Chapter 24
Sienna's POV
The notification came one day later.
I was in the middle of sourcing suppliers for the composite shell material when my phone buzzed with a calendar invite.
Catalyst Project - Stakeholder Video Conference
Attendees: 8
My stomach dropped.
I opened the details. The meeting was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Mandatory attendance.
Participants included Catherine, a name I didn't recognize (Byron Reyes – Athlete Management), and several technical liaisons.
I stared at the invite until my screen dimmed.
This was it. The moment where speculation ended and reality started.
I could still decline. Claim a scheduling conflict. Ghost the whole thing and go back to making custom Jordans for sneakerheads with more money than taste.
Or I could show up. Face it. And deal with whatever came next.
My thumb hovered over the "Accept" button.
You didn't build K&C just to run when things got hard.
I tapped Accept.
The meeting interface loaded on my laptop the next afternoon with the kind of corporate efficiency that made my stomach churn. Clean white background. Grid of empty video boxes waiting to populate. A chat window I'd probably never use.
I adjusted my webcam angle twice, checked my audio three times, then forced myself to sit still.
One by one, faces appeared.
Catherine first—her expression warm but professional. Then the technical liaisons, whose names I immediately forgot. Then a man in his late forties with sharp eyes and a suit that probably cost more than my rent.
The nameplate read: Byron Reyes.
He didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Ms. Thorne." His voice was clipped, efficient. "I'll be direct. This project isn't just about designing a shoe. The athlete we represent is in a critical comeback season. He's targeting playoffs, potentially Super Bowl. This shoe needs to let him perform perfectly on the field, and at the same time, it's part of his personal brand rebuilding strategy."
I kept my face neutral, but my hands were clenched under the desk.
"He's not looking for generic performance gear," Byron continued. "He needs something that tells a story. Resilience. Reinvention. Dominance reclaimed."
Another face appeared on the screen—a brand strategist whose title I didn't catch.
"Super Bowl halftime show will have a hundred million viewers," she said, leaning into her camera. "If he makes it that far, and he's wearing your design, that's your name on the biggest stage in professional sports."
I nodded slowly, trying to process the weight they were piling on.
Byron's eyes locked onto mine through the screen. "If you're selected for the final phase, you'll be required to work closely with the athlete. On-site. This includes attending training sessions, real-time fitting adjustments, and feedback loops."
My heart stopped for a second.
"You'll be embedded with the team," Byron clarified. "Full access to facilities, medical staff, performance data. You'll essentially become part of his inner circle for the duration of this project."
The brand strategist nodded. "It's an incredible opportunity. But it's also non-negotiable. If you're not prepared for that level of involvement, we need to know now."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Say something.
"I understand the requirements."
Byron's expression didn't shift. "Good. We'll send over the next phase requirements within twenty-four hours. Any questions?"
A thousand.
I shook my head. "No."
"Then we'll be in touch."
The call ended.
I sat frozen in my chair, staring at the empty grid of video boxes.
I pushed away from the desk, legs shaky as I stood.
This wasn't just a design project anymore.
---
That night, I stayed at the studio long after Reina left.
The space was too quiet. The hum of the heating system, the distant train horn, the occasional car passing outside. All of it felt too loud inside my head.
I sat at my workbench, surrounded by sketches and material samples. The prototype design was nearly finished. All the pieces were there. I just needed to commit.
If it's him, can I really do this?
The question sat heavy in my chest.
I exhaled slowly and pulled my laptop closer.
Stop spiraling. Just finish the work.
I opened the email draft I'd been avoiding.
Subject: Final Phase Commitment
Catherine,
I'm in. I will provide all required documentation and commit to the on-site collaboration phase.
When do we start?
– Sienna Thorne
My cursor hovered over "Send."
This was it. The point of no return.
I thought about what Marcus had said. Prove yourself on your own terms.
You didn't come this far to let fear win.
I clicked "Send."
The confirmation appeared instantly: Message sent.
I closed my laptop and rested my head in my hands.
There was no going back now.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.
An automated reply.
Confirmed. Next phase: On-site evaluation at Silver Pine Valley Training Facility. Schedule for tomorrow morning's evaluation is attached.
I opened the attachment. Standard NDA language. No disclosure of athlete identity. No photos. No recordings. No external discussions.
I signed it without reading the fine print.
By the time I left the studio, it was past midnight. The streets were empty, the city wrapped in that strange, suspended quiet that only exists in the dead of night.
I sat in my car for a long time, keys in my lap, staring at nothing.
Soon, I'd know the answer.
---
The moment my car exited the highway, the cell signal started cutting in and out.
The GPS instructed me to turn right onto a two-lane mountain road. The road sign read: Silver Pine Valley - Private Property Ahead
Outside the window stretched rolling mountains, their shadows elongated in the morning light.
I glanced at the odometer.
From downtown Aetheria to here—twelve miles.
It had taken me nearly an hour.
During rush hour, or in winter fog, it would only take longer.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
The exit sign appeared—Athletic Training District—and my stomach twisted. I took the off-ramp and followed the two-lane road, passing sparse trees and open fields. Gone was the bustle of downtown; only the occasional passing vehicle and distant training whistles broke the silence.
The training facility came into view ahead—a functional complex with gray-white exterior walls and clean, utilitarian design. Several training grounds were scattered around it, some indoor, some outdoor. The parking lot wasn't large, holding a few dozen cars, mostly belonging to staff.
I parked, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, staring at the building.
I took a deep breath, then got out of the car.
The assistant led me through corridor after corridor, each one colder than the last. My toolbox grew heavier with every step, the leather handle digging into my palm.
It might not be him.
The thought was a lie, and I knew it. But I clung to it anyway, like gripping the safety bar on a rollercoaster right before the drop.
We stopped in front of a set of double doors. Through the narrow window, I could see the edge of the training field, artificial turf gleaming under the overhead lights.
"Through here," the assistant said, pushing the door open.
The sound hit me first. The rhythmic thud of cleats on turf. The sharp whistle of a coach. And underneath it all, something I didn't need to hear to recognize—the particular cadence of someone moving through drills they'd done ten thousand times before.
I walked through the door and into the bright, open space of the facility. Equipment racks lined the walls. A few trainers stood near the sidelines, clipboards in hand. And in the center of the field, running through footwork drills with mechanical precision, was a figure I would have known from across a stadium.
Hayes Sterling.