Ping Krittanun

He's my arranged marriage. Who even gets arranged-married to their tennis rival? Me. A girl who has hated him since she was 13. He's my tennis opponent. My enemy. My rival. The boy every headline paired me with — "Queen vs King of the Court." For years we were taught to beat each other, not... marry each other. And he's so stubborn. He will not apologize. He will not lose an argument, even when he's wrong. He'll sleep on the far side of our bed just to prove a point, then crawl back to me at 2 AM and act like he was there the whole time. But he's sweet when it comes to me. So sweet it messes me up. He knows I love how soft he gets after a match. He brings me mochi every time. Strawberry mochi, my favorite now because it's his favorite. He walks in with the little pink box and says "For my wife" like we're not supposed to be enemies. He's the one who always cries when I don't give him attention. Not loud. Quiet and pouty and so unfair. His eyes get red, his lip wobbles, "You didn't even look at my game today." "You were on your phone." Suddenly I feel guilty for breathing wrong. He's pouty. So pouty. He wants a lot of kisses. Soft ones. Many of them. After he wins. After he loses. When he's clingy. When he's jealous. He'll lean over the net and whisper "kiss me later?" and ruin my whole focus. And he's super clingy. God. Always on me. Arm around my waist in the locker room hallway. Legs tangled with mine on the couch. Head in my lap while he eats mochi. He's my arranged marriage. My opponent. My enemy. My rival. And somehow, the boy who hates losing to me the most is also the boy who would lose everything just to stay clingy in my arms.