Chapter 25
Sienna's POV
He was mid-motion, driving off his right foot, pivoting left, his shoulders rotating through the throw. The movement was fluid, powerful, but there was something else—a split-second hesitation in the way his right ankle absorbed the impact. A fractional delay that no one else would notice unless they'd spent years watching him move.
Unless they'd been the one holding ice packs to that ankle in the early morning hours.
I forced myself to keep walking, every step deliberate. My hands were sweating. I shifted the toolbox to my other hand, buying myself another second before I had to stop moving and just stand there.
Don't look up. Don't turn around. Just give me one more second.
But when you don't want time, the universe doesn't give it to you.
Hayes finished the drill. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, and turned toward the sideline. Toward me.
Our eyes met.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The world narrowed to the ten feet of space between us, and I could see the exact second he registered who I was. His expression didn't change—he'd always been good at that—but his jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax.
I looked away first. I had to. If I kept looking, I'd either run or do something stupid like cry, and I wasn't giving him either.
I set my toolbox down on the turf with more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the sudden quiet. A few of the trainers glanced over, but I ignored them, crouching down to unzip the case and pull out my notebook.
Treat it like work. That's all this is.
Hayes walked toward me. I didn't look up, but I felt him approach—the shift in the air, the shadow falling across my hands. He stopped two feet away, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with sweat and turf.
"You still took the project."
His voice was flat. Not a question. A statement.
I straightened slowly, keeping my face neutral, and forced myself to meet his eyes.
"This is work," I said. Four words. Clean. Final.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I saw the muscle in his jaw flex, the only sign that my answer had landed. Then he nodded once, a sharp, controlled movement, and turned away.
Before either of us could say anything else, a man in a team polo approached, clipboard in hand. He introduced himself as the head trainer, his tone professional and efficient, and started outlining the testing protocol.
I half-listened, my mind still spinning. He knew I'd come. He knew, and he didn't try to stop it.
The trainer gestured toward the sideline. "We'll start with a full biomechanical assessment. Ms. Thorne, if you're ready?"
I nodded. "I'm ready."
---
I knelt on the turf, my toolbox open beside me. Inside: measuring tape, leather swatches, a sketchbook worn soft at the edges, calipers, a digital pressure sensor. Tools I'd used a hundred times before. Tools that had never felt this heavy.
"I need to measure your foot," I said, keeping my voice even. Professional.
Hayes stood in front of me, arms crossed. He didn't move.
"You measured it six years ago," he said.
My hand froze halfway to the tape measure. I looked up at him, and for a second, I saw past the armor—past the cold, controlled exterior—to the question underneath.
Do you remember?
I forced myself to look away. "That was six years ago," I said. "Bodies grow."
He didn't respond. But after a long pause, he uncrossed his arms and sat down on the bench beside me, unlacing his cleats with slow, deliberate movements.
I pulled out the tape measure, my hands steadier than I expected. Focus on the numbers. Just the numbers.
I started with the basics—length, width, arch height. My pen scratched against the notebook as I recorded each measurement.
Normal. Standard. Except nothing about this was standard.
My fingers brushed the side of his ankle as I adjusted the tape, and I felt him tense. It was just a second—a reflex—but it was enough to make my chest tighten.
Because I remembered this ankle.
I remembered the scar on the inside, a pale line just below the bone where he'd torn ligaments junior year. I remembered sitting with him in the trainer's room, holding his hand while they wrapped it. I remembered how he'd tried not to wince, how he'd joked that it didn't hurt even though I could see the pain in his eyes.
I moved the tape lower, checking the circumference, and my thumb grazed the scar.
Hayes's calf muscle went rigid.
I pulled my hand back immediately, marking the number in my notebook like nothing had happened. But my pulse was racing, and I could feel the weight of his gaze on the top of my head.
He knows. He knows you remember.
I swallowed hard and kept working.
Every number I wrote down was a fact. Objective. Provable. Safe.
But underneath the facts, there was something else. Something I couldn't write down.
I knew this foot better than any blueprint. I knew that his big toe was slightly longer than average, which meant standard lasts would pinch. I knew that his right foot pronated more than his left, a compensation pattern from that old injury. I knew that he wore through the outer edge of his soles first because he always pushed off harder on his right side.
I knew all of it. And I couldn't pretend I didn't.
"Stand up," I said quietly. "I need to see your gait."
Hayes stood without a word and walked across the turf. Ten steps forward. Turn. Ten steps back.
I watched him move, my pen hovering over the page.
Right foot strikes first—outer edge, slight roll inward. Left foot follows, landing flat and even. Shoulders level, hips aligned, but there's a hitch. A microsecond where his right knee shifts inward to compensate for the ankle that isn't holding.
It's subtle. So subtle that most people wouldn't see it.
But I did.