Chapter 30
Sienna's POV
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls pressed in from both sides, forcing me to look at him.
"Moved in?" His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he'd been expecting this.
My throat felt lined with sandpaper. "Project housing."
"Right." He leaned against his doorframe, crossing his arms. The motion made his bicep flex under the sleeve. "Convenient."
Convenient. The word hit like a slap. As if I'd somehow orchestrated this. As if I wanted to be trapped door-to-door with the one person I'd spent six years trying not to think about.
I forced my feet to move toward the elevator. "I'm getting lunch."
My footsteps sounded too loud on the polished floor. I could feel his eyes on my back, tracking every step. The elevator button glowed under my finger. I pressed it three times.
Come on. Come on.
The doors slid open. I stepped inside and turned, intending to press the button for the ground floor.
Hayes was right behind me.
I jerked back, my shoulders hitting the mirrored wall. He entered without a word, positioning himself in the opposite corner. The doors closed. The elevator started its descent.
Twelve floors. Twelve floors of this suffocating box.
I stared at the floor numbers lighting up above the door. 12... 11... 10...
But my eyes betrayed me. They flicked to the mirrored wall, to Hayes's reflection standing across from me. His stance had a subtle asymmetry—weight shifted slightly to his right side, right shoulder dipping half an inch lower than the left.
The words were out before I could stop them.
"You're compensating on your right leg. You need to adjust your stance."
The elevator went silent except for the mechanical hum of cables.
Hayes's head turned slowly. His eyes found mine in the mirror. "You're managing how I stand now?"
His voice was calm. I couldn't detect the emotion underneath.
I looked away. "Professional habit. A designer has to remember the user's gait patterns."
"Professional habit." He repeated the words like he was testing them for cracks. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh. "Right."
The elevator dinged. Ground floor.
I bolted out the second the doors opened, my bag hitting my hip with each step.
Hayes's voice followed me into the lobby. Low. Deliberate.
"Then you'd better manage it properly."
I stopped. Just for a second. Long enough for his words to sink in, for the double meaning to twist under my ribs.
But I didn't turn around. I pushed through the glass doors into the blinding afternoon sun and kept walking.
---
Two o'clock in the afternoon. I arrived at the training facility.
The place smelled like sweat, rubber, and something sharp I couldn't name. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe desperation.
I sat in the observation area. Below me, Hayes ran drills with the precision of someone who'd done this ten thousand times. Plant. Pivot. Throw. His body moved like a machine, all controlled power and ruthless efficiency.
But I saw the hitch. The tiny delay in his right ankle when his foot hit the turf. The way his knee overcompensated to protect the joint underneath.
He's hurting himself worse by hiding it.
Around me, the coaching staff and medical team reviewed data on multiple screens. The head coach—a grizzled man in his fifties with a Saints championship ring—stood at the center, arms crossed. Next to him, a young data analyst in a polo shirt clicked through slow-motion footage.
Hayes came to the observation area during a break, watching them analyze his real-time biomechanical data.
"Landing cushion is 1.2 seconds. Within standard range." The analyst tapped his stylus against the tablet. "Knee joint angle is 137 degrees. Safe. Step frequency is 180 steps per minute. Normal."
I stared at the screen. At Hayes's right foot making contact with the turf. At the way his ankle rolled inward with a delay.
My hand moved before my brain caught up. I stood, walked to the screen, and paused the video.
"Here." I pointed at the frozen image. "The inward roll is delayed after the foot strikes. That's not normal."
The room went quiet.
The analyst frowned at me, then at his tablet. "The data shows everything's within parameters."
"Data shows results." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "It doesn't show pain."
The analyst's face went tight. He pulled up another screen, scrolling through numbers with jerky movements. The others exchanged glances.
I stood there, acutely aware that I'd just contradicted a professional in front of their star quarterback.
Hayes studied the frozen image of his own body. His jaw worked for a moment, then he turned to the head coach.
"Add ankle stability drills to the training plan." His tone left no room for argument. "Increase the right-side loading gradually. And adjust the recovery protocol."
The analyst's face went red. "Sterling, I—"
"Do it." Hayes didn't look at him. He was still looking at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "She's right."
Murmurs rippled through the room. The others shifted uncomfortably. The analyst's mouth opened, then closed.
"Whatever you say, Sterling." The words came out clipped. Professional. But his eyes when they landed on me were anything but.
I'd just become a problem.
Hayes turned and walked out without another word.
---
I waited until training ended, until the coaches and others filed out. Then I cornered him in the hallway outside the locker rooms.
He was leaning against the wall, still in his training gear. Sweat had dried in streaks down his neck. When he saw me approaching, one eyebrow lifted.
"You shouldn't have said that." I kept my voice low, controlled. "Not in front of everyone."
"Said what? That you're right?"
"You made me a target." My hands curled into fists at my sides. "I don't need you taking my side. I need your coaching staff to execute the plan normally, not turn me into the enemy because you backed me up with one sentence."
His expression went cold. "So you wanted me to ignore your professional judgment? Let me keep training wrong until my ankle actually fractures, then you can say I told you so?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. The hallway light carved shadows across his face. "What are you really afraid of, Sienna? That people will say you're using me? Or that you'll have to admit you never actually forgot me?"
My breath caught.
Hayes's voice dropped lower. Each word felt deliberate. Precise. "I didn't take your side. I trusted you."
The words hit like a knife between my ribs.
Trusted. Past tense. Present tense. I couldn't tell anymore.
"You shouldn't trust me." My voice came out raw. "Six years ago, you shouldn't have trusted me either."
His eyes flashed. Cold and sharp as breaking ice. "That was my choice."
We stood there in the empty hallway, the ghosts of six years pressing down on us.
Then Hayes turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing long after he disappeared around the corner.