Fight To Love You Freen&Becky

The Freen Sarocha

Hi, my name is Freen. I'm 16, and right now, I'm absolutely furious.

"Hey, Freen, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something." Ugh, just what I needed—a confrontation to top off an already messed-up morning.

"No, I don't have time. I have to go," I snap, trying to brush past him and continue down the stairs to the first floor. But before I can get away, he grabs my arm and pushes me back against the wall, his grip firm and intrusive.

"Why? Why is it so hard to just give me two minutes and listen to what I have to say?" He's not much taller than me, but he stands too close, invading my space. Instinctively, I slap him—not hard, just enough to make him let go of my arm.

"For the last time, and I've lost count of how many times I've said this—I'm not interested in having any kind of contact with you. Please, understand that," I say, trying to stay calm despite the anger bubbling inside me. "And for the record, I really need to go. My team is waiting for me."

I start to walk away, but his voice echoes after me, laced with an unsettling determination. "You will be mine, Freen. I promise you."

"Stupid empty-head," I mutter under my breath as I hurry to where I'm supposed to be. My years of training in martial arts have taught me to maintain control, but dealing with him repeatedly is exhausting.

When I finally reach the gym, the teacher is waiting with an annoyed expression. "Freen, come in. Why do we always have to wait for you?"

"This is the first time I'm late, teacher. Please be fair," I respond, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Oh, can you, for once, just apologise or stay quiet?" the teacher snaps, clearly irritated.

I say nothing and head straight to my team, who are already warming up. Despite the chaos of my morning, being with my teammates calms me. They're my second family, and our shared love for sports and competition always brings us together.

"There's our captain! Good evening, girl," one of my teammates calls out as I join them.

"Hi, girls. Are you ready for tomorrow?" I ask, determined to shift my focus to the game.

"YEEESS!" they cheer, their energy lifting my spirits.

"I'm sure you are. We're going to win tomorrow, and not just tomorrow—we're going to take the whole championship. You'll see."

Everyone cheers, and we dive into practice with renewed enthusiasm. Tomorrow is our first game, and though it's just a friendly match, we need to set the tone and show everyone that we're not to be underestimated.

After practice, I head home with the girls. I don't want to go home—I never do—but the thought of encountering him again, alone, is even worse. I'm too tired and too frustrated to deal with him, not today.

When I finally reach home, I open the front door and step inside, bracing myself for what might come next. My parents are sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea in silence. I wish, more than anything, that I could just slip past them unnoticed, retreat to my room, and escape into sleep. But, of course, that's not how things work in my house.

"Hi, I'm home. Going to sleep now—we have a game tomorrow," I announce, hoping to avoid further interaction.

"Come sit," my father commands, his voice cold, without even glancing my way.

I have no choice but to obey. As I sit down, the tension in the room thickens, and before I can even process what's happening, my father's hand connects with my face, sending me crashing to the kitchen floor.

"Haven't I told you enough times to stay away from men?" he shouts, his voice echoing in my ears. The sting of the slap lingers on my cheek, but I don't have time to react before he continues. "I'm giving you one last chance. If you don't learn to behave yourself and stop attracting attention, I promise you'll regret it."

"But I haven't done anything, Dad," I plead, my voice trembling. "He came to me—I swear, I'm as tired of him as you are. I don't know what to do."

"Get up," he orders, his tone sharp. "I didn't raise you to be weak. I spent all my money making sure you got the best training, so you'd be strong enough to stand up for yourself."

"No," I think, but I don't dare say it out loud. "You wanted me to be as boyish as possible because you wanted a son, not a daughter." But I have a game tomorrow, and showing up with bruises would only make things worse.

"Okay, Dad. I understand. I'll go to sleep now," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Go and win tomorrow. Do you hear me?" he demands.

"Yes. Good night," I reply, forcing myself to stand tall despite the pain.

"Good night, dear," my mother murmurs, the only words she's spoken since I walked in.

As I head to my room, I steel myself for what's to come. "Okay, Freen. Let's do this. We don't have a choice."