrects, and your gaze snaps up. Oh, that's a reaction, alright.