Chapter 17
Sienna's POV
By the time I got back to my apartment building, it was close to midnight. The hallway lights flickered as I climbed the stairs, each step echoing in the empty stairwell. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on the light.
The apartment looked exactly as I'd left it that morning—cramped, cluttered, temporary.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood there, taking it all in. This place had never felt like home. Just another stopgap, another temporary solution while I tried to keep my head above water.
I grabbed an empty cardboard box from the corner and started pulling clothes from the small closet. I needed to move out of here.
Clothes went into one box. Books and sketchpads into another. The few kitchen items I actually used fit into a third.
By 1 a.m., the apartment looked even more barren than usual. I stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by boxes, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on me. Exhaustion. Uncertainty. The image of Hayes on that field, wearing the cleats I'd made, saying those words to the camera.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing myself not to cry again. I'd done enough of that tonight.
Then I grabbed a pillow and blanket from the closet and curled up on the couch.
Sleep came in fits and starts, broken by the sound of traffic outside and thoughts I couldn't quiet.
---
Morning arrived with harsh sunlight cutting through the blinds. I jerked awake, disoriented, my neck stiff from the awkward angle I'd slept in. My phone showed 7:33 a.m.
I forced myself up, splashed water on my face in the bathroom, and changed into clean clothes. Then I started hauling boxes to the door, stacking them in the hallway where they'd be easier to load.
The workbench would be the hardest part. I'd need to disassemble it, and even then, the pieces were heavy and awkward. I grabbed my toolbox and got to work, unscrewing bolts and carefully separating the sections.
By the time Payton's car pulled up outside at 8 a.m., I had everything ready to go.
She came up the stairs carrying two coffees and a bag of breakfast sandwiches, taking one look at the scene and whistling low. "Jesus, you weren't kidding about being ready."
"I didn't sleep much." I took the coffee gratefully, the heat seeping into my cold fingers.
Payton studied my face. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
"Feel like it too."
We loaded up both cars with my things. Payton's trunk was crammed with clothes, books, and kitchen supplies. My car held the workbench pieces, leather scraps, and every tool I owned.
It took us an hour to haul everything up to Payton's place. By the time we finished, we were both drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
Payton flopped onto the couch. "Jesus Christ, you own a lot of crap."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just… maybe consider minimalism in the future."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Payton sat up, brushing hair out of her face. "Sleep in my bed tonight."
"No need, I have the fold-out, or the couch."
"And end up exhausted like this morning." She gazed at me.
"Alright, we'll sleep together." I smiled. "But I'm starting to look for a new place tomorrow. I won't be in your way."
"You're not in my way, Sienna." She said quietly. "You're running yourself into the ground. You know that, right?"
I didn't answer.
"Look." Payton leaned forward. "I get it. You're independent. You don't want to owe anyone anything. But sometimes you have to let people help you. That's not weakness. That's just being human."
I stared at the floor. "I can't stay here forever, Payton. This place is barely big enough for you."
"Then we'll find you something better. Together." She squeezed my hand. "You're not alone in this. Got it?"
I nodded.
---
Morning light cut through the blinds of the K&C studio. I found three courier boxes stacked on the doorstep—leather samples from different suppliers. Before I could haul them inside, Reina rushed over, eyes bright, tablet clutched in both hands.
"Sienna! You won't believe this—we got eleven new orders! All custom cleats!"
I froze and took the tablet. I scrolled through the list. Different names. Different email addresses. Different locations.
"Why are there suddenly so many orders?"
Half a month ago we were worried about the studio's survival. Now the orders felt unreal.
Reina flipped through the messages. "Most of them mention seeing the Sentinels game and tracking down the studio. A few said they got the contact from a friend."
My stomach dropped. I immediately thought of Hayes.
"Call them," I said. "Verify every single one."
It took two hours. Reina worked through the list, confirming order details while asking how they'd heard about K&C. By the time we finished, the picture was clear: some had seen screenshots from the Sentinels game on social media, asking about the cleats. Others were players from different teams.
I set the tablet down. The suspicion in my chest eased slightly, replaced by something more complicated. If these orders were real—if my work had genuinely been noticed because of that game—it meant people saw our craft, not connections or favors.
But I couldn't ignore the fact that the starting point was Hayes. Hayes wearing my cleats. Hayes saying those words on camera.
I bit my lip, my fingertips brushing the edge of the tablet screen. "Maybe it's just coincidence," I murmured.
Reina didn't hear me. She was already calculating timelines, budgets, material inventory. By the time the rest of the team trickled in, the studio buzzed with energy. Everyone gathered around the worktable, discussing workflow optimization, whether we needed temporary help, if the material stock would hold.
I stood at my bench, looking at the project board on the wall. The empty slots were filling up with sticky notes—new orders, new deadlines, new possibilities.
I exhaled slowly. For the first time in six years, I felt something I'd almost forgotten: the validation that came from being good at what I did. Not because someone handed me an opportunity. Because I'd earned it.
But the ache in my chest wouldn't go away. I'd earned it, yes. But Hayes had been the one to open the door.