Chapter 16
Sienna's POV
The game ended. Sentinels 36, Visitors 26. Hayes was named MVP, and they interviewed him on the field, cameras and microphones crowding together.
"Hayes, incredible performance tonight. How does it feel to be back after last season's injury?"
His voice came through the stadium speakers, hoarse from exertion but steady. "Feels like I never left. This team, these fans—they never stopped believing. I owe them everything."
"That final drive—all you. What were you thinking in that moment?"
A pause. The camera zoomed in on his face.
"I was thinking about someone who taught me that surrender isn't an option. Sometimes you just have to trust your feet and run."
The interviewer laughed, thinking it was a metaphor about athleticism.
"But most importantly, I have a pair of very good cleats. They were made by the best craftsman in the business."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Tears already burning at the edges of my vision. He didn't say my name. Didn't need to.
The reporter laughed, thinking it was just athlete modesty. "Well, they certainly held up under pressure tonight. Congratulations on the win."
Hayes nodded once, his expression unreadable, and walked away.
I sagged back into my seat. My fingers dug into the leather armrest until the tips went white.
The suite door opened.
Bobby walked in, holding two bottles of water. He handed me one without a word, then dropped into the seat across from mine. For a long moment, he just watched me, the way someone might watch a bomb they weren't sure had finished exploding.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "Did he arrange all of this?"
"Not tonight." Bobby's voice was flat. "Hayes has no idea you're in this building. I invited you on my own."
I stared at him. "What?"
"Look, I don't know what happened between you two." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And I don't know why you walked away six years ago. But Sienna, I've known Hayes for years. I've watched him break himself apart and put himself back together more times than I can count."
His jaw tightened. "Injuries. Media shitstorms. His family trying to drag him back to that glass tower and lock him in a boardroom for the rest of his life. Every time he hit rock bottom, he climbed out alone. No help. No complaints. Just kept grinding."
Bobby looked at me, and for once, the easy charm was gone. "But he's never looked at anyone the way he used to look at you. Not once in six years. So if there's still something there—if you still give a damn—then don't waste it. Life's hard enough without throwing away the few things that actually matter."
The silence stretched between us. I wanted to explain, to tell him that leaving Hayes was the hardest thing I'd ever done, that I did it because I cared, that I couldn't let his dream be obstructed. But the words tangled in my throat.
Finally, I said, "Bobby, I appreciate what you're trying to do. But some things aren't that simple. We can't just—"
I stopped. Couldn't finish the sentence. We can't just go back.
"I know." Bobby stood up, grabbed his jacket. "But if you don't at least talk to him, you'll never know if it was really impossible, or if you just convinced yourself it was."
He paused at the door. "Misunderstandings don't fix themselves, Sienna. Someone has to take the first step."
Then he was gone.
I sat there for another twenty minutes, staring at the empty field. The stadium crew was already breaking down equipment, sweeping up trash, erasing the evidence of tonight's game. In a few hours, it would be like none of this ever happened.
Just like Hayes and I had become—something that used to exist, now reduced to silence and distance.
---
The drive back was a blur of streetlights and stop signs. I kept the radio off, but the silence didn't help. My mind kept replaying the same scenes on loop.
Seventeen years old. First row of the Oakridge bleachers. I'm holding a handmade sign: "#12 Sterling, you're my MVP," surrounded by hand-drawn stars in red Sharpie. Hayes finishes a touchdown, yanks off his helmet, and sprints to the edge of the field. He can't come into the stands—coach's rules—but he stops just close enough to make a heart shape with his hands, grinning at me like I'm the only person in the world.
The crowd goes insane. He blows me a kiss.
After the game, he's still covered in grass stains and sweat when he wraps me in a hug outside the locker room.
"Sienna, I'm gonna make it to the NFL. And when I do, you're designing every pair of cleats I ever wear."
I laugh, smack his shoulder. "Okay, hotshot. But first you gotta make it to the NFL."
"Deal."
I blinked hard, forcing the memory back down. My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Stop it. Stop thinking about him. That was six years ago. He has his career. I have mine.
But Bobby's words kept circling back. He's never looked at anyone the way he used to look at you.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot and just sat there, engine idling.
I tilted my head back against the seat and whispered to no one, "Even if I wanted to try again, his family wouldn't allow it. Six years ago, they did this."
And then, quieter: "I already hurt him once. I don't have the right to walk back into his life now."
---
Hayes' POV
The locker room reeked of sweat, analgesic spray, and the raw adrenaline of victory. Padding thudded against metal lockers as my teammates stripped off their gear, their voices a mix of exhaustion and excitement. I sat in the corner, slowly peeling the velcro straps from my knee brace. My right knee was badly swollen from that third-quarter collision, each movement pulling at the dull pain. I tossed the brace into my equipment bag without looking at it, forcing my body to ignore its protests.
"Hey, Hayes." Jamal walked over, peeling a banana. "Man, those cleats are straight-up magic. That third-quarter catch? My feet were planted like roots in the turf."
Tyler chimed in. "Same here. The cuts felt way better than my old Nike Reacts."
I didn't look up. My jaw tightened, but the corner of my mouth twitched upward for just a second. I knew why. The cleats Sienna had spent two weeks designing for them were made for exactly this kind of performance.
Players started gathering around. "Bro, where'd you find this designer? Hook me up. I want a pair too."
The players wearing Sienna's custom cleats all agreed, wanting to order again.
Jamal grinned, leaning closer. "Come on, Sterling. Share the wealth. And don't think we didn't catch that postgame interview. 'The best craftsman in the business'—man, you sounded like you were talking about way more than just shoes."
I lifted my eyes, cold and sharp. "You want the contact? Ask Bobby."
A beat of silence.
Then I added, my voice dropping lower, "But I'm warning you. Don't harass her."
The locker room went quiet for two seconds before erupting in hoots and whistles.
Tyler let out a whistle. "Whoa, whoa, protective much?"
Jamal smirked. "Dude, is this a relationship situation?"
I zipped up my equipment bag and stood, wincing as my knee protested. I forced myself upright, ignoring the sharp pain. "You all got time to gossip? Go watch the game tape again. We had three blown coverages in the second half."
I turned and walked toward the training room, leaving a chorus of laughter and muttered comments behind me.
At the end of the hallway, I stopped. Pulled out my phone. Stared at the photo.
My knuckles went white as I gripped the phone. Finally, I shoved it back into my pocket and pushed open the training room door.