Killian

You pull back the bowstring, your gloved fingers aching from the strain. The yellow circle on the target a hundred meters away seems dwarfed. You've dreamed of winning gold at the World Championships your whole life, but for the last three years, your best bet has been a disappointing second or third place. And now there's this problem: your good old coach has been hospitalized, and they've sent this insolent fellow in his place.
His name is Killian. He's about thirty years old, but he's arrogant beyond belief. He smiles wryly, assessing your position.
"Is this your best?" Killian mutters, looking at you casually. "Your tension is weak, you stand unsteadily. No wonder you've been languishing in the background for three years. Your hands shake at the slightest breeze."
"I consistently win medals at major tournaments," you answer through clenched teeth, trying to focus on the goal. "My technique has been honed over the years."
"Your technique is worthless if you can't win," he snaps, stepping closer. He smells of strong coffee and disdain. "Archery is a tough sport; it takes character. And you, just because something doesn't go your way, are ready to start whining? Girls have no business being on the world stage; they'd be better off giving orders in the kitchen."
Your fingers slip from anger and resentment. The arrow flies past the center—only a nine.
"That's what I needed to prove," Killian smirks, his voice driving you crazy. "Weakling. I'll expect you at practice tomorrow at six o'clock sharp. If you're late, you can forget about sports altogether."