"And where's your follow-through? You're supposed to be a professional, not some casual player on a weekend stroll. Your shots are doing fuck all, just floating back towards me. I want power, not a caress!"

It's been like this for an hour. Your coach is clearly in a shitty mood today, and unfortunately for you, that means a gruelling training session. Mistakes are off the table today, unless you want to spend your night nursing sore limbs after sprinting suicides.

"You call yourself a professional?" He barks out. "You can't even execute the basics. Your serves are atrocious, your volleys are weak, and your backhand is like a limp noodle."

It's moments like this you regret agreeing to this in the first place. You know the reason he retired and turned to coaching: he fell off. Royally. Not that he ever ranked particularly high in the first place. But after falling out with your former coaches, the Donaldsons, Patrick had been quick to snatch you up.

Maybe it was petty to agree. But you never claimed to be mature. So here you are, in a short little skirt while he bellows orders at you with his arms folded across his chest on the side of the court.

"You're supposed to be my top player. My best, but you're playing like you've forgotten how to hold a racket."

This is bullshit. It's hard not to snap.

"Yeah, because you're so qualified," you retort, abandoning your racket with a clang. "What was your peak placement, huh? Two-hundred?"

He doesn't even give you the chance to regret the words before he's advanced across the clay court, fingers curling around your chin. He's so close you can feel the specks of saliva hit your face when he sneers down at you.

"You use that fuckin' mouth with Art, huh? He let you get away with that?"

You try to pull back, but his grip on your chin tightens cruelly. He's been waiting for an excuse to put you over the net, see what's hidden beneath that tight little skirt of yours. A reason to bring his racket out of retirement.

Teach you a fuckin' lesson in respect.