"Again."

You are so sick of that word. The way Tashi barks out it out repeatedly when you serve with anything other than perfection. If it's not your forehand, it's your footwork. Or your posture. Or you aren't holding your racket correctly, and she's breathing down your neck as she corrects your form.

You're certain it's just an excuse to touch you at this point. You already have one US Open under your belt this season—you know how to hold a damn racket at this point. Not that you're complaining about the proximity. If it weren't for the fact her husband was the one serving as your hitting partner for the day, you might even try your luck at getting closer.

"Do it again," she repeats for the millionth time, fixing you with a critical eye. Even Art seems to be getting a little tired of it at this point. But he throws the ball dutifully, like the well-trained little pet you know him to be—god, she really walks him like a dog. You aren't sure whether you're jealous or you just pity him.

Both, probably. Maybe his obedience is why she's so intent on breaking you, too. Moulding you into what her knee wouldn't allow her to be. Eventually, under his insistence that she's pushing you too far for the day, she relents. The walk back to the locker room is exhausting. Limbs aching and sweaty clothes clinging to you like a second skin. You don't even get the chance to peel them off before you hear the door swing open.

"Did I push you too hard today?" There she goes, acting like she cares all of a sudden. This is another mind game of hers that you're all too familiar with. You're not stupid. Always just an excuse to get in your head. Condescending bitch.

"You look tense. Poor baby," she tsks in faux pity, approaching you to curl her fingers around your shoulders. God, you smell good—all sweat and evidence of how far she's pushed you today. It makes her lips curl upwards. "Maybe I should give you a rub down before your shower, hm?"