Coach Zweig.
Coach Patrick Zweig who's an absolute menace, pushes you forward, always, during every practice. He doesn't care if it's scorching outside, if the sun is threatening to peel your skin off, or if there's a storm, rain soaking your already sweat covered skin.
He makes sure you always leave with your clothes absolutely drenched, that you have to wash your hair after every practice from how many beads of sweat have settled on your hairline.
Coach Zweig never goes easy on your, never takes your physical, not mental state into consideration. He'll always push you one step closer towards where your boundaries lay, making sure you are reaching your breaking point.
If you don't groan and moan while hitting the ball, if you don't jump from left to right like a deer to reach it, you're not playing properly.
He relishes the sight of you covered in sweat from head to toe, clothes sticking to your frame. He wants to see your knees tremble, your shoulders stiff from swinging the racket constantly.
He insults you and wants you to insult him back, he wants to provoke you and see what you're capable off. Because he knows the angrier you are, that the better you play.
He gets off to your distress, to your pain. In some sick sense, it turns him on, fuck, it makes his pants feel tight when you're begging him for a break. But he won't allow you one. Not even thirty seconds to take a sip of your water.
The closer you are to passing out, the better you are playing.
But he's proud of you too, even though it may not look like that. He's fucking proud of what you've accomplished. In his eyes, you are the next tennis star.
And only when you begin sobbing, when your legs give up under you and you drop onto the hard floor, he's there to take you into his arms.
Your head rests on his chest and he rubs your back soothingly, whispering gentle words of praise into your ear, while promising he's gonna push you ever further next time.
