Chapter 22
Sienna's POV
The studio was silent except for the hum of the old heating system. I sat at my workbench, staring at the blank page in my sketchbook like it might solve itself if I waited long enough.
It didn't.
I'd been sitting here for twenty minutes, pen in hand, trying to figure out where to even start.
Three days to design a shoe for an athlete I still couldn't confirm was Hayes.
I shook my head, forcing that thought down. Focus on the work. Just the work.
I flipped open my notebook and started sketching from memory. Catherine's pressure distribution model had been complex, but I remembered the key points. The ankle joint. The compensation zones. The force transmission pathways.
I drew the basic foot structure first, then added different colored markers to highlight the problem areas. Red for stress concentration points. Blue for force redirection paths. Green for compensation zones where the body tried to make up for instability.
The familiar rhythm of drawing steadied my breathing. This was what I knew. This was where I could control something.
It's just a technical problem, I told myself. You've solved worse.
I worked methodically, layering information onto the page. Every mark had a purpose. Every line represented a choice.
The next three days blurred together.
I came to the studio early, left late. Reina noticed but didn't push—just made sure I ate lunch and didn't forget to drink water. Payton texted me worried messages that I answered with thumbs-ups and promises to sleep soon.
I didn't sleep much.
Instead, I filled the whiteboard with three different support concepts. Fixed lateral bracing. Semi-dynamic stabilization. Fully adjustable modular system.
Each one had merits. Each one had fatal flaws.
The fixed system was too rigid—it would lock the ankle in place during cuts and pivots, but it would also kill speed and mobility during linear sprints. The athlete would feel like they were running in cement boots.
The semi-dynamic system was better, using spring-loaded elements to absorb impact while still allowing some freedom of movement. But the response time was too slow. By the time the springs engaged, the ankle would already be twisting.
The fully adjustable system—that was the one that kept pulling me back.
I stared at the whiteboard, arms crossed, chewing on the end of my pen. If the athlete could adjust the support level themselves based on the training intensity, they'd have both protection and freedom. Lock it tight for high-impact drills. Loosen it for speed work.
The problem was the mechanics. How do you make something that adjustable without adding bulk and weight?
I turned back to my desk and opened my laptop. Over the past two days I'd collected reference materials—NCAA injury reports for quarterbacks, NBA ankle support case studies, even technical papers on rock climbing shoe design. Climbers needed precision foot control on tiny ledges. Maybe there was something there I could adapt.
I started sketching on my tablet, building a 3D model layer by layer. Outer shell in carbon fiber for rigidity. Middle layer in TPU for dynamic cushioning. Inner layer in medical-grade silicone to mold to the foot's shape.
The innovation—the part that might actually work—was a small rotary dial embedded in the lateral support module.
Five positions. Five different levels of lockdown.
I rotated the 3D model on my screen, checking the mechanics from every angle. It could work. It should work.
But I needed to verify the force angles.
I pulled up the biomechanics data I'd been reviewing—quarterback movement patterns during dropbacks, cuts, and throws. I traced the footwork frame by frame, analyzing how the weight shifted, how the ankle rotated during each phase of motion.
And then I stopped.
My hand froze over the tablet pen.
There was a specific sequence in one of the videos—a dropback, a sudden stop, a pivot, and a throw. The footwork was flawless.
I knew that rhythm.
I recognized it.
Not from the data. From memory.
My chest tightened. I could see it—not on a screen, but in real life. The way someone moved on a field, the particular timing of their steps, the slight forward lean of their center of gravity during the release.
I stared at the force distribution diagram on my screen, my heart beating too fast.
No.
I shoved my chair back and stood up, walking to the window. I pressed my palms against the cool glass and took a slow breath.
It's just data. So many quarterbacks. They all move similarly. This doesn't mean anything.
I was projecting. I was letting my anxiety turn patterns into ghosts.
I turned back to my desk, deleted the sketch I'd been working on, and started over.
Objective analysis. No emotional interference.
I forced myself to look only at the numbers. Angles. Pressure values. Material stress limits. I rebuilt the model, this time without letting my mind wander to whose foot might actually wear this shoe.
By the time I finished, it was past midnight. My wrist ached. My eyes burned.
But I had something.
A three-layer adjustable support system. Modular. Athlete-controlled. Light enough to meet even the most extreme weight restrictions, strong enough to handle the brutal impacts of professional play.
I saved the file and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
This could actually work.
---
On the final night, I stayed even later.
By the time I finished, it was three in the morning. I had fifteen pages of technical specs, eight sketches, a 3D rendering, and a 700-word design narrative that I'd read so many times the words stopped making sense.
I saved everything into a single folder and compressed it.
Then I stared at the "Submit" button.
My cursor hovered over it for a full minute.
This isn't just another project, I thought. This is the door to a different world.
Once I sent this, there was no taking it back. I'd be committed. Whatever came next—whether it was Hayes or someone else, whether I succeeded or failed—I'd be in it.
I closed my eyes. Took a breath.
Clicked "Submit."
The confirmation screen appeared instantly: Submission received. Review in progress.
No name. No warmth. Just a timestamp and a system-generated message.
I sat there staring at the screen, feeling like I'd just been swallowed by something vast and impersonal.
My hands were shaking. I didn't know if it was exhaustion or nerves.
I shut my laptop, grabbed my jacket, and locked up the studio.
Outside, the street was empty. The city felt bigger at night—colder, more indifferent.
I walked to my car, got in, and sat there for a long time with my hands on the steering wheel.
Now all I could do was wait.