Chapter 31
Sienna's POV
At 11 p.m., I was still awake.
The apartment was too quiet. Too clean. Too impersonal. I sat at the custom work station, trying to focus on sketches. On measurements. On anything that wasn't the fact that Hayes was sleeping twenty feet away through two walls and a hallway.
A muffled sound cut through the silence.
I froze, pencil hovering over paper.
It came again. A groan. Low and sharp. The sound of someone in pain trying to stay quiet.
I stared at the wall separating my apartment from his.
Not my problem. Not my business.
But I knew that sound. I knew exactly what it meant.
It was the sound Hayes made when his body betrayed him. When the pain got bad enough that even he couldn't hide it anymore.
I heard something hit the floor. Heavy. Probably an ice pack.
He's trying to deal with it alone. Like always.
I turned back to my sketches. Forced my hand to keep moving across the paper.
Another groan. Longer this time.
My pencil stopped.
Saving him isn't your job.
But my body was already moving. I stood, walked to my door, put my hand on the handle.
Then stopped.
This is a mistake. This is exactly how you let him back in.
From across the hall: a muffled curse. The scrape of something being knocked over.
I yanked the door open and pressed his doorbell.
Silence.
I pressed it again.
The door opened. Hayes stood there, one hand braced against the doorframe. His face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"I'm fine." His voice was tight.
I looked at his stance. Weight completely off the left leg. Right hand white-knuckled on the doorframe.
"You're lying to yourself."
His jaw clenched. "Sienna—"
I pushed past him into the apartment. Ice packs and athletic tape littered the floor near the couch. A bottle of ibuprofen sat open on the coffee table.
I picked up an ice pack. "Sit down."
"I don't need—"
"Sit down."
Something in my voice made him obey. He sank onto the couch with a barely suppressed wince.
I knelt in front of him, reaching for his left knee.
Hayes pulled back slightly. "What are you doing?"
I ignored him. My fingers found the swelling on the inside of his knee, pressing gently.
His entire body went rigid. A choked sound escaped his throat.
I looked up at him. "Keep training like this and you won't make it to the season opener."
I grabbed the ice pack and the athletic wrap, positioning the ice on the medial and lateral inflammation points—not the front of the knee where most people would put it. I wrapped it in place with the bandage, not too tight, not too loose. Muscle memory guided every movement.
I've done this a hundred times before. My hands remember even when I don't want them to.
When I finished, I stood. My voice came out flat. Professional. "Keep it on for twenty minutes. You can reapply in six hours. One painkiller max. Don't mix it with alcohol. Take tomorrow off—don't let training make it worse."
Hayes stared at me. His voice came out hoarse. "You do this for all your clients?"
I wiped my hands on my jeans, not meeting his eyes. "Clients don't ignore advice this badly."
A sound escaped him. Almost a laugh. Short. Bitter.
I walked to the door, my hand already on the handle.
"You care a lot for someone who insists this is just work."
I stopped. Didn't turn around.
"It's collaboration written in the contract," I said. Then I pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway.
I closed his door quietly behind me.
Back in my own apartment, I sank onto the couch. My hands were shaking.
I looked down at them—at the hands that had just wrapped Hayes's knee with the kind of practiced ease that only came from doing it over and over again.
I told myself I could keep this professional. That I could treat him like any other athlete. That six years was long enough to forget.
But my body had just betrayed me.
Every movement I'd made in his apartment was proof: I hadn't forgotten a single thing.
---
The next morning, I woke up to an unfamiliar stillness.
I checked my phone. 9:14 a.m.
I stared at the ceiling, my chest tightening with something I refused to name. Last night replayed in fragments—his sweat-slicked face, the way his body had gone rigid under my hands.
I told myself I could walk away. That wrapping his knee had been pure professionalism.
But my hands still remembered the exact pressure points. The angle of the wrap. The places his body had broken and healed wrong.
I threw off the covers and got dressed. The Catalyst project required continuous data collection—tracking Hayes's movement patterns, gait adjustments, performance feedback. That's what the contract stipulated.
This is work. Just work.
I grabbed my tablet and measurement tools, shoving them into my bag with more force than necessary.
I walked toward the players' entrance, rehearsing the bland greeting I'd prepared.
The assistant coach met me at the door.
"Hayes isn't training today," he said. His tone was matter-of-fact, almost apologetic. "He's taking tomorrow off too. Precautionary rest."
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. "Got it. Thanks."
I turned and walked back across the asphalt, my footsteps echoing too loud in the quiet.
He actually listened.
The thought landed somewhere uncomfortable. I'd expected him to ignore my advice, to push through the pain. But he seemed to have listened.
Because you told him to.
I shoved the thought away and headed to the apartment. I could use the time to refine the second phase of the design.
Work. I could always focus on work.
---
The elevator ride up felt longer than usual. I stepped into the hallway, the thick carpet muffling my steps. The building was silent except for the low hum of the HVAC system.
I walked toward my door, already fishing for my keys.
Then I saw it.
Hayes's door. Half-open. Not wide, just a gap of maybe four inches—enough to see a sliver of the interior but not enough to make out details.
I stopped.
He should be home. Resting.
But something about the open door felt wrong. He was meticulous about security. He wouldn't leave it like that unless—
A voice drifted out. Female. Light, relaxed, tinged with laughter.
I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Familiar. Intimate.