Chapter 62
Sienna's POV
I forced my attention back to the tablet, trying to actually record observations about his mechanics. But my eyes kept drifting back to him, watching the way he moved through each drill with focused intensity.
During the third set of passing drills, Hayes completed a long throw and removed his helmet. Sweat ran down his face, short hair plastered damp against his forehead. He used the back of his hand to wipe his face, then his gaze swept across the field.
And landed directly on me.
My heart stuttered. I nearly dropped my eyes to the tablet on instinct, pretending I'd been studying data the whole time. But I was too slow—he'd already caught me staring.
Just like in high school.
Back then Hayes always looked toward the sidelines after finishing a drill set, checking that I was still there, checking that I was watching. And I'd always pretend to look down at my book the instant he looked over, ears burning red.
Six years had passed. We'd separated, misunderstood each other, been in conflict, hurt each other.
But some habits were carved into muscle memory. Couldn't be changed.
I finally managed to tear my gaze away, staring determinedly at the tablet screen. But I could still feel his attention on me for several more seconds before he turned back to the field.
I took a shaky breath, trying to refocus. Looked down at the tablet and realized with a jolt of panic that I'd barely recorded anything. The few notes I had were scattered, incomplete.
Because I hadn't been analyzing his mechanics or studying his footwork.
I'd just been watching him. The way I had six years ago, completely unable to look away.
---
Training continued until noon, the sun climbing higher. I'd managed to pull myself together enough to actually record some useful data, though not nearly as much as I should have.
When the final scrimmage set ended, Hayes stripped off his pads. He grabbed a sports drink from the sideline, took a long swallow. Then, instead of heading to the locker room with the rest of the team, he walked directly toward me.
I watched him approach and instinctively straightened in my seat, trying to project professional detachment even though my pulse was hammering.
Hayes stopped in front of me, looking down. His pupils contracted slightly against the sunlight.
"Any issues?" he asked quietly.
I forced myself to stay calm, glancing down at the tablet as if I'd been meticulously recording data all morning. "When you cut right, you're still loading the knee."
Hayes raised an eyebrow, waiting.
I continued, keeping my tone as professional as possible. "Third scrimmage set. When you broke right, your right knee's internal rotation angle was greater than last week. The heel cushioning needs to be reduced, pressure distributed more toward the midfoot."
I spoke quickly, as if using technical terminology could build a defensive barrier between us. As if I could hide behind professional observations instead of admitting I'd been watching him with the same intensity I had six years ago.
But Hayes just stared at me for a long moment. Then, voice low and carrying something I couldn't quite identify: "You were watching me the whole time?"
My entire body went rigid. I dropped my gaze to the tablet, fingers gripping it too tightly. "...I was watching the shoes."
Even I didn't believe that answer.
The silence stretched out for several heartbeats. Then Hayes made a sound—a low laugh in his chest that I felt more than heard.
This was the first time I'd heard him laugh like this since coming back into his life. Not sarcasm, not coldness. Just a light, almost pleased sound that made my stomach flip.
He didn't call me out on the obvious lie. Just reached over and took the tablet from my lap, his fingers brushing mine for a brief second that sent electricity up my arm. He swiped through a few screens with practiced ease, then handed it back.
"Call me if there are problems." His voice still held traces of amusement.
Then he turned and headed toward the locker rooms, leaving me sitting there with my heart racing.
I stared at his retreating back, chest heaving with a mix of embarrassment and something more dangerous.
---
The drive back to the estate was quieter than the morning trip, but the quality of the silence had shifted again.
I could feel him glancing at me occasionally from the corner of my eye, but I kept my gaze fixed on the tablet screen.
I tried to focus on anything other than the man sitting eighteen inches away from me.
Finally, I broke the silence. My voice came out softer than I'd intended. "Your landing mechanics changed today."
Hayes didn't respond immediately. I saw his hands shift slightly on the wheel, heard him take a breath.
After a few seconds, he said quietly, "Yeah. Getting back to how it used to feel."
My fingers paused on the tablet screen.
"How it used to feel."
Those words carried too many layers of meaning. Did he mean his training state was returning to peak form? Or did he mean something else?
I didn't dare ask. Just kept my eyes on the tablet, pretending the data in front of me required intense concentration.
But I could feel the air in the car shift, becoming charged with something unspoken.
Hayes's voice came again, this time with a hint of low amusement. "How much data did you actually record today?"
My back went rigid. My fingers tightened on the tablet, ears heating again. "...Enough to make adjustment recommendations."
Hayes laughed quietly—that same low sound from earlier. He didn't push further, but the laugh carried a clear undertone of I know exactly what you were doing.
I wanted to sink into the seat. Wanted to defend myself, explain that I had been working, that I'd recorded plenty of useful observations.
But we both knew I'd be lying.
The rest of the drive passed in that same charged quiet. When Hayes finally pulled into the garage, I practically bolted from the car, mumbling something about needing to organize my notes. I heard him call my name but pretended not to, escaping up the stairs to the safety of the bedroom he'd prepared for me.
Once inside with the door closed, I leaned back against it and took a deep breath.
I suddenly realized I couldn't escape anymore.
Not because he'd trapped me in this house. Not because of project obligations.
But because—my body, my instincts, every reaction I had was betraying the distance and composure I was trying so hard to maintain.