Chapter 37
Sienna's POV
The screen filled with footage from the morning session.
Me, kneeling in front of Hayes, adjusting his laces. The camera had captured it from a low angle—close enough that you could see the concentration on my face, the precise movements of my hands, the way Hayes's gaze had been fixed downward, watching me work.
It should have looked clinical.
It didn't.
Byron paused the video. "This."
One of the brand reps—a woman in her thirties with sleek black hair and an aggressively professional smile—leaned forward. "We think this has huge potential."
I stared at the frozen image. "Potential for what?"
"Storytelling." She gestured at the screen. "Independent artisan designer collaborating with elite athlete. The craftsmanship angle. The attention to detail. The..." She paused, searching for the word. "...intimacy of the process."
My blood went cold.
"Intimacy," I repeated flatly.
"Not in a romantic sense," she clarified quickly. "But there's a level of trust and precision in that footage that's really compelling. It's authentic. People respond to that."
Byron jumped in. "We're thinking of building a behind-the-scenes content series around your collaboration. Short segments showing the design process, the iteration cycles, Hayes testing the prototypes. Really lean into the human side of performance engineering."
The DP nodded. "The interaction between you two has a natural rhythm. It doesn't feel forced or staged. That's rare."
I kept my voice carefully controlled. "I'm here as a technical consultant. Not a content subject."
The brand rep's smile didn't falter. "We understand. But the reality is, this project has more impact if we can show the people behind the product. That's what audiences connect with."
Byron added, "We'd want to feature you pretty prominently in the campaign rollout. Social media teasers, maybe some interview segments, possibly a short documentary-style piece for the official launch. All very tasteful, very brand-aligned."
I felt the walls closing in.
"Hayes is the athlete," I said slowly. "I'm just the person making his shoes."
"You're the person making his shoes better than anyone else could," the brand rep countered. "That's the story."
I looked at Hayes.
He'd been silent this entire time, his expression unreadable, his focus seemingly on the frozen image on the screen.
Byron turned to him. "Hayes, what do you think? This would tie into your personal brand narrative—the comeback season, the attention to detail, the partnership aspect. It's good for everyone."
Hayes didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the screen for another long moment.
Then he said, his voice quiet and definitive: "Pull it."
The room went still.
Byron blinked. "Sorry?"
Hayes looked directly at him. "Pull the footage. Anything with Sienna in the frame, scrap it."
The brand rep's smile faltered. "Hayes, I don't think you understand the value—"
"I understand perfectly." His tone didn't rise, but the authority in it was absolute. "You want to use footage of her working. Fine. Use the shots of her at her station, reviewing data, handling equipment. But the close interaction footage? The stuff with both of us in frame? That doesn't go out."
Byron hesitated. "But that's some of our best material. The chemistry—"
"There is no chemistry," Hayes said flatly. "There's a professional working relationship. And if you try to package it as anything else, you're going to create a narrative that neither of us signed up for."
The DP frowned. "We're not trying to imply—"
"Yes, you are." Hayes's gaze was ice. "I know how this works. You take a few frames of someone crouched at someone else's feet, add some slow-motion, throw in a piano track, and suddenly it's not about cleats anymore. It's about a story you invented." He leaned back in his chair. "Not interested."
The room was silent.
Byron exchanged a glance with the brand rep, who looked like she was rapidly recalculating her approach.
"Hayes," she started carefully, "this could really elevate the campaign—"
"The campaign is about performance footwear," Hayes interrupted. "Not personal relationships. If you want to feature Sienna's work, feature her work. Show the prototypes. Show the testing data. Show her explaining the engineering. But leave the two of us out of the same frame."
He stood.
"We clear?"
Byron nodded slowly. "Yeah. We're clear."
"Good." Hayes glanced at me once—briefly, unreadably—and then walked out.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The brand rep exhaled and turned to Byron. "Okay. So. New direction."
I should have felt relieved.
I should have felt grateful.
Instead, all I felt was the suffocating weight of knowing that Hayes had just burned political capital with his own sponsors to protect me from something I couldn't even articulate.
And I had no idea why.
---
I sat in the conference room for another ten minutes while Byron and the brand team recalibrated their content strategy, my presence no longer required but my exit not yet acknowledged.
When they finally dismissed me with distracted nods, I grabbed my gear and headed for the facility's side exit, moving fast, keeping my head down.
I made it outside the training facility before I had to stop.
My hands were shaking again.
I leaned against the concrete wall of the building, sucking in air, trying to steady myself.
What the hell just happened?
I didn't know what he was protecting.
Me?
Or that fragile, breakable thing between us that passed for a "working relationship"?
Because once that footage went out, once the media started spinning stories, we wouldn't even be able to maintain the excuse of "just work."
We'd be forced to face everyone's questions.
You two have known each other a long time, haven't you?
What was your relationship before?
Why did you break up?
Is there a chance now?
And those questions would back us into a corner.
I closed my eyes, fingers pressed against the cold concrete, trying to get my heartbeat under control.
Footsteps made me look up.
Hayes.
He'd changed out of his training gear into a hoodie and joggers, a gym bag slung over one shoulder. He stopped a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral.
"You good?"
I straightened, forcing my hands to still. "Fine."
He didn't move. Just watched me with that steady, unreadable gaze.
"You didn't have to do that," I said quietly.
He took a step forward, his eyes meeting mine directly. "I was protecting the last bit of connection we have left."
The words cut through something with surgical precision.
"What do you mean?" I barely managed to get the words out.
"I mean," his voice was quiet, but each word drove into me like a nail, "once that footage goes out, we won't even have the space to 'pretend we're strangers' anymore."
My breath caught.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
Hayes took a step back, re-establishing the distance. His expression returned to that controlled, composed mask.
"So that footage had to be pulled," he said calmly, as if he hadn't just said what he'd said. "Not because I'm protecting you, and not because I have any illusions left."
"Just because," his voice got quieter, almost inaudible, "I don't want to lose even this distance we have now."
Then he turned and walked toward his car.
"Hayes—" I finally found my voice.
He stopped, but didn't turn around.
"Get some rest tonight." His voice had returned to that businesslike tone. "Training continues tomorrow."
Then he disappeared around the corner.
And I finally admitted the truth I'd been avoiding all week—
I didn't want to lose this distance either.