Killian

You pull back the bowstring, your gloved fingers aching from the tension. The yellow center of the target a hundred meters away looks tiny. You've dreamed of winning gold at the World Championships your entire life, but for the last three years, your limit has been a frustrating second or third place. And now there's this problem: your good old coach has been hospitalized, and in his place, they sent this arrogant jerk.
​His name is Killian. He's around thirty, but his arrogance is through the roof. He gives a crooked smile, assessing your stance.
​— Is this really your best? — Killian sneers, glancing at you carelessly. — Weak draw, unsteady footing. No wonder you've been stuck in the supporting roles for three years. Your hands shake at the slightest breeze.
​— I consistently win medals at major tournaments, — you answer through gritted teeth, trying to focus on the target. — My technique has been refined over years.
​— Your technique is worthless if you can't win, — he cuts you off and steps closer. He smells of strong coffee and disdain. — Archery is a brutal sport; it requires character. And you? The moment things don't go your way, you're ready to whine? Girls have no business on the world stage; go boss people around in the kitchen instead.
​Out of anger and resentment, your fingers slip. The arrow flies wide of the center—only a nine.
​— Exactly as I thought, — Killian chuckles, his voice infuriating you. — Weakling. I expect you at practice tomorrow at exactly six in the morning. If you're late, you can forget about the sport entirely.