I was right

I watched as Freya took her first bite, her skepticism melting away instantly the moment the flavors hit her tongue.

She froze.

Her fork hovered in the air, her lips still parted slightly as she processed what had just happened.

I smirked.

Slowly, deliberately, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.

"Well?" I said, voice smooth.

Freya's eye twitched.

I could see the internal war happening behind her stormy gray eyes—the desperate attempt to not admit that I was right.

She chewed slowly.

Swallowed.

Then, with the most painful reluctance I had ever witnessed, she muttered:

"…It's okay."

I raised an eyebrow. "Just okay?"

She shoved another bite into her mouth, scowling. "Don't get cocky, Whitmore."

Too late.

I was already enjoying this far too much.

"So," I mused, picking up my own fork. "All that whining in the car, all those complaints about sad salads and flavorless cardboard—"

"Shut up."

"—and yet, here you are, devouring a perfectly balanced, nutritious meal—"

"I said shut up."

I smirked wider, taking a sip of my lemon water.

Freya glared at me over her plate, as if I had personally betrayed her entire worldview.

"You're supposed to be cold," she grumbled. "All professional and robotic and not smugly enjoying my suffering."

I took another slow, deliberate bite, tilting my head slightly.

"Objectively speaking," I said, "I was right."

Freya stabbed a sweet potato with her fork. "I hate you."

"That's nice," I replied smoothly.

She exhaled sharply, then pointed her fork at me.

"This doesn't mean anything," she declared. "You don't win just because you found one good meal."

I took a calm sip of my water.

"Oh, Freya," I said, voice almost mocking. "I always win."

She groaned dramatically, dragging her hands down her face.

"I can't believe this," she muttered. "I can't believe you're actually smug about healthy food."

I didn't respond.

I didn't have to.

The way I calmly ate my meal, while Freya sulked through hers, said everything.

And I was enjoying every second of it.

After finishing our meals—mine in calm, composed satisfaction, and Freya's in begrudging defeat—we made our way back to the car.

Freya was still sulking.

She dragged her feet across the pavement, hands shoved into the pocket of her hoodie, her entire aura radiating betrayal.

I didn't acknowledge it.

I simply unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat.

Freya, still muttering under her breath, flopped into the passenger seat with maximum dramatics.

She let out an exaggerated sigh, slouching so far down that she was practically melting into the seat.

I started the car.

Freya glared at me.

"You know," she said, crossing her arms, "I liked my life before you showed up."

I turned onto the main road, expression perfectly neutral. "Good to know."

She didn't stop.

"I was happy, Lydia," she continued, as if I had somehow committed a crime against her existence. "I had freedom. I ate what I wanted, skipped training when I felt like it, showed up late without regrets."

I didn't even blink. "And that's exactly why your team hired me."

She groaned, pressing her forehead against the window.

"This is so unfair."

I adjusted my grip on the wheel. "You are a world-class athlete, Freya. You need to take care of yourself."

She waved a hand dismissively. "I do take care of myself."

I gave her a sharp side glance.

"You nearly died of dehydration last season because you forgot to drink water before a match."

Freya scoffed, sitting up straighter. "That was one time."

"One time too many," I said smoothly.

She muttered something under her breath but didn't argue further.

Silence settled for a few minutes, the low hum of the car filling the space.

Then, Freya squinted suspiciously at me.

"Where are we going?"

I adjusted my mirrors. "Doctor's appointment."

She froze.

Then—

"Nope. Nope, absolutely not. Turn the car around."

I ignored her.

"Lydia," she said, horrified, "you're not actually making me go to the doctor?"

"It's a mandatory check-up," I reminded her. "Standard for every professional player."

Freya gripped the sides of her seat as if I were taking her to a death sentence.

"But I hate going to the doctor," she whined.

"That's not my problem."

She slumped down again, grumbling like a child.

"This is abuse," she muttered.

"You have a contract," I said simply.

She sighed dramatically, then turned to me, her gray eyes filled with pure mischief.

"What if I fake sick and we just go get ice cream instead?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Freya, you have a doctor's appointment. You can't fake sick at a doctor's office."

She blinked.

Then, after a long pause—

"You make a good point."

I let out a long, suffering sigh.

This was my life now.

By the time we arrived at the clinic, Freya had already mentally checked out, slouching in her seat like she was being dragged to the most boring place on earth.

She refused to move.

I didn't even argue.

I simply unbuckled my seatbelt, got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side—

And opened her door.

She looked up at me like a petulant child.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes," I said, voice clipped.

She sighed. Loudly.

Then, after an entire dramatic pause, she finally stepped out.

The clinic was sleek and modern, the air crisp with the faint scent of sterilized equipment and fresh paperwork.

Freya groaned immediately.

"God, I hate the smell of hospitals."

"This is a clinic."

"Same thing," she muttered.

I led her toward the reception desk, where a friendly-looking nurse greeted us.

"Miss Vesper," she said, flipping through her files. "Right on time."

Freya grumbled something incomprehensible.

The nurse just smiled knowingly.

"Doctor Bennett will see you in Room Four," she said.

Freya didn't move.

I nudged her lightly.

"Go," I ordered.

She sighed again, dragging her feet toward the examination rooms like she was being led to her execution.

I followed.

Doctor Bennett was already waiting inside, a sharp-eyed man in his late 40s, dressed in a clean white coat with a calm but firm presence.

"Freya," he greeted, scanning her chart. "Still being a pain, I assume?"

Freya slumped onto the examination table. "Always."

Doctor Bennett chuckled, shaking his head before gesturing for her to sit up properly.

"Alright," he said. "Let's get this over with."

And, to my surprise—

Freya actually listened.