Chapter 36
Sienna's POV
"Right foot. Pressure point at the fourth eyelet."
I knelt down, which put me level with his shin. Too close.
I fully unlaced his cleat, started from the beginning. My fingers ran on autopilot—threading through the first eyelet, pulling tight but not too tight, skipping the second hole on the right side because his foot tended to swell there, stopping at the fourth eyelet from the top because going higher would create pressure on his Achilles.
My hands knew this. Knew him. Knew the topography of his foot like I'd mapped it a thousand times, because I had.
I'd tried so hard to forget.
My body refused to cooperate.
I finished the lacing, pressed my thumb against his instep to test the tension. "How's that?"
"Good." His voice had dropped lower. "You remember the exact pressure points."
It wasn't a question.
I stood too quickly, nearly knocking over my equipment cart. "Professional standard. I memorize all clients' specifications."
"Right." The word dripped with skepticism. "Professional."
I turned away before he could say anything else, before the camera could capture whatever might be written across my face. Behind me, I heard him stand, heard the sharp tap of cleats against concrete as he tested the fit.
"This one works," he told Byron, who'd appeared nearby with his ever-present clipboard. "We can run the drills."
Byron looked pleased. "Perfect. We'll start with the lateral cutting sequence, then move to acceleration tests. Cameras will follow you on the field, Sienna—just observe and log like normal."
Like normal. As if any part of this was normal.
---
Thirty minutes into the session, Byron called for a configuration change.
"Sienna, we need Hayes in the traction-focused build for the next sequence. Filming the cutting drill."
I grabbed the second prototype from my case and crossed the field to where Hayes stood, hands on hips, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Sweat darkened the collar of his compression shirt. His hair was damp at the temples.
He sat on the equipment crate without a word, unlacing the cushioning build.
I handed him the traction prototype, stepped back, ready to return to my station.
"Wait."
I stopped.
Hayes pulled on the new cleat and laced it halfway, then stood and took two experimental steps.
His jaw tightened.
"Heel slip."
I frowned. "That's impossible. I measured the fit tolerance three times."
"There's heel slip." His tone flat, factual, but something had shifted in his posture.
Byron glanced over, concern creasing his forehead. "Problem?"
"Minor adjustment needed," I said quickly, before the entire production could grind to a halt. "Give me two minutes."
Hayes sat back down.
I had no choice but to kneel in front of him again.
This time, I didn't let myself think. I unlaced the cleat entirely, checking the heel cup alignment, the tongue positioning, the collar padding. Everything was exactly as it should be.
But I re-laced it anyway, my fingers working on autopilot while my brain tried desperately to stay clinical and detached.
I tightened the midfoot. Adjusted the ankle collar tension. Tested the heel lock with a slight backward tug.
Perfect. It had been perfect the first time.
I started to stand.
"Hold it."
The DP's voice cut across the field.
I froze, still crouched at Hayes's feet, my hands hovering uselessly in the air.
The director approached, staring at his monitor. "That angle. Sienna, stay exactly where you are for a second."
My pulse spiked.
The camera operator moved closer, adjusting focus.
"Good," the DP murmured, more to himself than to us. "The light's catching the detail work. Let's get a few more frames of this."
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
I was locked in place, crouched in front of Hayes, close enough that if I looked up I'd be staring directly at him.
So I didn't look up.
I kept my eyes on my hands. On the laces. On the perfectly adjusted cleat that didn't need a single thing changed.
I could feel the camera lens on us. Could feel the weight of being watched, studied, captured.
And worse—I could feel Hayes. The heat radiating off him from the training session. The subtle shift in his breathing. The way his left knee was angled slightly outward, an unconscious protective posture I'd seen him adopt a hundred times when he was managing discomfort.
The smell hit me without warning.
Not cologne. Not artificial.
Just him.
Not seductive. Not romantic.
But familiar.
And that was infinitely worse.
"Got it," the DP said, stepping back. "Thanks."
I stood so fast I nearly lost my balance.
"You're good to go," I said to no one in particular, and walked back to my station without waiting for a response.
Behind me, I heard Hayes stand. Heard him test the cleat with a few experimental steps.
Heard him say, quietly, "Feels fine now."
I didn't turn around.
---
The rest of the session passed in a blur.
Hayes switched cleats. Finished the drills. The cameras captured everything.
By the time Byron called wrap at noon, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical effort.
The crew began breaking down equipment, and I packed up my station methodically, keeping my head down, desperate to get out before—
"Sienna."
Too late.
I turned.
Byron stood a few feet away, tablet in hand, looking pleased in a way that made my stomach sink.
"Got a minute? We want to run something by you."
I forced a neutral expression. "Sure."
He gestured toward the small conference room adjacent to the training floor. "Just a quick review of today's footage. Won't take long."
I followed him inside.
The room was cramped—a table, six chairs, a wall-mounted monitor. The DP was already there, along with two brand reps I vaguely recognized from the initial project kickoff.
Hayes walked in last, his expression unreadable, and took a seat at the far end of the table.
Byron pulled up a folder of video files on the monitor. "So. We're really happy with what we got today. The technical work, the facility, Hayes's performance—all solid. But there's something else we want to flag."
He clicked play.