Beyound the schedule

Three weeks had passed.

Three weeks—and it had taken exactly three weeks for me to realize I was slowly, painfully, becoming exactly what Lydia Whitmore wanted me to be. Responsible. Organized. Predictable.

It was utterly horrifying.

My life had become structured with a precision I never thought possible, carved neatly into segments of training, media obligations, mandatory check-ups, and carefully monitored rest periods.

Lydia had my entire existence planned out to the minute, color-coded in that ridiculous little planner of hers.

Even my social media—which had once been a chaotic mess of late-night selfies, drunken live streams, and spontaneous videos—had transformed into something Lydia now smugly described as "professional" and "presentable."

It made me cringe just thinking about it.

My feed, once packed with endless photos from parties, clubs, and questionable choices, now featured wholesome training shots, carefully posed sponsorship ads, and polished motivational quotes—none of which were chosen by me, of course.

I barely recognized my own Instagram anymore.

It was perfect. It was boring. It was exactly the kind of content my sponsors and my management team dreamed of—and exactly the kind of content that felt suffocating.

And yet, despite my constant complaints and endless rebellion, the worst part was that it actually worked. Fans loved it.

Sponsors were thrilled. My coaches praised my newfound discipline. Even Tasha, who had once spent half her energy rolling her eyes at me, grudgingly admitted that my new image wasn't "entirely awful."

But I was miserable.

Today was yet another carefully planned afternoon, the sun already high as I trudged out of the locker room following morning practice.

Training had become so routine, so predictable, that even scoring goals felt like checking off a to-do list. Run drills, pass accurately, score—rinse and repeat. No missed sessions. No hangovers. No spontaneous brawls. Just… calmness.

I hated calmness.

Outside, Lydia was already waiting for me, leaning casually against her sleek black car, dressed in another impossibly perfect combination—a crisp white blouse tucked neatly into a slim pencil skirt, hair styled flawlessly, makeup subtly impeccable.

She stood there like some kind of perfectly sculpted statue, eyes scanning her phone until she heard my footsteps approaching.

"You're three minutes late," she said without even looking up.

I stopped directly in front of her, glaring dramatically. "Wow. Three whole minutes. The world is definitely ending."

She glanced up, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Sarcasm isn't going to save you from your schedule."

I groaned loudly. "Can't we just skip one day? Just one afternoon without structure? Without rules? Without you breathing down my neck every single second?"

Lydia tilted her head slightly, her expression unchanged. "Absolutely not."

"Please," I begged, pressing my hands together dramatically. "I'm begging you, Lydia. I need chaos. I need excitement. I need—"

"You need to get in the car," she interrupted calmly, slipping her phone back into her purse. "You have another sponsorship meeting in twenty minutes."

I stared at her, mouth open slightly. "You have no mercy."

"I have no reason to have mercy," she countered smoothly. "Your career is thriving. Your fans adore the new Freya. Your sponsors are ecstatic. And despite your complaints, your health and performance are better than they've ever been."

She was right, of course. She was always infuriatingly right.

I let out a long, painful sigh and opened the passenger door, sliding inside with exaggerated reluctance.

Lydia got behind the wheel, starting the engine smoothly and pulling out of the training center parking lot with practiced ease.

I watched her silently for a moment, noting the focused way she drove, the subtle flex of her fingers on the steering wheel, the unwavering determination in her gaze.

It irritated me how perfectly calm she always appeared.

"You know, you're turning me into the most boring person alive," I said bitterly, slouching back in my seat.

"You're a professional athlete," Lydia said simply. "Your life is supposed to be disciplined. Boredom is good for you."

I scoffed loudly. "Boredom is literally killing my soul."

She sighed, glancing at me briefly before turning her attention back to the road. "Do you even have a soul left to kill?"

I turned toward her sharply, genuinely startled. "Did you just make a joke?"

Her lips twitched ever so slightly, just barely suppressing a smile. "Don't flatter yourself."

"No, seriously," I insisted, leaning closer with exaggerated curiosity. "Did Lydia Whitmore—the coldest, most robotic woman on earth—just tease me?"

"Be quiet," she said calmly.

"You did!" I crowed, delighted. "You finally cracked! I've broken you down!"

"You've done nothing of the sort."

"Oh, I definitely have," I teased, grinning broadly. "You like me, Whitmore. Admit it. You're starting to like me."

Her grip tightened just slightly on the steering wheel. "I tolerate you. There's a significant difference."

"Nope, you like me," I insisted, nodding confidently. "I can see it in your eyes. You secretly enjoy all my chaos."

She exhaled sharply, though I saw her lips twitch again. "Your ego truly knows no bounds."

"I call it confidence," I said smugly, leaning back again, arms crossed triumphantly. "Besides, you've spent three entire weeks trying to control me. At this point, you either have to like me or absolutely hate me."

"I assure you," she replied dryly, "it's leaning heavily toward hate."

I laughed loudly, feeling the slightest hint of genuine amusement—maybe even enjoyment—creeping back into my day. Annoying Lydia was quickly becoming my favorite new pastime. At least it was a form of entertainment.

We drove in silence for a few more minutes before curiosity got the better of me again. I turned toward her, genuinely intrigued this time.

"Why did you even take this job?" I asked abruptly.

She glanced at me, cautious. "Why wouldn't I?"

I shrugged, genuinely curious now. "I mean, you're basically babysitting an overgrown child. And you're obviously good at what you do. You could have taken any job in New York. Why pick me?"

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, very quietly, without looking at me, she replied, "Because I like a challenge."

My eyebrows shot up instantly. "A challenge?"

She exhaled slowly, keeping her eyes firmly on the road. "You're talented, Freya. Everyone knows that. But talent without discipline is a waste. I wanted to see if I could fix you."

"Fix me?" I repeated, genuinely stunned now.

She shook her head slightly. "Maybe 'fix' is the wrong word. But yes, I wanted to see if I could help you reach your full potential."

I watched her carefully, strangely touched by the genuine honesty behind her words. "And?"

She finally looked at me, holding my gaze steadily. "You're not there yet. But you're closer."

I stared at her, genuinely lost for words. It was rare for anyone to speak to me that directly, that honestly. It was almost… unsettling. And yet, strangely comforting.

She turned back to the road, clearly finished with the conversation, but I felt something shift between us.

A tiny crack in her carefully constructed professionalism had appeared, revealing just a glimpse of vulnerability beneath her perfect surface.

I smiled slightly, leaning back in my seat again. "Well, for what it's worth—I don't totally hate having you around."

She didn't reply, but the corners of her lips curled slightly upward. Just enough for me to know she'd heard me loud and clear.

We spent the rest of the drive in comfortable silence, the tension from before easing slightly into something almost companionable.

I watched the city pass by outside the window, feeling oddly content despite everything.

I glanced back at Lydia, feeling an unexpected warmth bloom in my chest. Three weeks of controlled chaos had changed things—had changed me. But I was surprisingly okay with it.

"Hey, Lydia," I said casually, watching as she parked smoothly outside the sponsor's building.

"What?" she replied cautiously, suspicion flickering in her eyes.

I grinned, leaning closer. "Since I've been calm and obedient, and my vacation's coming up…I want you to come with me."

She turned sharply, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"To vacation," I clarified, smiling wider. "I want you to come with me to vacation."