Sienna’s POV
Apparently, Ford Callen's hands are some kind of electrical conductors, because every time he touches me during training, my entire nervous system short-circuits.
This is new territory for me.
I've always kept coaches at professional arm's length—cold, distant, never letting anyone get close enough to mess with my head. But Ford? He's completely rewired my default settings, and I'm not sure whether to be pissed off or grateful.
Every time he leans in to adjust my form or places his hand on my back during drills, heat spreads through me like I've been plugged into a live wire.
My breath catches, my pulse spikes, and suddenly I'm thinking about things that have absolutely nothing to do with gymnastics.
Get it together, Reyes. He's your coach, not your personal fantasy fulfillment service.
But Christ, the way he moves behind me, voice low and close to my ear when he's giving corrections, it's like he's doing it on purpose. Which he probably isn't, but my hormone-addled brain doesn't seem to care about logic right now.
Ford's coaching style is as different from George's as a gentle massage is from getting hit by a truck.
Where George demanded exact positions and military precision, Ford wants me to "connect with my body" and "move intuitively."
What the hell does that even mean?
Yet, despite the confusion, I couldn’t deny that this approach was slowly cracking open parts of me I thought were locked tight.
One afternoon, he had me working on improvisation. The word alone sounded like chaos to someone who lived by structure. I stood stiff on the floor mat, arms tense, eyes focused on the space ahead.
"Don't just hit the positions, Sienna," he says, voice steady and maddeningly calm. "Feel the music. Let your body tell you what to do next, not some mental checklist."
"I don't know how to do that.” I stare at him like he just suggested I perform my routine blindfolded while juggling. “I'm used to knowing exactly where I'm supposed to be every second."
"That's the point," he replies, stepping closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. "You're not a machine. Movement should be fluid, not programmed."
Easy for you to say, Mr. Natural Grace. Some of us learned gymnastics as a survival mechanism, not interpretive dance.
But there's something in his eyes, patience mixed with challenge, that makes me want to try, even though every instinct I have is screaming that losing control equals certain disaster.
I start moving, letting the music guide me instead of my usual mental countdown. It feels wrong, like cheating on a test or lying to your grandmother.
Ford stays close, offering quiet suggestions, and every time his hand brushes my arm or shoulder to make an adjustment, electricity shoots through me.
Focus on the routine, not on how badly you want him to touch you properly.
I surprise myself by attempting something loose and experimental—a sequence that flows instead of hitting predetermined marks.
It's not perfect. I stumble at the end, breathing hard from the shock of how different it feels.
When I look up, Ford's watching me with those stormy-gray eyes, and there's something in his expression that makes my stomach flip.
"See?" he says softly. "That wasn't so bad."
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and something else I don't want to analyze.
"It feels wrong. Like I'm cheating somehow."
"It's not cheating. It's learning to trust yourself instead of just following orders."
I sit down on the edge of the mat, muscles trembling from the unfamiliar work and the adrenaline of letting go, even briefly.
"Why do you care so much about how I move? Why not just make me follow the routine and get it done?"
Ford leans against the wall, arms crossed, and I try not to notice how the position makes his shoulders look even broader.
"Because you're not just any athlete, Sienna. You've got something special, the huge potential, but you’re stuck in a pattern that’s holding you back. I want to help you break free from it."
Something special. Right. George used to say I was special too, usually right before telling me everything I was doing wrong.
"Breaking free sounds like a luxury," I say, picking at the tape on my wrists. "I'm just trying to survive."
"Survival and excellence aren't mutually exclusive," Ford replies, his voice gentler now. "But you can't keep forcing yourself the way you have. It's going to destroy you."
The truth in his words hits harder than I expect.
Part of me wants to argue, to prove I'm tougher than he thinks, but another part recognizes the exhaustion that's been eating at me for years.
"I'm not used to people actually caring about me," I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it. "Everyone's always demanding more, never satisfied with what I give."
Ford's expression shifts, something protective flickering across his face.
"Maybe because you've been surrounded by the wrong people. People who think pushing until you break is the same as caring."
Like George. Like everyone who's ever claimed to want what's best for me while systematically tearing me apart.
"You think you're so different?" I challenge him, but there's less bite in it than usual.
"I hope so," he says simply. "But I won't know unless you let me prove it."
The gym goes quiet except for our breathing and the soft music still playing from the speakers. Ford's looking at me like he can see straight through all my defenses, and it's terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
"I don't know if I can," I whisper, because admitting weakness feels like handing him a weapon.
"You can," he says with absolute certainty. "You just have to stop fighting yourself long enough to try."
Something about the way he says it, not demanding or commanding, just stating facts, makes me want to believe him. Makes me want to try this terrifying experiment in trust.
"Okay," I say finally. "I'll try."
Ford's smile transforms his entire face, and my heart does something stupid and complicated in response.
We start again, slower this time, with me attempting to let the music dictate movement instead of forcing predetermined sequences.
His hands guide me when I hesitate, steady and warm, never pushy or demanding.
Every touch sends heat through me, but this time I don't fight it as hard.
Maybe because I'm too focused on the strange sensation of moving without a rigid plan, or maybe because I'm finally admitting that I trust him not to hurt me.
When I stumble again, because old habits die hard, Ford doesn't sigh or criticize.
He just catches me, his hands steady at my waist, and says, "You're doing fine. Keep going."
The simple encouragement hits me like a revelation.
This is what support actually looks like—not conditional approval based on perfect performance, but steady presence regardless of outcome.
For the first time, I feel like maybe I don't have to carry everything alone. Maybe trusting someone won't automatically lead to betrayal and disappointment.
Maybe Ford Callen is exactly as dangerous as I thought, just not in the way I expected.