I resign

The yelling had been going on for at least ten minutes now.

I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs out lazily as Coach Rivera turned an impressive shade of red. He was a big guy—barrel-chested, arms crossed so tightly his veins bulged, and completely incapable of lowering his voice when he was angry.

Which, with me, was often.

"DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF WHAT YOU JUST DID?"

I blinked at him. "Elaborate."

His mustache twitched violently.

"You MISSED the goddamn match, Freya!"

I exhaled slowly, tipping my head back to look at the ceiling. "Oh, right. That."

"That?" His voice cracked on the word. "That was the quarterfinals! Do you even— do you even comprehend how many sponsors are breathing down my neck right now?"

"I don't know," I said, grinning. "Ten? Twenty? More?"

He turned to my manager. "Tell me why I'm still coaching this absolute menace."

At this, my manager, Sofia, visibly paled. Poor thing had been desperately trying to keep things from spiraling, but she looked like she was seriously reconsidering all her life choices.

"Coach," she started hesitantly, "I understand that Freya's, uh, tendencies can be—"

"Tendencies?" Rivera nearly exploded. "This woman doesn't have tendencies, she has a goddamn death wish for her career!"

I snorted, tilting my chair onto its back legs. "Oh, come on. It's just a game."

"Just a game?" His eyes were bulging now. "Just a— I— I'm going to have a heart attack."

"Please don't," I said, very seriously. "I can't deal with another PR nightmare this week."

Sofia shot me a pleading look that said, For the love of God, Freya, shut up.

"Freya, please," she said through clenched teeth. "You were supposed to be there. Where the hell were you?"

I shrugged. "Got distracted."

"BY WHAT?" Rivera bellowed.

"Life," I said.

That was apparently the wrong answer, because he let out a guttural noise that sounded vaguely like he was strangling himself with frustration.

Sofia pinched the bridge of her nose. "You missed a match, Freya. Not practice. Not a press event. A match."

I sighed, finally dropping the chair legs back onto the floor. "Yeah, yeah. Look, you win some, you lose some, right?"

Rivera looked like he was going to break something. Maybe his clipboard. Maybe my face.

"Get out," he finally managed, voice strangled with fury. "Just— GET OUT."

"Gladly." I stood up, stretching. "Been fun, coach."

"It has not been fun!" he shouted as I strolled to the door. "It's been a goddamn nightmare!"

I shot him a wink. "You'll miss me when I'm gone."

Sofia yanked me out of the office before Rivera could combust into flames.

The New York air was crisp, laced with the scent of distant street food and car exhaust. The stadium was still buzzing with energy from the match I had missed—headlines were probably already running with Freya Vesper: No-Show Again! or Is She Even Taking This Seriously?

The answer?

No.

I was already thinking about where I'd be heading tonight, which bar, which club. Something loud, something distracting.

Sofia exhaled a breath that sounded like she had aged five years in the last hour.

"Get in the car," she muttered.

I slid into the passenger seat of her sleek black Tesla, making myself comfortable while she walked around to the driver's side. She looked exhausted.

"Soooo," I said, stretching out the word, "on a scale of one to 'I'm quitting immediately,' how done are you?"

She put both hands on the wheel and closed her eyes for a moment.

I grinned. "That bad, huh?"

"Freya," she started, sounding almost regretful.

"Oh no," I said, mock-horrified. "You're not breaking up with me, are you?"

She shot me a look. "Freya. I resign."

I blinked. "You what?"

"I. Resign," she repeated, enunciating each word. "I cannot do this anymore. I have aged a decade in three months."

I frowned. "That's an exaggeration."

She turned to me with the deadest expression I had ever seen. "Is it?"

I opened my mouth, then thought about it.

She had started the year bright-eyed and optimistic. Now, her hair was graying at the roots, and there were deep lines of exhaustion around her mouth.

Huh. Maybe she had aged a decade.

"Look, Sof—"

"No. No, Freya. I'm done. You're impossible. This is the sixth time this year. Sixth! And it's March!"

She threw her hands up in frustration before gripping the wheel again.

I stared at her, then shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," I said, completely unbothered. "I'll get a new one."

She groaned, starting the car. "You are a mess."

"And yet," I said, resting my head back, "I have a lot of fans."

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "I need a drink."

By the time we pulled up to my place, the tension in the car had simmered down to begrudging acceptance.

My villa was nestled on the outskirts of the city, a sprawling modern estate with massive glass windows and sleek black stone.

The front was lined with tall, trimmed hedges, and the entrance had a grand archway leading to a mahogany double door. The property was surrounded by privacy walls, shielding it from the rest of the world.

The driveway alone was the size of a small parking lot, with a pathway leading to a perfectly manicured lawn. Lights embedded in the pavement cast a soft glow, illuminating the curves of the architecture like something out of a high-end real estate magazine.

Sofia pulled to a stop and sighed. "This house is ridiculous."

"Thank you," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "I designed it to be."

She rubbed her temples. "No. I mean ridiculously big. Do you even use all this space?"

"Of course," I said, stepping out of the car. "I like to run from one end to the other when I'm bored."

She gave me a deadpan look. "I hate you."

"Understandable," I said.

She hesitated before getting out as well, shutting the door with a little too much force. "Listen, Freya… Seriously. You need to get it together. You can't keep going on like this."

I stretched, glancing up at the towering structure of my home. "I mean, I could."

She groaned.

I turned back to her, grinning. "Relax. I'll find a new manager. Probably someone worse than you."

Her expression darkened. "That's not funny."

"Little bit funny."

She exhaled sharply. "Freya, I'm saying this as someone who—against all odds—cares. If you don't straighten out, they're going to make you."

I tilted my head. "Define they."

"The team. The sponsors. Management." She shook her head. "Hell, they might even hire someone who can actually control you."

I smirked. "That sounds impossible."

She shot me one last look, then pulled open the car door. "Good luck, Freya."

I saluted. "You too, Sof. I'll send you a fruit basket or something."

She got in and drove off, leaving me standing in my too-big driveway, staring up at my too-expensive house.

Alone. Again.

With a shake of my head, I pulled out my phone, already scrolling for a distraction.

Because right now it was time to go for a good drink.