I’m just... punctual. That’s all.
The hallways are quiet this early—just the hum of the HVAC and the distant sound of someone in the equipment room. I drop my bag in my office, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and head toward the training room to set up.
That’s when I hear his voice.
Low, tense, coming from around the corner near the vending machines. I slow down without meaning to.
“She’s not a prop for your Instagram, Sienna.” Zayden’s voice is barely controlled, like he’s fighting to keep it level. “You can’t just show up when it’s convenient—”
Silence. He’s listening to whatever she’s saying on the other end.
I should keep walking. This is private. None of my business.
Too bad my feet won’t move.
“Fine.” The word comes out flat. Resigned. “Sunday. Two hours. Supervised. I’ll be there the whole time.”
More silence. Then he laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“Yeah, Sienna. I know you’re her mother. You remind me every time you want something.” A pause. “I’ll text you the details.”
The silence stretches, and I realize the conversation is over. I’m about to get caught eavesdropping like some kind of creep. I start walking again, rounding the corner at what I hope looks like a natural pace.
Zayden’s leaning against the wall next to the vending machine, phone still in his hand, head tipped back, eyes closed. He looks... wrecked. There’s no other word for it. The mask he usually wears—the stoic, untouchable thing—is gone, and what’s underneath is raw.
Then he opens his eyes and sees me.
For a second, neither of us moves. I watch him pull himself together in real time, watch the walls go back up brick by brick. It’s impressive, honestly. And also a little heartbreaking.
“Everything okay?” I keep my voice neutral. Casual. Like I didn’t just hear his entire conversation.
“Maisie’s mom.” He pushes off the wall, shoving his phone in his pocket. “She wants a visit.”
I nod. Don’t push.
“She does this,” he says, and I can tell he didn’t mean to keep talking but can’t seem to stop. “Shows up every few months, plays mom for an afternoon, takes some photos for her followers. And Maze gets her hopes up every single time, and then Sienna leaves, and I’m the one picking up the pieces.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, truly unsure what I can say that would help.
“I’m just not sure what else I can do.”
“You just be there to support your daughter.” I hold his gaze. “That’s what you do.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not. But you’re good at it.”
His guard dropped for half a second—surprise flickering through those dark eyes, maybe gratitude—and I felt the pull between us. Dangerous. Undeniable. It would be so easy to close the distance. To reach out and touch his arm, his face, to offer comfort that has nothing to do with being his PT.
I don’t.
“I’ll see you at eight,” I say instead, and continue down the hallway before I do something I can’t take back.
• • •
I spend the next twenty minutes setting up equipment I don’t need and reorganizing supplies that are already organized. Anything to keep my hands busy and my brain from spiraling.
Winnie’s voice keeps echoing in my head.I’ve heard of Zayden Bishop. Everyone’s heard of Zayden Bishop.
