Chapter Two: Longer Days.

✽

Freya Kent had never dreamed.

(No─like literally).

Not in the way most people claimed to, at least. For as long as she could remember, sleep had always been like falling into a dark ocean and staying there, suspended, weightless. No images, no stories, no flickering remnants of thoughts to guide her through the night. Just a quiet abyss. She would close her eyes and time would fold, as if no hours had passed at all, until she was blinking awake to the sound of her alarm or the chatter of birds outside her window.

Her friends always talked about nightmares or fantastical lands they'd wandered in their sleep, but Freya always found that concept strange. If she was honest, she wasn't sure she would know how to dream even if she tried.

It wasn't an alarm that woke her this morning, though, or the call of birds. Freya was pulled from the depths by the faint scent of something cooking-eggs, maybe bacon-and by the persistent sensation of something tapping her cheek. Tap. Tap.

Freya groaned softly, not yet ready to leave the warmth of the duvet, and turned over. The poking followed her. Tap. Tap. She heard the small intake of breath beside her, as if someone were debating their next move.

She cracked an eye open, blinking against the morning light spilling through pale curtains. Phoebe stood beside the bed, wearing mismatched pajamas, her face a picture of determination. Her blonde hair, which was so remnant of her grandmother, was messy and ruffled in a loose ponytail. Freya felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Morning, little bee," she murmured, her voice gravelly with sleep. Phoebe, unfazed, continued her mission.

"Wake up, Aunt Freya," she said with all the authority a six-year-old could muster. "Mummy said breakfast's almost ready, and you're not 'llowed to sleep all day."

Freya sighed and gave in, pushing herself upright against the headboard. "And why is that?"

Phoebe looked to the side, thinking for a second. "Because if you sleep whole day, you'll have no time to write!" Seemingly proud of her answer, Phoebe leaned forward, closer to Freya.

She knew Phoebe meant well, of course not that writing was the reason she wanted to stay in bed whole day. "Ahh, got me there." Freya spoke in a sarcastic frequency which Phoebe wasn't able to pick up on yet.

"Mummy's making breakfast?" Freya then asked, running a hand through her unruly hair in an attempt to bring some order to it. Phoebe nodded enthusiastically, her loose curls bouncing with the motion.

"Mummy made toast, but Uncle Roy said the bacon's burnt. But I like the burnt ones," Phoebe informed her as if sharing a great secret.

Freya laughed softly. "Of course you do," she replied, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room-hair sticking up in all directions, face marked with lines from the pillow, smudged eyeliner still prominent from last night, one eye still half-closed in protest of waking up. Lovely.

She hadn't planned on spending the night at her sister's. But after staying late at Richmond and running into Rachel, and Phoebe at the club grounds, one thing had led to another. They had come to pick up Freya in hopes of her accepting Phoebe's pleads to accompany them on their spontaneous ice cream run. Rachel had the next morning off, so Freya had agreed. And just as they walked off into the parking lot, Roy had coincidentally been there too. Practice must have ended late. So he too was dragged along to the Kent family outing.

She vaguely remembered sinking onto the sofa last night, eyes heavy and tired from hours of writing and reviewing stats. Rachel must have thrown a blanket over her at some point, and now here she was in her niece's small but cozy guest room, trying to will herself fully awake.

And by Phoebe's earlier comment it seems Roy had decided to stay the night as well. Unusual. Roy was an avid homebody. He hated sleeping out.

"Alright," Freya shook her head in attempt to get the last bit of sleepiness out of her body, earning a giggle from her niece. The brunette held out her arms. "Help me up, bee."

Phoebe grinned and took Freya's hands, using all her might to pull her aunt to her feet. Freya exaggerated the difficulty of standing, letting Phoebe feel like she had done something impressive, and was rewarded with a triumphant chuckle. "You're strong, you know that?" Freya told her, and Phoebe nodded sagely, as if it were a given.

The scent of breakfast grew stronger as they left the room, Phoebe leading the way with surprising efficiency. She was chatty in the mornings, the complete opposite of her aunt, who needed at least two cups of caffeine before she could form coherent sentences. Freya didn't mind, though. Phoebe's commentary was a comforting soundtrack, filling in the quiet spaces with observations about her favorite cartoons, what new soccer moves she wanted to try put at practice today, and how Uncle Roy had burnt the toast yesterday too, but Mummy said not to tell him.

When they reached the kitchen, Freya took in the scene. Rachel was at the stove, multitasking between eggs and bacon, her hair tied back and face showing the familiar look of concentration. Roy, looking gruff as ever, sat at the table, coffee mug in hand, his brow furrowed at something on his phone. He glanced up when they entered, his expression softening slightly at the sight of Phoebe practically dragging Freya behind her.

"Morning, sunshine," he grumbled, raising an eyebrow.

"Morning, grumpy," Freya replied, shooting him a half-smile as she walked over to the counter to grab a mug for herself. Rachel glanced over her shoulder with a knowing look.

"Coffee's fresh," she said. "And don't listen to Roy-there's plenty of bacon that's not burnt if you want it."

"Burnt bacon's the best," Phoebe declared, climbing into her chair at the table.

Rachel rolled her eyes fondly. "Yes, well, you and Uncle Roy can have all the 'extra crispy' ones, then." She turned her attention back to the stove as Freya poured herself a cup of coffee, inhaling the rich aroma with something like reverence.

Freya couldn't remember the last time she had woken up to the smell of breakfast and familiar voices around her. Her own mornings were often quiet, solitary-no one to poke her awake or recount the morning's kitchen mishaps. She felt a brief pang of longing, one that she pushed aside as she settled at the table with her coffee.

Roy cleared his throat. "You alright?" he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind.

Freya looked at him, feeling a flicker of gratitude. It was a simple question. But she knew him well enough to understand it wasn't just about her staying over; it was an invitation to say more if she wanted.

"I'm alright," she said simply. Roy nodded once, satisfied.

Rachel began transferring plates to the table, and Phoebe clapped her hands together in excitement. "Aunt Freya, sit by me!" she demanded, and Freya couldn't help but laugh.

"Alright, little bee," she agreed, moving to sit beside Phoebe. As the family settled into their seats and the sound of clinking forks and casual conversation filled the room, Freya felt something unfamiliar settle over her-a sense of ease, like slipping into an old rhythm she didn't know she had missed.

And though she still hadn't dreamed, waking up to moments like this almost made her feel as if she had.

Breakfast flowed with the kind of ease that only existed in a home where the routines were well-practiced. Rachel's voice layered over the conversation as she reminded Phoebe to chew slowly, Roy made an offhanded comment about the day's training schedule, and Phoebe entertained herself by mashing her eggs into the toast, giving each piece a backstory before sending it off to be eaten. Freya mostly listened, still easing into wakefulness, savoring the taste of the coffee and the warmth that permeated the room.

"You were snoring," Roy grumbled, breaking her out of her thoughts. Freya looked up, brows raised.

"I don't snore," she retorted, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

"You did last night," he insisted, without even looking up from his plate. "Sounded like a chainsaw."

"Really? Cause I vaguely remember the sound of a broken jet engine waking me up a few times last night." She shot back, leaning forward slightly as if daring him to argue further. Rachel sighed, glancing between them with the expression of someone used to this routine.

"Can't we have one meal without you two bickering?" Rachel asked, though her tone carried no real bite. Freya caught the way her sister's lips twitched as if fighting a smile, and she knew that the question was mostly rhetorical.

"Uncle Roy snores," Phoebe chimed in matter-of-factly. "Like this-" she scrunched her face and let out an exaggerated snore that sounded more like a cartoon bear than a person. Freya let out a laugh, and even Roy couldn't keep a straight face.

"Traitor," he muttered, reaching over to ruffle Phoebe's hair with a gentleness that belied his usual gruff demeanor.

"You should hear your aunt," he added, shooting a pointed look at Freya. "It's like someone dragging furniture across a floor."

Freya couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head. "You're so full of it," she replied, but her voice lacked any real venom. It was a familiar dance, and in a way, comforting.

Rachel placed another plate of toast on the table and gave Freya a look, half-amused, half-maternal. "You're staying for lunch too?" She asked, though there was already an assumption in the question.

Freya paused, a part of her hesitating. She had so much work waiting for her-articles to finish, notes to revise, and a growing stack of research for her newest assignment with the club. But here, with the smell of bacon still lingering in the air and Phoebe's giggles filling the kitchen, she found it hard to think of a good reason to leave.

She didn't have to go to work today. I mean, she went in yesterday, and the day before. It's not like her job required her to keep attendance. It isn't even a full timer.

"Maybe," she said noncommittally, reaching for another piece of toast. "Depends on if Roy burns anything else."

Rachel smirked, and Roy just rolled his eyes. "You really want me to burn something," he said flatly, "just ask."

"Oh, the temptation," Freya replied, grinning as she took a bite of her toast. It wasn't fancy or carefully crafted, but the warmth of it-along with the lighthearted banter-made it better than any brunch she'd had in ages.

Phoebe, satisfied that the adults were done bickering for the moment, tugged on Freya's sleeve. "Are you coming to watch my match today? Uncle Roy and mum are gonna be there." she asked, wide-eyed with that pure, hopeful curiosity only children could pull off.

Freya felt her stomach tighten at the question. Spending the whole day surrounded by football felt like both a blessing and a curse. Blessing in the sense that it was mini football played by seven year old girls (meaning, much more entertaining than watching adult men kick around a ball). And a curse in, it was football with a very loud Rachel Kent on the sidelines, followed by a very passionate Roy Kent on the sidelines as well. Both of whom would take it up with the referee.

"I-" she started, and Phoebe's face dropped a little in anticipation of an excuse.

" Aunt Freya's got work," Roy interjected, not unkindly. "But maybe she'll swing by later, yeah?" His eyes met Freya's, and for a moment, she thought she saw something-understanding, maybe, or just a reflection of what wasn't being said.

Phoebe looked between them, clearly trying to weigh her options, before finally nodding with an exaggerated sigh. "Okay," she agreed, though she didn't look particularly happy about it.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, folding her arms and tilting her head slightly, a knowing look in her eyes. "It's good for you to take a break, you know," she said softly, almost like she was picking up a conversation that had started years ago. Freya didn't reply, just busied herself with her coffee.

They lingered in the kitchen for a while longer, letting the conversation ebb and flow. Roy eventually got up to put the dishes in the sink, still grumbling about the mess as Phoebe tried to "help" by stacking everything precariously high. Rachel began wiping down the counter, and Freya watched it all, feeling like an observer in a place she once belonged.

"Alright, kid," Roy said, nudging Phoebe towards the hallway. "Go get your shoes. We've got to be at the club in twenty. I'll drop you off at school."

Phoebe bounded off without a second thought, already singing some nonsensical song to herself. Freya felt an odd pang at the sight-how easily Phoebe embraced the day, with no shadows clinging to her thoughts.

"No, Roy you don't have to." Rachel quickly insisted as Phoebe was out of sight. "I'm off today, I can take her in."

Roy half-scoffed, half-chuckled. "Exactly, Rach, you're off today. Stay at home, rest."

Rachel looked at her older brother with a tilted head and a soft smile. "You sure?"

"Yeah. It's on the way anyway." Roy shrugged as if to emphasize how much it really didn't matter.

A moment passed. Rachel then looked mischievously at Freya.

Roy caught on. "No!"

Rachel jumped behind Roy, scruffing up his hair and using all her weight to hold him down tightly. "Aww Roy, you're such a softie!"

"Stop it! Rachel!"

Freya couldn't help but stifle a laugh. The sight was definitely interesting. Grown adults tickling and wrestling eachother.

Some things never change.

"You gonna help me?" Rachel yelped as Roy finally got the upper hand, lifting her up over his shoulder.

A tight lipped smile appeared on Freya's face as she shook her head, placing the last bit of buttered toast in her mouth. "I'm good, actually."

The scene moved to the carpet in the living room and carried on for what felt like forever. Cries of laughter and temporary pain from the playful wrestling. Eventually, Rachel finally tapped out as the tickling became too much for her. Roy stood up victoriously, smiling from ear to ear, holding his clenched hands up in triumphant fists.

"And for the record─" Roy dropped his childlike smile and cleared his throat, "I'm not a softie."

Both Freya and Rachel burst into laughter.

Seemingly feeling a high sense of FOMO from all the commotion and laughter going on without her, Phoebe came rushing through the doors. She had changed into her uniform, but it looked as though she had been rushing. Two of her buttons undone. Skirt faced the wrong way. Socks not rolled down.

"Uncle Roy! You're not even dressed yet. And why's mum on the floor?"

Roy walked towards Phoebe before jolting her into his arms. "Becuase I was teaching your mum a lesson not to mess with the Roy Kent."

Phoebe poutted. "Well, I'm gonna be late for class."

"Don't worry bee, it doesn't take that long for Uncle Roy to get dressed. He wears the same shit everyday." Freya put the last dish in the sink, not turning her head to see Roy's reaction. She didn't need to. Furrowed brows and feigned offense was an image that she could already see in her mind.

Phoebe was about to let her know that she expected a pound next to her bed when she gets home, as swearing costed you a fine, but was fortunately interrupted by Roy.

"I do not wear the same stuff everyday." When Freya turned her body to face her family again, a finger was pointed in her direction defensively.

"Ok let me take wild a guess on what you'll wear today. Black top. Black jacket. Black trousers. And a grumpy old man expression." (Freya attempted to mimick said expression for full emphasis).

Roy thought for a moment. He was about to add that she was starting to sound like Tartt, but decided against it.

Phoebe chirped in. "Yeah thats about it."

"You know what?" Roy said, setting Phoebe down with exaggerated caution, as if she were a precious glass ornament. "Let me get changed, and you can give me a fashion critique. I need to look good for the fans, right?"

Phoebe's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Maybe the old gran fans."

Freya let out a schocked scoff.

"Thank you for the compliment, kid," Roy shot back, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a grin. Freya winked at Phoebe, an acknowledgment of her insult.

"Alright," Rachel said, clapping her hands together as if signaling the end of the conversation. "I've got to get missy over here properly dressed before you guys head out."

Roy didn't say anything else, he simply looked at his watch and walked out to change. Phoebe followed suit.

"Get that buttons fixed Pheebs! I'll come and do your hair in a minute!" Rachel shouted down the hall. A faint "Okay!" replied from the distance.

The older sister then went to the sink, starting the hot water so she could let the dishes soak as she did Phoebe's hair.

"You know," Rachel began, leaning against the counter with an amused smile, "I never thought I'd see Roy Kent playing the part of the doting uncle. It's kinda sweet."

Freya nodded, her smile fading slightly as she thought about the complexity of family dynamics. "He's definitely surprising. Sometimes I forget how good he is with her."

Rachel pushed off the counter, crossing her arms with an amused tilt of her head. "You should give him more credit. I mean, look at how he wrestled me to the ground without actually hurting me."

"More like you wrestled him," Freya quipped, her eyes lighting up with mischief.

"Touché," Rachel conceded, laughing. "Still, I just wish I could go back to when I was still pregnant. Tell myself it'd be alright. I hate that I ever thought he would judge me. My own older brother. Turns out he's actually like the best uncle ever."

Freya felt a twinge of surprise. When Rachel had fallen pregnant, she had been dealing with her own shit. But the idea that Rachel ever thought Roy-or even Freya-might judge her stung a bit.

Freya opened her mouth to speak, but the figure that appeared through the door left her decidingly quiet.

As Roy re-emerged, dressed in his signature black T-shirt and faded jeans, he looked every bit the brooding football star he was.

Freya smirked in silent victory. She quite literally predicted his entire outfit (down to the expression).

Phoebe then reappeared as well, hairbrush and hair tie in hand. Clearly at a loss for patience.

As Rachel sat Phoebe down to plait her hair, Roy whistled over to his niece.

"Oi, ready for a fashion show?" He asked, striking a mock pose that sent Phoebe into another fit of giggles.

"You look like you rolled out of bed, Uncle Roy!" Phoebe teased, and Freya couldn't help but smile at the affectionate jab.

"Good! That's the look I'm going for." he shot back, feigning annoyance. "Now come on, we've got to get moving before you miss your first lesson on how to be annoying."

"Uncle Roy. I already know how!" Phoebe protested, her laughter echoing through the hallway as Rachel finished the braid, tying the end with a glitter pink hair tie. The younger girl practically jumped out of her seat and raced to grab her backpack.

Freya took a deep breath, trying to shake off the pang of wistfulness. Watching them, she felt a familiar restlessness tugging at her heart. She needed to do something, to feel alive in her own skin again. Running had become her escape, a way to feel the rhythm of her body and clear her mind-no shadows, no past, just the wind against her face.

"Hey, Rachel!" She called as she helped Phoebe strap on her backpack. "I think I'll go for a run later."

"Good idea! You need to work off all that toast," She teased, ruffling her hair as he passed.

With Phoebe's shoes finally tied and Roy throwing on his jacket, they headed for the door, ready to embrace the day. Freya watched them go, feeling the sunlight pour in through the window, illuminating the room and her thoughts.

Rachel then turned to face her younger sister. "You're welcome to stay, or go, or-"

"I think I'll stay," Freya said, surprising herself with the answer. "I'll probably head to work after my run though." Rachel raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, just gave her a warm smile before heading towards the bedroom.

Freya leaned back in her chair, sipping the last of her coffee and staring at the half-empty plates on the table. She grounded herself as the minutes passed. The room was much quieter now, with only the distant hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of a clock filling the space. The sound of draws opening and closing from the other rooms could be heard as well. She let herself sink into it for a moment, taking in the small details-the faded blueish-white walls, the chipped corner of the kitchen table, the old photo of her and Rachel from years ago still stuck on the fridge door with a magnet shaped like a starfish.

Maybe she didn't dream like other people did. But mornings like this, surrounded by the ordinary chaos of family, felt close enough.

✶ ✶ ✶

   The first few minutes were always the hardest.

Her body protested, muscles tightening against the chill in the air. Freya's breath came in shallow puffs, each exhale visible in the cool morning mist. She kept her eyes ahead, focusing on the path winding through Rachel's neighborhood, letting the familiar streets slowly unfold under her feet.

The early hours were her favorite time to run. It felt like a brief, suspended moment when the world was still asleep, giving her space to clear her mind. The houses here were quiet, their windows dark, with only the occasional flicker of movement hinting at life inside. There was something calming about being an observer, a silent witness to the slowness of dawn.

As she continued, the stiffness in her legs gradually eased, her breathing settling into a steady rhythm. The tension in her chest-the one that always seemed to sit just below her sternum-unraveled with each step. This was why she ran, why she laced up her shoes and left the house before anyone else. It wasn't about chasing an endorphin rush or training for anything in particular; it was about feeling in control of her own movement, her own choices. For these moments, everything narrowed down to just the beat of her feet and the pulse of the music in her ears (Freya didn’t have a specific music genre for her running playlist, but she tended to avoid songs that were too upbeat).

She took the same route she always did (of course adjusting it to fit the route of Rachel's house), ─ a loop around the park, up the small hill that overlooked the stadium, and then back through the side streets. The incline still burned every time, but she welcomed it, leaned into the challenge instead of shying away from it. It was something tangible, something she could push through and overcome, even when everything else felt out of reach.

The sudden aching memory came back to her. Her sporty years. Running suicides while her coach's whistle deafened her. She had always been fast, maybe not as fast as those other girls. But fast.

Reaching the top of the hill, Freya paused, letting herself catch her breath. From here, she could see the top of the AFC Richmond stadium just peeking out over the row of townhouses. The sight of it tugged at her, a bittersweet familiarity that made her feel both grounded and strangely distant, like she was a part of something she couldn't fully hold onto.

She tugged the earphones out, the morning sounds rushing in to fill the silence-the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze, the distant murmur of a car passing on the main road. Freya pressed a hand against her side, feeling the dull ache there that had nothing to do with the run and everything to do with memories she couldn't quite shake.

Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket, and she pulled it out, squinting at the screen. A missed call from her editor. Another message about University deadlines. She frowned at it for a moment before turning the screen off and slipping it back into her pocket. The weight of work had a way of creeping in, pressing at the edges of these quiet moments, reminding her that the rest of her life was waiting.

But she didn't want to think about that yet. Not about the article drafts piling up or the meetings she needed to prepare for. Not about the strained phone calls with her mom or the lingering silences between her and Roy when alone. And definitely not about the emptiness of her flat when she returned at the end of the day, the hollow feeling of being surrounded by things that didn't really belong to her.

Freya stretched her arms overhead, feeling the pull in her shoulders. Her fingers brushed against the thin scar at her elbow, a barely-there line she usually covered with long sleeves. It had been years, but her skin still remembered-a reminder etched into her, even when the memories themselves felt hazy and disconnected. She didn't like to linger on it, not when there was so much she was trying to move past, but sometimes, the old weight of it slipped through the cracks.

The air was beginning to warm as she turned to head back, the sun just starting to edge over the horizon. Freya picked up her pace, feeling her pulse quicken with each stride. She was running faster now, pushing herself harder. It was a habit she hadn't quite let go of-this urge to test her limits, to see how far she could go before something made her stop.

Somewhere in the distance, a few more people had started to emerge from their homes-joggers, dog walkers, an elderly couple slowly making their way down the path. Freya kept her head down, focusing on her breathing, not wanting to engage. It wasn't that she minded other people's company-at least, not all the time-but mornings like this were hers. They were a chance to gather herself, to build the kind of armor she'd need to face whatever the day threw at her.

As she reached the park's exit, she slowed to a walk, letting her breathing return to normal. Freya wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her hoodie, feeling the coolness of the fabric against her skin. She still had time before she needed to be anywhere, which meant she could take the long way back to Rachel's, let her thoughts settle a little more.

Maybe, she thought, she needed more mornings like this-ones where she wasn't running from anything, just moving towards something better, something easier. There wasn't room for much else, and if she was being honest, she wasn't sure she had the energy to make room.

She shook the thought away, picking up her pace again as she reached the final stretch of the route. The morning sun cast long shadows on the pavement, and she kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead, the slight chill in the air turning warm with each passing minute.

Freya stopped as she reached her next rest point. A bench on the side of a small jewelery stall. As her body leaned over, Freya made sure to remind herself how much her trainers needed a clean. Mud stained the edges.

Before leaving for her run, Freya hadn't even done her proper skin care routine. Which meant her smudged eyeliner was even more smudged from the sweat.

The rings of bicycle bells caught her attention, as she looked up to see a group of teen boys managing to just dodge a group of teen girls. Quite an obvious (and a dumb) attempt in getting the girls' attentions.

In the corner of her eye, the multitude of pastel and tropical colours caught her eye. The antique shop from across had displayed blooming Hibiscus flowers across the main window.

Let the record show, Freya didn't like a lot of things. But flowers is one thing she adored. More specifically, Hibiscus flowers.

Freya ignored the sharp ache in her knees as she stood up again from the bench she had very kindly sat herself upon. A bell rang as she entered the shop. There were two women in sight. One, middle aged with honeycomb hair who stood behind the till. And the second, an elderly woman who had been in the midst of reorganizing a shelf. She greeted with a nod, before continuing towards the corner of the shop.

The brunette whipped her phone out of her pocket, snapping a picture of the scene. Not that she had anyone to send it to—unless she counted the trifecta of Roy, Rachel, or God forbid, Rebecca. The holy trinity of R’s, as she liked to call them.

She was just about to turn away when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Looking up, Freya made eye contact with the elder woman worker which she had seen earlier.

"Feel free to take one if you want." The woman, which by her name tag, Freya could now identify as Janet hushly pointed towards the vased flowers.

"Oh no no, I don't have cash on me right now." Freya replied.

The woman waved her hand dismissively. "Nonsense! It's just one, no one will notice. Just make it quick before my daughter sees." She said with a conspiratorial wink.

That’s when Freya noticed the other woman working behind the counter, rearranging bouquets with the same level of intensity Rebecca used to rearrange her office files. Freya put two and two together; it was a family-run store.

A small smile tugged at Freya’s lips as she reached out and gently plucked a single hibiscus from the display. "Thank you," she murmured, feeling a bit like a child sneaking a treat.

“Anytime, love,” the woman replied, already moving back towards the counter as if nothing had happened.

Freya slipped the flower into her bag and walked away, the petals peeking out like a small secret she carried with her.

✶ ✶ ✶

Freya jogged back to Rachel’s house, each step settling the buzzing tension in her muscles. The chill of the morning was fading, replaced by the warmth of exertion and the continuously rising sun. When she reached the front gate, she slowed, catching her breath and eyt again wiping the light sheen of sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Her dirty shoes made her wince slightly as she approached the back door, opting to sneak in quietly. The house was silent now—a stark contrast to the earlier chaos of breakfast and bickering siblings.

She headed straight for the shower, peeling off her damp running clothes as she went. Freya reached for her own bottle of shampoo that she had left behind in the guest bathroom last time she stayed over—a lavender and sandalwood blend. The scent was calming, grounding her in its familiarity. She lathered it into her hair, letting the hot water pound away the tension that had been coiled tight in her muscles since she woke up.

Freya had a habit of showering in extremes—either ice-cold water or nearly scalding hot, with no in-between. Today was the kind of day that called for burning hot water. As the steam began to fill the bathroom, she welcomed the intense heat, letting it seep into her muscles and unclog her sinuses. The near-scalding stream tinted her skin a faint red, but she hardly noticed; it was a sharp, cleansing feeling that matched the scattered chaos in her mind.

She tilted her head back, closing her eyes and letting the water cascade over her face. For a moment, it felt like the world beyond the shower curtain was muted, softened by the roar of water against tile.

When she finally emerged from the shower, hair wrapped up in a towel, she wandered down the hall and into Rachel’s bedroom. She didn’t have a proper outfit for work. Freya had driven her car to Richmond yesterday, but since she went back to Rachel’s place after work, it was still sitting in the parking lot. So, she didn’t have a spare change of clothes, just her worn-out hoodie and running gear. Her car—a slightly dented, dark blue Volkswagen Polo—was functional but constantly on the verge of breakdown, mirroring her state of mind, as Roy had so kindly pointed out once. She often had to coax the engine into starting, especially on colder days.

She rifled through Rachel’s closet with the focus of someone digging for treasure. The blazers and dress pants weren’t going to work—not unless she wanted to feel like she was wearing someone else’s life. Eventually, she found a soft and body hugging, black v-neck top that seemed like it might blend into her own wardrobe, and a pair of high-waisted jeans that looked comfortably lived-in. They were a bit more tailored than her usual choices, but at least they didn’t scream corporate sellout.

Freya thanked God that all her siblings happened to be born relatively tall, with Freya standing a few centimeters higher than her older sister. Meaning clothes could easily be shared.

Freya changed quickly, accessorizing with two black gem earrings and slipping on a pair of Rachel's black sneakers—the shoes a bit tight on her feet.

Its not like Rachel had bad style. In fact she had moderately good style considering the trends of her age group. It's just that Freya had a very specific and simple style, similar to Roy in that sense.

She glanced at herself in Rachel’s mirror. She looked put-together, almost like someone who had everything sorted out.

Rachel’s voice broke the quiet. “Raiding my closet again, I see,” she said, appearing in the doorway with an amused smirk.

Freya glanced over at her, still fiddling with the last button. “Well, my stuff’s still in the car at Richmond, and I’m not showing up to work in gym clothes,” she replied dryly.

Rachel tilted her head, a slight grin playing on her lips. “I thought the oversized hoodie look was in?”

Freya rolled her eyes, giving her sister a once-over. “You're like four years too late.”

Freya exaggeratedly pointed towards Rachel's closet before continuing, “And you’re lucky I have impeccable vision,” she retorted, trying and failing to match Rachel’s grin. She grabbed her phone off the dresser, glancing at the time as if it held all the answers.

“Are you heading out already?” Rachel asked, her voice softening, losing the teasing edge.

“Yeah,” Freya replied, slipping her phone into her pocket. She paused, fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of the shirt. “By the way, what time’s Phoebe’s match today?”

“It starts at five,” Rachel said, leaning against the doorframe. “But she has practice after school. Why?”

Freya didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she nodded to herself, like she was making a mental note. “Just… wanted to make sure I don’t miss it,” she said, her tone casual, too offhand, as if trying to convince herself more than Rachel. She cleared her throat, adding quickly, “Tell her good luck for me.”

Rachel studied her for a moment, her eyes lingering on Freya’s face, clearly wanting to say something but holding back. Instead, she just smiled—a small, knowing smile that conveyed more than words could. “Will do,” she replied softly.

Freya gave a fleeting, almost grateful smile before slipping past Rachel and heading for the front door. The air outside was brisk, carrying a slight chill, but the warmth of the sun was starting to break through, casting a soft golden hue over the pavement. The kind of morning that seemed almost too quiet, too serene, like the world was holding its breath.

She checked her reflection in her phone’s screen and grimaced at the state of her eyes with no eyeliner. She took out the eye pencil which she alwyas carries in her bag, and began outlining her waterline. With a half-hearted swipe, she smeared it a bit on the outer corner, the dark streaks now framing her eyes in a way that made her look like she’d attempted some avant-garde makeup style.

“Perfect,” she muttered sarcastically, shoving her phone back into her pocket and grabbing her bag from where she’d left it by the door.

By the time she reached the bus stop, the early chill had given way to warmth, and the streets were buzzing with the beginnings of the day.

The bus pulled up with a hiss of the brakes, and Freya climbed on, giving the driver a distracted nod before settling into a window seat. She didn’t really look at the scenery as the bus began to move; instead, her thoughts drifted to the rest of the day.

Freya knew herself too well. Her default was busy, active, anything to keep the silence from creeping in. She didn’t have to be at work today, not technically, but the alternative was being alone with too much time and too many thoughts.

As Freya made herself comfortable, she found herself scanning the usual crowd of passengers—some with their heads down, lost in their phones, and others staring out the window, absorbed in their thoughts. The bus lurched forward, and she adjusted her bag on her lap, fingers absentmindedly tapping against it.

Freya liked these small pockets of time between destinations. There was a quiet comfort in being on the move, in feeling like she was headed somewhere, even if it was just to work. The hum of the engine and the rhythm of passing streetlights felt like white noise to her buzzing thoughts. She used to listen to music, but lately, she'd taken to leaving her headphones in her bag, letting the sounds of the city fill the silence instead.

The bus ride was a monotonous lull, the city slipping past in a blur of grey buildings and early morning commuters with headphones on and eyes half-shut.

She leaned her head against the cool window, eyes following the blur of people walking by. There was something reassuring about the mundanity of it all—people heading to work, parents ushering their kids to school, an older couple holding hands at a crosswalk. It made her feel like part of the city's heartbeat, even if she didn’t always feel in sync with it.

✶ ✶ ✶

When she got off at the stop near Richmond, Freya pulled her borrowed shirt tighter around herself, ignoring the wind that cut through the thin fabric. The office wasn’t far—a brisk ten-minute walk. She made her way through the familiar streets, pulling herself into the routine she’d established in the months she’d been working here. It was easy to move on autopilot, to let muscle memory guide her steps while her mind remained elsewhere.

Once she reached the office building, Freya took the back entrance—an old habit from when she first started working here, trying to avoid unnecessary run-ins with people. She headed straight for her small, makeshift workspace in the corner of the press room.

Freya shrugged off her bag, tossing it into the corner and settling into her chair with a sigh. The press room was quiet at this hour, save for the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Most of the other journalists didn’t trickle in until later, and Freya appreciated the solitude. She needed a moment to brace herself for the day ahead. The silence was almost peaceful, even though she knew it wouldn’t last.

She opened her laptop and scanned her emails, mindlessly deleting the usual flood of promotional offers and spam. One email caught her eye—a simple, clipped message from Rebecca Welton.

Meeting at 12:30. Bring your notes.

Freya’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t expected a meeting today, and she definitely didn’t feel prepared to face Rebecca's presence. It's not like Freya was scared of her boss or anything, Freya saw Rebecca as that one rich and single aunt. Hell, Rebecca gave her this job. But everyone could feel the stress of her divorce around the club, she was a walking time bomb in a pencil skirt.

Not that she ever felt ready for these things, but there was a particular edge to today’s meeting. She quickly checked her notes folder, scanning through her unfinished drafts and disorganized scribbles.

She had about an hour and fifteen minutes until the meeting started.

And so, she logged onto her class portal, and clicked onto her next assignment.

The irony wasn’t lost on her—coming to a professional setting to finish assignments she could easily do at home. But there was something about the hum of quiet conversation, the rhythmic clicking of keyboards, and the distant hum of the copier that helped her find some focus. It kept her tethered, reminding her that she was in a place where things were supposed to get done.

Every so often, she’d glance up, eyes darting around to ensure that no one was peeking over her shoulder. The last thing she needed was for anyone to ask why she was analyzing postmodern theory in the midst of a workday. Freya made sure to keep a work tab open, something meaningless but convincing—a quick switch if Rebecca or Higgins happened to wander by.

She had a habit of working like this—elbows sprawled out on her desk, fingers absently twirling the ends of her hair as she read over her essay for what felt like the fiftieth time. Her mug of tea which she had quickly gone to the kitchen to prepare had long gone cold, but she didn’t notice. The words on the screen demanded her full attention, a mental tug-of-war as she tried to shape them into something coherent.

This week’s assignment was more analytical than usual. She was writing a comparative analysis on narrative techniques in Heart of Darkness and The Things They Carried. She liked the challenge of finding connections between the two—one a dense, colonial-era piece with layered metaphors, and the other a raw, fragmented exploration of war and memory. (Freya had always been a history nerd in highschool). But as much as she enjoyed the topic, the actual process of putting her thoughts into words felt like wading through mud.

Freya leaned back, massaging the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t miss the irony in it; she had come to university wanting to write. Journalism was supposed to be her ticket to something fulfilling, something with meaning. She always had this image in her head of herself with a messy desk piled high with articles and interview notes, a pen behind her ear, and a coffee cup permanently in hand. But the reality of staring at a screen for hours, feeling like she was pouring her soul into a paper only for it to look like nothing special on the page, was a far cry from that dream.

She sighed and forced herself to refocus. There was a quote she needed to weave into her argument, but the phrasing wasn’t coming together. Freya knew she had a tendency to overthink things, to pick apart every sentence until it was a skeleton of what she intended. Just get it on the page first, she reminded herself. Fix it later. She typed out a rough draft, trying not to pause too long between sentences.

As she worked, her phone buzzed with a notification from her course group chat. A few classmates were discussing the readings for next week, and someone made a joke about the professor’s monotone lectures. Freya half-smiled at the messages, but didn’t bother responding. She didn’t know most of them well enough to chime in, and honestly, she wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

After what felt like an eternity, Freya reached a point where she could at least call the draft “acceptable.” It wasn’t her best work, but it was something. She quickly formatted her citations, checked her word count, and saved the document. A sense of relief washed over her—not because the essay was perfect, but because it was over. She’d revisit it later when she wasn’t so close to throwing her laptop out the window.

With her work saved and closed, Freya stretched out her legs, feeling the ache in her knees from sitting on the floor for too long. She gathered her things, sliding her laptop into her bag and checking the time.

✶ ✶ ✶

The meeting room was one of those places that seemed to suck the air out of any conversation. It had that corporate, polished look: heavy wooden table, sleek glass windows, and chairs that practically dared you to fidget. Freya had always felt like she didn’t quite belong in rooms like this—rooms with decisiveness embedded in the decor. She didn’t mind being behind the scenes, observing from the fringes, but the thick silence and rigid formality of meetings like these always made her shoulders tense.

When she entered, Rebecca was already there, seated with an air of calm that Freya couldn’t quite relate to. Rebecca Welton had a knack for exuding an intimidating sort of elegance, like the kind of woman you’d instinctively sit up straighter around. Freya found her spot at the far end of the table—familiar territory. Easier to stay out of the direct line of fire, if nothing else.

Accompanying her was Higgins, stood nervously in the corner by the coffee and tea station, stirring his most likely already dissolved sugar into his Rooibos tea.

Rebecca’s eyes flicked up. “Good morning, Freya.”

“Morning,” Freya replied, trying to keep her voice neutral and confident. She slid her notebook onto the table, clicking her pen open in a way that she hoped didn’t look as anxious as she felt.

Rebecca, always one for efficiency, didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. “I won’t beat around the bush,” she started, her voice steady and deliberate, but with an undercurrent of… something. Anticipation, maybe. Freya wasn’t sure.

She braced herself, trying to look attentive instead of apprehensive.

“I’ve made a significant change in the coaching staff,” Rebecca continued, eyes locked onto Freya as if daring her to interrupt. “As of earlier this morning, I’ve let the previous head coach go and brought in someone new.”

Freya blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Sure, there were always murmurs, but firing the head coach? That was the nuclear option. Her pen hovered uselessly over the paper as she tried to collect her thoughts.

Simultaneously, Higgins choked out a nervous cough and did some weird noise with his throat. Both of the women turned to look at him, one in concern and the other in confusion.

He held his hands up in dismissal, "My bad! Carry on."

Freya turned back to look at an empty spot on the table in front of her.

Rebecca gave her a small nod, like a teacher acknowledging the confusion of a student. “Listen, I know it’s sudden. And yes, I know it’s going to come as a shock.”

Freya had about a thousand questions, but she settled on one. “So who’s the new coach?” she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

Rebecca folded her hands, that composed demeanor never wavering. “His name is Ted Lasso.”

Freya felt the name bounce around in her head like a pinball. It didn’t register. Ted… Lasso? She was about to ask more when Rebecca elaborated, perhaps sensing that further explanation was crucial to keep Freya from bursting into laughter.

“He’s an American,” Rebecca said, each word measured, like she was breaking difficult news to a child. “A college football coach.”

Freya blinked. There it was. The punchline. Except Rebecca didn’t look like she was joking. She was sitting there, impossibly poised, like this was a perfectly rational thing to do. Freya took a moment to gather her thoughts—words were important here, and she didn’t want to accidentally say something that might get her fired.

“An American,” she repeated, slowly, as if tasting the words. “And… not an actual football coach?”

Rebecca tilted her head. “Well, he is a football coach, just not the same football.” She smiled tightly, almost apologetically. “It’s a bit unconventional, I admit.”

Freya’s mind was spinning. An American football coach? At a Premier League club? It sounded like a bizarre PR stunt, and not even a good one. She tried to frame her next question carefully, not wanting to seem openly incredulous.

A sudden urge to laugh crept up her throat but she managed to swallow it. If Richmond thought they sucked before, they are in for a ride.

“And you chose him because…?” Freya prompted, leaving the sentence dangling, hoping Rebecca would fill in the gaping logic gap.

Rebecca leaned back slightly, her gaze unwavering. “Because we need a change in culture here,” she said firmly. “We need someone who’s going to bring fresh energy, new perspective, and…” She paused, searching for the right phrase. “An entirely different approach.”

Freya was silent for a beat, staring at her notebook like it might somehow contain the answer. She could see where Rebecca was coming from—AFC Richmond had been stuck in a rut for ages. But bringing in an American coach with zero experience in English football felt like trying to fix a leaky pipe with a sledgehammer.

“Right,” Freya said slowly, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “So, uh, Ted Lasso… What’s he like?”

Rebecca actually seemed to hesitate at this question, like she hadn’t quite figured that out herself. “Well he’s… optimistic,” she said, the word sounding almost like an apology. “Very enthusiastic. And… well, incredibly motivated. At least that's what I've gathered over our last and first phone call."

Freya raised an eyebrow, waiting for something more. Rebecca seemed to realize she wasn’t selling this very well, and quickly added, “He’s a people person. A leader. And I believe he has something valuable to bring to this club.”

Rebecca’s sincerity was disarming, and for a moment, Freya didn’t know how to respond. Kindness and enthusiasm weren’t exactly traditional criteria for a head coach. It felt like the setup to a bad sitcom.

Freya swallowed the urge to ask if this was some kind of reality show. “Okay,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “And you want me to…?”

“I want you to help manage the narrative,” Rebecca replied, her tone softening slightly. “See, I recently offered you this part time job as well, I've known you for quite a while and I knew you'd be the perfect writer for these situations."

Rebecca allowed Freya to take in her words properly before continuing. “This is going to be a delicate transition. I need the press, the fans, and the players to see this as a step forward, not a step back.”

It was a lot to process, and Freya’s brain felt like it was lagging a few steps behind. “That’s… a lot of responsibility,” she said, trying to buy herself a moment to think.

“I have every bit of confidence in you,” Rebecca assured her, which felt less like a compliment and more like a directive. Freya wasn’t sure she had that much confidence in herself, but Rebecca seemed determined.

Freya took a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “I’ll need more information on him, though—background, specifics, why you chose him over… literally anyone else.”

Rebecca almost smiled at that last part, a flicker of amusement passing over her face. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get everything you need.”

Higgins, now standing near the door with a file tucked under his arm, finally approached the table. He slid the file across to her, and she caught it effortlessly. “Just some details,” he said, his lips curling into a pleased smile.

There was a pause, the silence thick with unspoken doubts. Freya scribbled aimlessly in her notebook, although the only coherent and legible line was WHAT THE FUCK????.

“One more thing,” Rebecca added, her voice lighter now, like she was wrapping up a particularly heavy conversation. Freya’s head flickered up. “Ted Lasso will be arriving on Friday morning. I’d appreciate it if you could be there to get a firsthand impression.”

Friday? Freya’s stomach did an uneasy flip. That was soon—too soon, really. But she forced a nod, gripping her pen tighter. “Got it,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’ll be there.”

Rebecca nodded in appreciation, taking a brief moment to really take in Freya’s appearance. Her hair was growing darker, the remnants of her bleach-blonde phase clinging stubbornly to the ends. It seemed like she had left that look behind, opting for a more natural shade. Still, her hair hung short—likely a recent cut. Rebecca couldn’t help but feel a strange nostalgia; she’d seen Freya’s appearances change over the years, from rebellious styles to more subdued choices, each shift hinting at some new chapter in the girl’s life.

Freya sensed the attention and glanced up, catching Rebecca quickly lowering her gaze as if the state of the worn wooden table was the most captivating thing in the world.

"...Anything else?" Freya asked, her tone patient.

Rebecca shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Freya started toward the door, walking past Rebecca and Leslie. Just as she was about to step into the hallway, Rebecca's voice called after her, making her stop.

"Oh, Freya—one more thing," Rebecca began, her voice more measured now. "I’d prefer Roy doesn’t hear about this yet. The boys are already on edge with all the losses, and I’d rather not stir things up further. They’ll find out tomorrow afternoon with the press release."

Freya gave a small, understanding nod. “Don’t worry, boss. Roy and I dont talk enough to lead to that topic of conversation anyway.”

Rebecca’s brows furrowed at that, a hint of confusion crossing her face, but she didn’t press further.

With a final nod, Freya turned and exited the room, the door closing softly behind her.

As she left the meeting room, Freya couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into a story that was part comedy, part tragedy, and entirely unpredictable. She’d never been one to write fluff pieces, and this situation seemed like it was teetering on the edge of ridiculousness. But it was also a huge opportunity, and she couldn’t let it slip through her fingers. The next few months would be good exposure for her. Especially as the new season is starting.

She just hoped this Ted Lasso guy was as good as Rebecca made him sound. Otherwise, she was in for one hell of a write-up.

✶ ✶ ✶

Freya slipped out of Rebecca’s office, the weight of the meeting still settling on her shoulders. If someone told her this was all part of a reality TV show plot twist, she wouldn’t even be surprised. She could already see the headlines: *American Optimist Takes on British football club—What Could Go Wrong?*

As she turned down the corridor, still deep in her thoughts, Freya nearly walked straight into what could only be described as a live-action rom-com scene: Jaime Tartt and Keeley Jones, practically fused to each other against the wall. They were going at it like they were in a cheesy teen movie, and Freya had to double-take just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating from all the hot steam from her shower.

“Oi!” she called out, stopping dead in her tracks. “No kissing in the halls, yeah?”

Jaime turned slowly, like someone who’d been caught eating the last slice of cake. His arm was still around Keeley, but he raised an eyebrow at Freya’s interruption, looking unbothered. “Oh, look who’s enforcing hall monitor duties,” he quipped. “You gonna give us detention or somethin’?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Freya shot back. “I’ll make you clean all the whiteboards.”

Keeley snorted, trying to cover it with a cough, while Jaime just grinned wider. Freya gave a mock salute and started to walk past, making a mental note to get some coffee in her before she faced any more chaotic interruptions. But Keeley’s voice stopped her mid-stride.

“Oi, wait a sec!” Keeley called, her voice a little too cheery for eight in the morning. Freya turned, already bracing herself for whatever Keeley had to say. “I’ve seen you around before, haven’t I?” Keeley asked, head tilted like she was piecing together a puzzle.

Freya cleared her throat. “I mean, probably,” she replied, trying to sound casual. Keeley was one of those celebrities that always seemed slightly too sparkly to be real, like a human disco ball with better hair. Freya knew her from the tabloids and PR events she’d been forced to attend, where Keeley always managed to look effortlessly stylish and genuine, which was a rare combo in Freya’s experience.

"Roy Kent's sister that is." Jaime nodded towards the brunette girl.

Keeleys jaw dropped as she let out a half squeal, half yelp. "No fucking way! I knew you looked familiar. You lot got the exact same eyes. Deadpan and a bit of sexy."

Jaime's face scrunched up at the last part. "You think Roy Kent is sexy?"

Keeley rolled her eyes playfully, "Oh c'mon Jaime."

Jaime now scrunched his eyebrows even more, still not understanding why she wasn't giving a definite answer. Freya on the other hand simply nodded along sarcastically enthusiastic like she knew what was happening.

Keeley, in attempt to change the topic of conversation gave the other girl a once-over, her eyes lingering on Freya’s all-black outfit, dark eyeliner, and what was definitely bed hair trying to disguise itself as intentional. “Oh my god, I’m lovin’ this whole ‘emo dead girl walking’ vibe you’ve got going on,” Keeley said, flashing a bright smile that seemed completely at odds with her words.

Freya blinked. Once. Twice. “It’s not intentional,” she replied dryly, “but thanks, I guess?”

Jaime lost it. He threw his head back, laughing so hard that Keeley had to give him a gentle nudge to get him to stop. “Sorry,” he choked out between laughs. “It’s just—‘dead girl walking,’ that’s a new one.”

Keeley, now realizing she might’ve come off a bit too blunt, started to backtrack. “Oh God, that came out wrong, didn’t it?” she said, eyes wide with panic. “I meant it in a good way!”

Freya raised a brow. “There’s a good way to call someone a dead girl?”

“Well, you pull it off!” Keeley insisted earnestly, looking desperate to dig herself out of the conversational hole she’d unintentionally created. “It’s like… edgy, y’know? Camp. Like you’re in one of those music videos where everything’s in black and white and there’s a lot of wind blowing dramatically.”

Freya snorted, despite herself. “That’s… weirdly specific, but I’ll take it.”

Keeley let out a relieved breath, her smile returning. “See? She gets it.”

Jaime wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Oh man, I’m gonna start calling you ‘dead girl walking’ from now on. It’s too good.”

Freya rolled her eyes. “Do that, and I’ll start calling you ‘child star turned local disappointment.’”

“Fuckin hell,” Jaime clutched his chest in mock pain. “That was uncalled for, emo patrol.”

“Touché,” Freya admitted with a smirk.

Keeley’s eyes widened with realization. “Wait, we haven’t even been properly introduced! I’m Keeley.” She held out her hand, which Freya stared at for a beat too long before shaking it, because apparently, her brain still didn’t know how to handle social interactions without overthinking every detail.

“Freya,” she replied, as if Keeley didn’t already know.

Keeley’s grin widened. “Well, Freya, it’s a pleasure to meet the woman who keeps this place in line with all her ‘no kissing in the halls’ rules.”

Freya shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Someone’s got to.”

As Freya turned to leave, she caught Keeley’s soft, thoughtful gaze lingering on her. It was the same look Rebecca gave her sometimes—this mix of curiosity and something almost protective. Freya wasn’t sure she liked it, but she also wasn’t sure she disliked it.

“Catch you around, Freya,” Keeley called after her.

“Yeah,” Freya replied over her shoulder, feeling weirdly exposed by the brief exchange. “See you.”

Freya let go of a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Well....that was something.

✶ ✶ ✶

The walk from the parking lot to the school field felt like one of those surreal moments where Freya had to remind herself that this was her life now: juggling a chaotic job at Richmond, trying to keep up with university assignments, and attending her niece’s football matches. Honestly, she wasn’t sure how any of it made sense together, but here she was, pushing her way through crowds of eager parents and siblings, searching for Roy and Rachel on the sidelines.

When she finally spotted them, it was impossible to miss. Roy was already half-way into a rage fit at a referee, his face red, arms flailing like an angry crab. Beside him, Rachel was hollering encouragement with a little more enthusiasm than was probably necessary, both of them looking like overzealous fans in the front row of a punk rock concert.

Freya couldn’t help but snort. It was like watching a two-man army waging war against all things considered casual sportsmanship.

“Oi, over here!” Rachel waved her over, motioning wildly with both arms as if Freya hadn’t already seen them. She squeezed past a few people, weaving her way through to where they stood. Roy gave her a quick nod, acknowledging her presence without breaking his intense glare at the field.

“Did we win?” Freya deadpanned, looking out at the swarm of children that seemed to move as a collective mass rather than individual players.

Roy huffed, not looking away. “Ain’t over yet.”

Rachel offered a tight-lipped smile. “It’s like watching a bunch of bees trying to remember which way the hive is.”

Freya raised an eyebrow. “Is Phoebe the queen bee then?”

“Obviously,” Roy muttered, not catching the joke. “She’s got a good left foot.”

Rachel nudged her. “He’s so proud, it’s unbearable.”

They both watched as Phoebe, in her little jersey two sizes too big, charged towards the ball with determination that could rival a Spartan warrior. A kid from the opposing team tried to kick it away, but Phoebe planted herself like an immovable boulder, successfully passing it to her teammate. It was surprisingly impressive, and Freya felt a small swell of pride. Roy was right—Phoebe was good.

For a while, Freya stayed quiet, standing with her hands in her coat pockets, observing her niece and feeling almost guilty for not being as vocal as Roy and Rachel. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud—she absolutely was—it was just that shouting wasn’t her style. Well, not unless the situation called for it, which it usually didn’t… except when it did.

Like right now.

One of the kids from the other team, a bigger girl who was clearly trying to assert dominance, suddenly shoved Phoebe over. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t accidental. It was a blatant push meant to take her down, and the sight of her niece sprawled on the ground was all it took for Freya’s internal alarm bells to start ringing.

“Oi! Oi!” she found herself shouting, her voice ringing out with more authority than she’d planned. She stepped forward like she was about to jump the barricade, but Rachel quickly put a hand on her arm to hold her back.

“It’s fine, Frey,” Rachel said, laughing nervously. “Kids get rough.”

Freya shot her a look. “Rach, she just shoved her!”

“They all shove each other,” Roy grumbled, half approving of Freya’s indignation. “Keeps ‘em tough.”

The girl's parents were sitting not far from them, looking more invested in their phones than in the actual game. Freya turned her attention back to Phoebe, who was already getting up, dusting herself off. She seemed unbothered, but Freya wasn’t letting this slide.

“Hey!” she called out again, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Yeah, you, number twelve! Keep your hands to yourself, you little thug!”

Rachel snorted, trying to hide her amusement, while Roy just raised an eyebrow, momentarily glancing away from the game. A few of the other parents turned to stare, whispering among themselves, but Freya didn’t care. She was invested now.

“Oi, Freya,” Roy muttered, smirking. “That’s my line.”

“Please,” Freya retorted.

Phoebe, now back on her feet, seemed to spot Freya on the sidelines and grinned. It was the kind of smile that said thanks for having my back. Freya shot her a subtle thumbs-up, which Phoebe returned before sprinting back into the game.

As the match went on, Freya’s attempts to remain calm faltered with each near-miss and small victory. Eventually, she found herself leaning forward, barking out occasional words of encouragement or frustration. She even heard herself shout things like, “Nice stepping, Bee!” or “Don’t let that brat near you again!” with a level of intensity she didn’t realize she was capable of.

“Blimey,” Roy muttered under his breath, eyeing Freya with a mix of surprise and approval.

Freya was about to turn to look at her brother but was cut off by a sudden approaching object in line of her peripheral.

The ball had been kicked out, in the direction of the Kent's. Freya, almost out of a deep buried habit caught the ball with ease before it could even touch Rachel. She threw it back into the pitch cooly to which the Referee nodded in appreciation.

Rachel laughed in shock, nudging her sister, "Looks like those touch rugby roots are coming back up to play."

Freya feigned a fearful expression. "Hell to the fuckin no."

A small grimace appeared on Roy's face. He had forgotten Freya had been involved in the sport. "Yeah, how's that going by the way?"

Rachel and Freya exchanged a knowing look, Rachel snorting as she shook her head. Roy's smile faded a bit as he looked between his sisters.

"I uh, I stopped playing like...four and something years ago." Freya nonchalantly said, eyes still on the pitch with a hint of humour in her tone.

"Oh..yeah. Yeah." Roy tried to play it off as though he had known and jut forgotten, all three of them knew that wasn't exactly the truth. "My bad."

Freya shook her head awkwardly, "You're goodddd."

Silence overtook as they waited for the water break to end. (There wasn't an official half time considering the game itself was shortened to fit the age group).

Finally, the game continued, and it was one of those drawn-out affairs where the scoreboard seemed frozen in time. Freya noticed that every time Phoebe got the ball, she made a point of avoiding Number Twelve, the little instigator. But it wasn’t out of fear—Phoebe was simply smart about it, using her size and speed to outmaneuver the bigger girl.

Towards the end, the other team was getting desperate. Number Twelve made one last attempt to steal the ball, but Phoebe, in a moment that felt straight out of an underdog sports film, pulled off yet another impressive side-step, leaving her stumbling.

Freya let out an involuntary whoop. Rachel jumped up, clapping her hands. And Roy? He was doing that proud, gruff thing where he tried not to smile but failed miserably.

When the final whistle blew, and Phoebe’s team had narrowly won, Freya felt a strange sense of triumph that wasn’t even hers. It was like she’d fought a tiny war with them and somehow come out victorious. She turned to Rachel, who looked equally relieved.

“Maybe you should be the official hype-woman from now on, or even better! Sign up to be the mascot for the girls soccer games.” Rachel teased.

Freya shrugged. “Well, someone’s got to keep these little hooligans in line.”

As they made their way to meet Phoebe on the field, Freya couldn’t help but feel a certain warmth settle in her chest. The kind of warmth that came from being a part of something—of showing up, of caring, of making sure that the people you love know you’ve got their back, even if it means yelling at a random kid on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Way to go bumble bee!" Freya exclaimed as Phoebe ran towards her family, jumping high to meet Freya's high five.

"Did you see how fast I was Uncle Roy?" The little girl downed the bottle of lemon water which Rachel had brought for after the match.

"Of course. And it was fucking great."

Phoebe giggled and practically forced her bottle back into her mum's hand, before running back to her team to take a team photo.

Freya took her phone out to capture the moment from another angle. She smiled at the picture in her camera roll, before slipping her phone back into her pocket and turning around to leave.

Roy, however, didn’t miss the opportunity for one last jab. “Don’t go soft now,” he said gruffly. “Might ruin your whole ‘dead girl walking’ image.”

Freya rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“And you know what? Still better than sparkling water girl.”

A/N: Chapter Two!! Deeply apologize if you were expecting more Sam/Canon compliant scenes. I just wanted you guys to get to know Freya before we get into the show.

Hope the Kent family fluff filled the hole that Sam Obisanya's absence left. Next chapter she meets beard and Ted!!

(And yes, I referenced the topics I'm currently doing for Freya's assignment.)

Word count: 11.8k
Unedited.

Don't forget to vote/comment x.

♡