Chapter 33
Hayes's POV
Two days after the rest, I arrived at the training facility at my usual time—8:00 AM.
When I walked in, the equipment monitoring station was already lit up. Judging by the state of her workspace, Sienna had arrived at least half an hour early: her laptop was open, a stack of documents neatly arranged at the corner of the desk.
She wore what I'd come to recognize as her most formal work uniform—a black turtleneck, charcoal gray cargo pants, her hair pulled into a tight low ponytail without a single flyaway strand. The wrist brace on her right hand was wrapped tightly; I knew it was from her chronic occupational injury from long-term manual labor.
Everything about her screamed control. Order. Distance.
I'd seen this version of her before—the one who showed up when she needed armor.
The door's pneumatic hiss announced my entrance. Her fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second—so brief I almost missed it—before resuming their mechanical rhythm. Her eyes never left the screen.
That was new.
Usually she'd look. A quick glance to check my gait, assess my condition, scan for visible problems. It was instinct for her, the way a mechanic's eyes automatically go to an engine's odd noise.
Today, nothing.
I crossed the polished concrete floor, my footsteps echoing in the early morning quiet. As I approached her station, she reached for something without looking up—a sealed plastic bag containing the new midsole inserts, with a printed data card clipped to the outside.
She slid it across the desk like a cashier processing a transaction.
"New midsole prototype." Her voice had that customer service cadence—pleasant, efficient, completely devoid of personality. "Right heel cushioning increased by two millimeters, forefoot support angle adjusted by three degrees. Test them during your session and report any changes in ankle joint pressure."
I stood in front of her desk, staring at the bag. Then at her.
She was scrolling through a spreadsheet now, her expression blank with professional focus.
"You got here early," I said.
Her mouse hand stilled briefly. "Tight project timeline. Need to collect more data."
"I meant—"
"You can start your warm-up now." She cut me off, finally lifting her gaze to meet mine. But there was nothing in those eyes except clinical assessment. "I'll monitor in real-time."
It felt like being handed a product manual instead of something she'd spent hours designing specifically for my body.
I picked up the bag, the plastic crinkling in my grip. The inserts inside looked perfect, as always—her craftsmanship was flawless. But something was missing.
The last pair she'd made, I'd noticed a tiny intentional imperfection in the tongue lining. A 0.5-millimeter raised seam that hit exactly where I'd tap my foot before every snap, a pre-game ritual I'd had since high school. She'd left it there on purpose, knowing I'd feel its absence if she corrected it.
This pair didn't have it. The tongue was perfectly smooth, professionally optimized.
She'd removed me from the design.
---
The new cleats performed exactly as advertised during the morning drill.
Explosive power on the snap. Precision cushioning on impact. Lateral stability that let me cut without hesitation.
Technically flawless.
But as I ran through the play sequences, something gnawed at me. The cleats were perfect for any elite quarterback. They accounted for standard biomechanics, optimized weight distribution, corrected for common injury compensation patterns.
What they didn't account for was my compensation patterns.
The slight outward angle my right foot took on the jump. The way my center of gravity shifted forward-right on landing because of the old ankle injury. Those weren't textbook mechanics—they were adaptive strategies my body had developed to protect itself.
She used to design around those quirks. Used to say they were part of my "signature efficiency."
Now she was designing to fix them.
During a water break, I looked down at the cleats and realized what bothered me: she'd stopped trying to understand me. She was trying to correct me instead.
And the worst part? She was right. Biomechanically, orthopedically, her corrections were superior.
But I hated it.
I wanted the imperfect version that was mine.
---
Sienna's POV
The next few days passed in a carefully maintained freeze.
Day one: He deliberately sat down on the bench next to me during a break, pretending to adjust his knee brace. I glanced at him once, then stood up and walked to the equipment rack on the opposite side of the facility. "Need to check the pressure sensors," I said to no one in particular.
Day two: I ran into him in the hallway outside our apartments. He slowed, clearly preparing to say something. "Dinner later?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
"I have reports to finish. Thanks." I slipped my key into the lock, stepped inside, and closed the door before he could respond. Through the peephole, I watched him stand there for a long moment before walking away.
Day three: I started avoiding even incidental physical contact. When measuring foot dimensions, I wore disposable nitrile gloves. When handing him tools or adjustments, I placed them on the desk instead of passing them directly. When his laces needed re-threading, I had an assistant do it instead of handling it myself.
I told myself it was professionalism.
It felt like cowardice.
But every time I got too close, my body betrayed me.
Distance was safer.
Distance was survival.
---
On the fourth day, that woman appeared at the training center again.
I was packing up my equipment after the afternoon session when I heard one of the staff greet her at the entrance. "Ms. Sterling, good afternoon! Your brother's in great shape today."
Ms. Sterling.
My hands froze on the zipper of my gear bag.
Your brother.
The words sank in slowly, like cold water seeping through a crack.
She wasn't Hayes's new girlfriend. She was his sister.
The relief came first—swift and unbidden.
Then the shame. Because relief meant I'd cared. And caring meant I hadn't moved on at all.
And that terrified me more than anything.
What the hell is wrong with me? We're just working together. Just a contract. Why did it matter so much who she was?
I shoved my tablet into the bag with too much force, the corner catching on the fabric. A charging cable popped loose and clattered to the floor.
I bent to grab it, fumbling with the zipper, desperate to leave before she noticed me.
Too late.
"You dropped this."