Chapter 9
Sienna's POV
I drove home.
When I unlocked the apartment door, my hands were still shaking. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room trying to remember how to breathe.
His feet.
God. His feet.
I knew what football did to bodies. I'd watched enough of his games over the years—not that I'd ever admit it. Seen the hits, the injuries, the way he'd limp off the field and come back the next week like nothing happened.
But knowing and seeing were different things.
My phone buzzed. Reina.
Boss—payment just came through. $20,000. We can actually pay rent!
$20,000. Sixty hours of work. Good money, objectively.
Not even a rounding error for him.
Another buzz. Marcus.
"Sienna, I hope I didn't overstep today. I genuinely didn't know about your history with Hayes. I never would have knowingly put you in that position."
I froze for a moment, then said softly, "Professor, you don't need to apologize. It's not your fault."
The professor sighed. "But I could tell today wasn't easy for you. That boy Hayes... he still cares about you."
"Let's let the past stay in the past." My tone was calm, but my fingers unconsciously gripped my collar. "We're strangers now."
"All right, I respect your choice." Marcus paused. "But Sienna, I'm calling today for another reason besides the apology. I have a client who wants you to design a batch of custom cleats. He's in sports management, represents quite a few NFL players. I've worked with him before on athlete branding projects. Would you be open to potentially connecting?"
Bobby Owens. The name was familiar. I opened Google on my laptop and searched quickly.
Sports agent. Impressive roster. Legitimate.
"Professor... is this connected to Hayes?"
Marcus hesitated. "Bobby does move in those circles, yes. But this would be a direct business relationship between you and his agency. It has nothing to do with Hayes."
My gut twisted with suspicion. But I forced myself to be pragmatic. This was exactly what K&C needed. And if Bobby Owens was reaching out as Marcus's referral rather than Hayes's...
"I appreciate you thinking of me," I said carefully. "If Mr. Owens wants to reach out, I'm open to discussing potential collaboration."
"Wonderful. I'll pass along your information. Thank you, Sienna."
The call ended. I sat there staring at my phone.
This could be legitimate. Marcus had helped me before—referred clients, opened doors. He had no reason to lie.
But the timing felt too convenient. Too perfectly aligned with Hayes's offer that I'd rejected.
My phone buzzed. Email notification.
Ms. Thorne, Marcus Bellamy passed along your contact information. I represent several NFL players interested in custom cleat designs for the upcoming playoff season. Would you be available to discuss a potential project? Timeline is aggressive—5 pairs needed within two weeks. Budget negotiable. Best regards, Bobby Owens
Two weeks. Five pairs.
Tight timeline.
Also exactly what K&C needed to survive.
I read the email three times, looking for hidden meanings. Found nothing but straightforward business language.
You're being paranoid, I told myself. Not everything is about Hayes.
I typed: Mr. Owens, thank you for reaching out. That timeline is very tight, but I'm interested in discussing specifics. When would be convenient to meet?
His response came within minutes: Tomorrow, 10 AM? I'm flexible to your schedule.
Professional. Courteous.
10 AM works. I'll send my number and meeting location.
Perfect. Looking forward to working with you, Ms. Thorne.
I closed my laptop and sat in the dark kitchen, trying to feel victorious.
This was good news. A potential lifeline. Five pairs at $8,000+ each meant $40,000—enough to pay the team's salaries, maybe even hire additional help.
---
I arrived at the coffee shop fifteen minutes early, clutching the portfolio against my chest like a shield. The morning air carried the scent of roasted beans mixed with car exhaust.
My right wrist throbbed with each heartbeat, a reminder of last night's marathon sketching session. Three concept designs, each one a bet on what this mysterious client actually wanted.
The sketches were good. Maybe the best work I'd done in months, born from that strange mix of desperation and defiance—the kind of burst you only get when your back's against the wall. But showing them felt like opening a vein—here's my talent, my vision, my worth. Please don't tell me it's not enough.
I pushed through the door. The barista looked up, flashed a professional smile. I ordered a black coffee I knew I wouldn't finish.
I chose a corner booth with a view of the entrance. Set the portfolio on the table.
The coffee arrived.
I pulled out my phone. 9:52. Eight minutes.
My fingers hovered over the portfolio zipper. Should I take the sketches out now, lay them on the table to look prepared and proactive? Or keep them hidden until asked, maintain some leverage? Every choice felt like a test I didn't know how to pass.
The bell chimed.
When I looked up, I knew immediately it was him. Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of easy authority that came from a lifetime of rooms rearranging themselves around his presence. His undercut was sharp, the dark suit jacket fitted just right. He carried a folder in one hand, his eyes sweeping the room with the efficiency of someone used to quick assessments.
Those eyes found me. He crossed the distance in four strides, hand already extended.
"Bobby Owens," he said. "Owens Sports Management. Call me Bobby."
His handshake was firm but not aggressive.
"Sienna Thorne." I didn't add anything else. Let him fill the silence.
He slid into the seat across from me. The folder went on the table between us.
"Appreciate you making time on short notice," he said, and there was something in his tone that made it clear this wasn't really gratitude. More like confirmation that I'd shown up as expected.
"I take this collaboration seriously." I kept my voice steady, professional.
He nodded once, sharp and businesslike. "Time's valuable. Let's get to it."
No small talk. No warmup. Straight to the transaction. Part of me appreciated the efficiency.
I pulled out the three sketches and laid them in a fan across the table, each representing a different bet on what he wanted. Version one—bold, street-forward, the kind of thing that would make a statement. Version two—minimal, functional, professional. Version three—the compromise, the safety net.
Bobby's eyes tracked across all three, but he didn't reach for any of them. Didn't lean in for a closer look. Just that same sweeping assessment, reading details I couldn't decipher.
The silence stretched. I forced myself not to fill it, not to launch into explanations or justifications. Let him react first.