Chapter 35
Sienna's POV
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I pushed through the training facility's side entrance at 7:50 AM, gripping the custom aluminum case tight. Heavy. Three cleats to test today—a cushioning prototype, a traction build, a lightweight model. Standard Friday protocol.
Except nothing about today felt standard.
I realized something was wrong the moment I crossed the threshold. The facility's usual pre-dawn quiet had been replaced by organized chaos. Equipment cases lined the hallway. Voices carried from the main field. Through the glass partition, I could see them—photographers adjusting tripods, lighting technicians testing equipment, production assistants clutching clipboards and headsets.
My stomach dropped.
"Sienna, good morning!"
Byron appeared around the corner, far too cheerful for this hour. He radiated that hyper-caffeinated energy of someone who'd been mainlining caffeine since 5 AM and was now running purely on adrenaline and fear of missing a shot.
"Morning." I managed, fingers tightening on the case handle.
"Quick heads-up—we're filming today. Full training coverage for the first wave of promotional content." He gestured toward the field where a cameraman was testing angles near the fifty-yard line. "Brand team approved it last night. They want authentic behind-the-scenes footage before the official launch."
My mouth went dry. "Since when?"
"Last-minute decision. Executive call." Byron looked mildly apologetic. "I know it's short notice, but you don't need to do anything different. Just your normal process. The cameras will capture it organically."
Capture it organically.
Because having our every interaction recorded and dissected by a production team whose job was finding compelling narrative angles had absolutely no potential for disaster.
"Where do you need me?" My voice came out flatter than intended.
"Same position as usual. We've got a fixed camera set up there to capture your workstation." He checked his watch. "Hayes arrives at 8:15. Just do what you normally do—measure, adjust, log. Pretend the cameras aren't there."
Pretend the cameras aren't there.
As if that were possible. As if I hadn't spent the past week perfecting the art of professional distance, keeping my hands steady and expression neutral, treating every interaction like a clinical transaction rather than the minefield it actually was.
Now they wanted to film it.
I made my way to the equipment prep area, each step feeling heavier than the last. The aluminum case bumped against my hip, a familiar weight that usually grounded me. Today it only reminded me how exposed I was about to be.
The workspace looked the same as always—the cart with my tools, the tablet for logging data, the padded stool for fittings. But the camera on the nearby tripod changed everything. Its lens stared at me like an unblinking eye, waiting to capture what I couldn't afford to expose.
I set the case on the cart and opened it with more force than necessary. The foam padding had protected everything during transport. Each cleat represented hours of calculations, material testing, and the kind of obsessive attention to detail that made other designers think I was neurotic.
Each also represented my last line of defense. As long as I could hide behind specs and technical requirements, I could maintain the illusion this was just work.
The camera's red recording light blinked on.
I pulled out my notebook and started rechecking yesterday's data logs, trying to ignore the feeling of my pulse starting to hammer against my ribs. The numbers blurred together.
Get it together. You've been doing this for a week. Nothing changes just because someone's watching.
Except everything changed. Because cameras didn't just capture what I did—they captured what I failed to hide. Those moments of hesitation.
I heard the entrance door's pneumatic hiss.
My shoulders tensed before I could stop them. I kept my eyes on the notebook, pen hovering above the page as if I were making some crucial calculation rather than just staring at numbers I'd already memorized.
Footsteps crossed the concrete floor.
The footsteps stopped.
I didn't look up.
"Morning."
His voice neutral, professional. The same tone he'd been using all week, ever since I'd started this campaign of deliberate distance. Ever since I'd started treating him like just another client, another data point, another technical problem to solve.
"Morning," I responded, matching his tone.
Silence.
Then his footsteps moved past me, toward the locker area.
I finally exhaled.
The camera's red light continued blinking.
---
Hayes emerged from the locker room at 8:47, dressed in standard training gear—compression shirt, athletic shorts, the knee brace already secured on his left leg. His hair was still damp from the shower, freshly shaved. He looked every inch the professional athlete, composed and ready to perform.
I watched him move toward the warm-up area.
The warm-up took fifteen minutes. Basic agility drills, dynamic stretches, some light footwork practice. I used the time to triple-check the cushioning prototype.
Everything was technically perfect.
"Ready."
I looked up. Hayes stood at the edge of the prep area, expression unreadable. Behind him, a cameraman had positioned himself to capture the interaction.
Just work. Just data. Just professional collaboration.
I grabbed the first prototype. "Right lateral cushioning model. Midsole thickness increased by two millimeters, adjusted compression curve for better impact absorption during cutting movements."
I held it out.
He took it, fingers brushing mine for an instant.
My hand jerked back like I'd touched a live wire.
The camera kept rolling.
Hayes sat on the equipment crate, unlacing his training shoes with methodical precision. I should look away, should busy myself with notes or the tablet or literally anything else. Instead I watched him pull off the right shoe, watched the familiar ritual of him checking the sock for wear points, watched him reach for the prototype.
He paused, the cleat balanced in his palm. His thumb traced the midsole edge, testing the new material. Then he looked up at me.
"Lighter than the last version."
"Point-eight ounces. Better forefoot weight distribution."
He nodded slowly, then started lacing. His movements efficient, practiced. When he finished, he stood, took two tentative steps, then stopped.
Something flickered across his face. Too fast.
He sat back down.
"Laces," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"Need you to check the laces." His voice flat, but his eyes on mine. "Tension feels off."
In the week I'd been working with him, he'd never asked me to adjust his laces. He was perfectly capable of doing it himself.
I moved toward him, movements stiff and controlled.
"Where's the issue?" Professional. Clinical. No emotion.