Chapter 61
Sienna's POV
By eight-thirty we were in his car heading toward the training facility. October had settled into Aetheria with a crispness that made the morning air feel clean and sharp. Through the window, I watched the landscape transform as we left Silver Pine Valley—the trees lining the roads had begun their slow turn, leaves shifting from deep green to burnished gold and rust-red. Some had already fallen, scattering across the pavement in drifts that crunched under the tires.
The drive took only twenty minutes, but those twenty minutes held a different quality of silence than before. Not the suffocating, confrontational quiet we'd been trapped in. Instead, something closer to familiarity—like two people who'd worked together long enough that they didn't need conversation to fill empty space.
I kept my gaze on the passing landscape outside the window, watching the woods give way to the training complex. Hayes's hands moved smoothly between the wheel and gear shift, his movements automatic and confident.
As the car turned into the facility's private road, I finally spoke. "Should I go straight to the observation room?"
"Yeah." Hayes's response was brief. "I'll have the equipment team send the latest feedback data to your terminal."
I nodded, then added, "If there are details I need to confirm in person, I'll come to the field."
Hayes didn't reply, just pulled into his parking spot. He came around to open my door, a gesture so automatic it clearly wasn't something he'd thought about. I climbed out, adjusting my canvas bag on my shoulder, and we walked toward the entrance together.
Byron appeared in the hallway almost immediately, his expression shifting to surprise when he saw me.
"Sienna! How's the hand?"
I managed a polite smile. "Much better. Thanks for asking."
Byron grinned. "Hayes said you'd be out at least a week."
"I'm just here to review data. Won't be doing any hands-on work." I kept my voice steady, professional.
Byron shot Hayes a skeptical look. Hayes returned an expressionless stare that clearly said none of your business. He wisely shut up.
We continued walking. Hayes's teammate Jamal appeared, as if just emerging from the locker room, his face lighting up when he saw me.
"Sienna! Finally! Hayes has been completely useless in training these past two days. During yesterday's meeting he stared at your empty seat for ten straight minutes."
My steps faltered. I felt Hayes go still beside me.
His gaze cut toward Jamal, ice-cold and nearly tangible. "Jamal."
Jamal immediately backed off, hands raised. "Right, right, I said nothing. I'm going to training." He scurried away down the corridor.
I didn't look at Hayes. Couldn't. Instead I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, acutely aware of the weight of what Jamal had just revealed.
As we continued walking, more people greeted me. Staff members, trainers, even a couple of assistant coaches nodded or smiled as they passed. Each interaction felt warm, genuine—not the polite courtesy you'd give an external consultant, but something more personal.
I was starting to realize—these people had begun to accept me as part of Hayes's world.
Not as "the external design consultant on the Phoenix project." As something more difficult to define. Their concern wasn't professional. It was real.
This subtle shift in how I was being treated made my heart rate accelerate. I glanced at Hayes walking ahead of me. He didn't look back, but I knew he'd heard every word of those conversations.
And he hadn't corrected anyone. Hadn't clarified. Hadn't done anything to push back against this assumption that I belonged here.
We reached a junction in the hallway. Hayes stopped, turning to face me.
"The observation area is on the east side of the outdoor field," he said quietly. "You'll have a clear view."
I nodded, trying to ignore how close we were standing.
"Hayes." The word came out before I could stop it.
He waited, eyes steady on mine.
"Why didn't you... correct them?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
I knew exactly what I was asking. I also knew I probably shouldn't be asking it at all.
Hayes held my gaze for a long moment. Then, voice low enough that no one else could hear: "Because I didn't want to."
My breath caught.
"You're here because I need you here," he continued, each word deliberate. "Let them think whatever they want. It doesn't change the facts."
He didn't wait for my response before heading toward the locker room, leaving me standing alone in the corridor with my heart hammering against my ribs.
---
I told myself I was choosing the outdoor observation area because it provided better perspective than the enclosed viewing room. But I knew the truth—I wanted to watch him train.
I arrived at the east side of the field: a row of fixed seats under an awning, usually occupied by coaching staff and data analysts. I took the furthest seat, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. Data tablet balanced on my knees, left hand holding the stylus, right hand resting carefully on my leg.
The sunlight was good but not harsh. The artificial turf gleamed bright green, air carrying faint scents of rubber and sweat. Everything about this felt familiar in a way that made my throat tight.
I suddenly remembered sitting exactly like this on the sidelines at Oakridge Prep's practice field. Back then I'd pretend to do homework while my eyes tracked the number 4 jersey moving across the grass, watching Hayes run the same drills over and over with stubborn determination.
Now six years later, I was sitting in the same position again, as if no time had passed at all.
The whistle blew and training officially began. Hayes stood at the center of the offense, wearing a navy helmet, shoulder pads making his frame even broader. He stood a few yards behind the center, breathing steady and focused.
"Hut! Hut!"
The moment the call finished, the center snapped the ball into Hayes's hands. He took three steps back, pivoted, scanned the field for receivers. I watched his eyes track movement, saw the split-second calculation happen before he made his decision—right arm pulled back, core engaged, wrist snapping forward with precision.
The football traced a perfect arc through the air, landing exactly in the receiver's arms forty yards downfield.
The movement was fluid to the point of being sharp, every motion economical and controlled.
I stared at him, my breath unconsciously lighter. Watched his right foot land first. Watched him shake out his right wrist after the throw. These had always been his habits, never changed.
I knew him too well.
Knew him well enough that even at forty yards' distance, even with his helmet on, I could read his physical state from body language alone. Could see the slight favor he was giving his left knee, the way his shoulder rotation had adjusted to compensate for old injuries.
These were details no data analysis could ever capture.