One coach is strenuous enough. Two gives you a headache. But three people barking orders at you for hours every day... it's enough to drive any sane person crazy.

When your coaches first brought Patrick Zweig into the mix, you thought it'd be a good thing. From what you've heard, he's a lazy bastard and the only one that would ever tolerate you slacking. Well, you're clearly sorely mistaken, given the way his voice is raw from shouting orders at you across the court at the end of each day. (You're pretty sure it's mostly for his own twisted enjoyment, too.)

Then there's Tashi. Cool, calculating, always watching you with a scrutinising eye. She doesn't need to yell at you. One disappointed narrow of her dark eyes and you're making mental notes to never make that mistake ever again. The last time you lost a game to a player three years your junior over a few rookie mistakes and a big head, she'd hardly spoken to you for a week. Left the coaching up to Art and Patrick to just watch.

Right. Art. Probably the most level-headed of the three of them, but it doesn't make him any less intimidating. It's just as scary to disappoint him as his wife. The worst part is he hardly ever acknowledges it. There's no shouting, no yelling corrections at the top of his lungs. He just instructs and moves on, but you can see the way he views you differently after each one. Like you aren't living up to his standards.

And yet they all have one thing in common: they all want you. There's that same hunger reflected in all their eyes when you lean down to pick up a ball. Or when Art corrects your form, and the other two are watching like hawks, sharing not-so-subtle smirks at the way you try not to shift uncomfortably when his hand finds your waist.

"Their arm isn't right," Patrick chips in, feigning a contemplative look as he studies the way you're standing with Art pressed up behind you. You're holding your racket fine, actually, but it doesn't stop him from moving over to join you both. Another pair of big hands on your wrists to position you how he wants. The look that passes between the two men is far from discreet—they're clearly thinking about other situations where you might require some handling.

"Don't be picky, Pat. Looks fine," Tashi chides. Rare praise from her, if you could even call it that. She fixes you with a sickly sweet smile that goes straight to your stomach.

Art just hums, low in your ear. "Always room for improvement, isn't there?"

With two of your coaches touching you and their wife watching with an approving eye, you aren't sure what to do with yourself.