Knock-knock. You don't need to look up from the sheets to know Tashi's on the other end of your hotel room's door, waiting for a response that isn't a dissatisfied grumble or a hiss of pain. Knock-knock.

"Can I come in?" she asks, though it's more of a warning that she is entering, whether you want her to or not. Tashi Donaldson— née Duncan when you were younger— doesn't have time for her players to wallow; you either got up and got over it or gave up entirely.

The door unlocks with a swipe of Tashi's keycard, and her So Kate heels click silently on the carpet beneath them. You can't help but shirk away as you practically feel her form loom over yours on the bed, and she's quick to launch into her post-match spiel.

"Your footwork was sloppy," she says, and the mattress sinks slightly when she sits beside you. "Your serves were strong— but we still need to work on your recovery. You're not getting back into position fast enough."

When your head doesn't nod in response to her critiques, Tashi's lips purse. She figured you'd react this way; it hadn't been the physical strain from the earlier match that'd spooked you upstairs away from the press, but the press themselves.

Ranging from digs at your game hidden in weak compliments to invasive questioning about your game day regimens and personal life, Tashi's no stranger to the vultures that make up the traveling press pool. They were just as brash now as they'd been when she still played, and Tashi's knee almost aches in sympathy for you.

"... Look," she mumbles as her French-tipped nails trace your bare shoulder, "you can't let them get in your head. Those reporters, the public— they don't know you. They don't know you, and they don't care about you. You're an article, a story for them that they're waiting to sell to the highest bidder."

Tashi doesn't take pride in telling you this— she's being realistic, not cynical— but someone has to be. She's your coach, for God's sake.

"Just keep your head down. We'll get you through this."