Chapter 10
Sienna's POV
He tapped version three with one finger—not picking it up, just marking it. "This one. The hybrid approach."
Relief and suspicion hit simultaneously. He'd chosen the design I'd spent the most time on, the one balancing artistic vision with practical concerns. Which meant either he had good instincts, or he'd been briefed on exactly what to look for.
"I understand NFL players need performance features," I said, keeping my tone measured. "But custom work is about creating something unreplicable. This version gives you both—the technical specs your equipment team needs, plus a design language that can't be mass-produced."
I paused. "But I need creative control. I'll work with your people on functional requirements, but final aesthetic decisions are mine."
It was a line in the sand, maybe a stupid one given how badly I needed this contract. But I'd learned the hard way that clients who wanted to micromanage every detail usually ended up blaming you when their bad ideas didn't work.
Bobby's expression didn't change, but something shifted in the air between us—a recalibration of expectations. He picked up version three, studying the notes I'd scribbled in the margins about materials and construction techniques.
"Fair enough," he said after a moment. "But understand—if something doesn't meet our standards, it gets revised. No ego."
"Same goes for you," I replied. "If your 'standards' mean compromising structural integrity or aesthetic coherence, I walk."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Like I'd passed some test I hadn't known I was taking.
"Marcus said you were stubborn." He set the sketch down carefully, aligning it with the table edge. "Good. I don't have patience for people who fold the second someone pushes back."
He pulled a slim folder from his messenger bag, sliding it across to me. Inside were printouts—technical specifications, performance requirements, timeline projections. Everything laid out with the kind of precision that suggested this project had been planned long before I'd received Bobby's email yesterday.
The first page was standard stuff—cushioning requirements, traction patterns, weight distribution. Professional but generic, the kind of specs any decent designer would understand.
The second page was where it got interesting.
Handwritten notes crowded the margins. Right lateral ankle needs extra support. An arrow pointed to a reference: See Attachment A. Further down: Tongue must be genuine leather—no synthetics. That line was circled twice, hard enough the pen had nearly torn through.
At the bottom: Target weight: 310g maximum.
Underneath, in the same forceful hand: Not a suggestion. Must deliver.
I looked up at Bobby. "These handwritten notes—"
His tone was flat, offering no additional context. "Based on three years of player injury data and equipment team feedback. Non-negotiable."
I scanned the other annotations. Heel counter reinforcement. Breathable but water-resistant upper. Must accommodate custom orthotics.
These weren't the demands of someone chasing aesthetics or brand hype. This was someone who'd learned through pain exactly what their body needed, who'd probably spent hours with trainers and physicians mapping out every biomechanical requirement.
I was grateful I'd minored in sports biomechanics and had research experience, otherwise I wouldn't even understand these annotations.
"The weight restriction is going to be difficult," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Especially with lateral reinforcement and genuine leather. Those materials add grams fast."
"That's why we're hiring a custom designer instead of going to a factory." Bobby's gaze was direct, assessing. "Can you do it?"
No.
The honest answer sat heavy and bitter on my tongue. With these specifications, hitting 310 grams meant sourcing materials I didn't have access to, probably couldn't afford, and definitely couldn't acquire in whatever timeline he was about to throw at me.
But I looked at that handwritten note—must deliver—and something in my chest twisted. Because I understood that kind of absoluteness. That's what happened when your body broke down, when every gram of excess weight translated to pain or risk or the end of everything you'd worked for.
I thought of Hayes's feet, the scar tissue and bone deformities from years of punishment.
Thought of myself at 3 AM, hands cramping, wrist screaming, still hunched over the workbench because the alternative was giving up.
"Give me twenty-four hours," I heard myself say. "I'll rework version three to meet all these specs. Including the weight target."
Bobby's eyebrow lifted fractionally—surprise, maybe respect. "Twenty-four hours. But I need to be clear about something."
He leaned forward slightly, and his expression had gone serious in a way that made my pulse spike.
"If what you deliver doesn't meet every requirement on that sheet, we start over. Completely." He paused, letting that sink in. "And the timeline doesn't adjust."
The unspoken threat hung in the air: Fail once, and you're out.
I met his eyes, refusing to flinch. "Understood."
"Good." Bobby opened a new folder, pulling out several neatly bound pages and pushing them toward me. "Since you're accepting the challenge, let's talk compensation."
My fingers hesitated at the document's edge.
"This is a standard contract," he said, his tone returning to that businesslike flatness. "NDA, delivery timeline, revision clauses—all in there. If you can deliver satisfactory work, here's our offer—"
I looked down at the first page.
Contract terms crowded the page—standard legal language, NDAs, intellectual property rights, breach of contract clauses. My eyes scanned for traps, for hidden clauses that would bite me six months down the line.
Then I saw the number.
Custom Combat Cleats Unit Price: $50,000/pair
My breath stopped.
I looked again. Still the same number.
Fifty thousand dollars. Per pair.
My hands started shaking. I had to press them against my thighs. The number ricocheted around my skull, hitting every rational corner.
This was five times what I'd expected to charge.
This was too much.
I looked up, trying to keep my voice normal. "Is your price... high?"
Bobby looked at me expressionlessly, like I'd just asked a stupid question. "Top-tier custom work, performance guarantee, exclusive design, plus rush timeline." He paused. "This price point is reasonable."
Reasonable.
He said it so casually, like fifty thousand dollars was just a number, not the only barrier between me and bankruptcy.
I stared at that contract, my brain screaming.
This isn't right. The price isn't right. The timing isn't right. Everything's too convenient.
Marcus said this had nothing to do with Hayes. Bobby had acted like a standard sports agent from start to finish—assertive, efficient, impersonal. The contract terms looked normal too, no "we own your soul" type of exploitative clauses.
But fifty thousand dollars.
"Any problems?" Bobby's voice interrupted my thoughts, his tone still strictly professional.
I opened my mouth, wanting to ask. To demand. To push this contract back and say I wasn't a charity case, I didn't need pity.
But Reina's voice echoed in my head: We only have a few months of funding left, Sienna.
The empty order boards in the studio.
"No problem."
I flipped to the payment terms page, wanting to see exactly how payment would work.
Payment Terms:
- Contract Deposit: $100,000 (payable within 1 business day of contract execution)
- Balance: $150,000 (payable within 3 business days of acceptance)
This was standard business process. Deposit to cover the designer's base costs, balance to ensure quality. No traps, no hidden clauses.
Just a normal, reasonable, lifesaving transaction.
"Where do I sign?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
Bobby flipped to the last page, his pen tip pointing at the signature line. "Here. And here. Your initials."
I took the pen he handed me.
I signed my name.
Bobby collected the contract with clean, efficient movements, like completing the most ordinary transaction. "Confirmation email will hit your inbox within the hour. Deposit will arrive soon."
He said it casually, but the statement hit right on target. Like he knew the payment from yesterday had already been swallowed by overdue rent, and my studio account couldn't cover the specialized materials needed for this project.
I forced myself not to overthink it. Maybe Marcus had told him about my situation.
"Send the revised design to my email in twenty-four hours." Bobby stood, organizing his folder. "If the direction's right, we'll arrange next steps. If not—"
"It will be right." I cut him off, sounding more confident than I felt.
He nodded, said nothing more, and headed for the door.
I watched him push it open, the bell chiming, then he disappeared into the morning light, leaving me alone in this corner booth with a cup of cold coffee and a decision that had just changed everything.