Sienna’s POV
The victory party is exactly what you'd expect from a bunch of athletes who've been under pressure for weeks—loud, chaotic, and fueled by enough adrenaline to power a small city.
The bar near our hotel is packed with gymnasts, coaches, and random people who probably have no idea what they're celebrating but are happy to drink to it anyway.
The music's too loud, the drinks are overpriced, and everyone's talking over each other, but for the first time in months, I feel like I can actually breathe.
This is what normal twenty-somethings do, right? Celebrate victories without immediately analyzing what went wrong?
I'm nursing my second beer and watching Ford across the room, trying not to be obvious about it.
He's talking to some of the other coaches, looking relaxed in a way I rarely see during training. No clipboard, no stopwatch, just Ford being an actual person instead of my impossibly complicated coach.
"You're staring," Maya announces, sliding up next to me with the kind of drunk confidence that usually leads to terrible decisions.
"I'm observing," I correct, but we both know I'm full of shit.
"Right. Observing how good Coach Callen looks in that button-down." She gives me a knowing look. "Girl, the sexual tension between you two could power this entire bar."
Christ, is it that obvious?
"It's not— We're not—" I start, then realize I'm about to lie to my best friend, which feels like a new low even for me. "Okay, fine. It's just… complicated."
Maya nearly chokes on her drink. "Complicated? That's what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
"A massive fucking crush on your coach who happens to be, what, twelve years older than you?" She leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Spill. Everything. Now."
Here goes nothing.
"George was wrong about him," I say, the words coming out in a rush. "Ford isn't bitter or jealous or trying to sabotage anyone. He's just... different. He actually gives a shit about whether I survive this sport intact instead of just collecting medals."
Maya's eyes widened. "Holy shit. You're actually in love with him."
"I didn't say love—"
"You didn't have to, girl. Your face is doing that… thing where you look like you've been hit by a truck but in a good way."
Am I that transparent?
"It's insane, right?" I continue, because apparently I've decided to have this conversation in a crowded bar. "He's my coach. He's older. He's probably going to get fired if anyone finds out. But when he looks at me, it's like he sees something worth protecting instead of something to exploit."
Maya's quiet for a moment, processing. Then she grins. "Honestly? About fucking time."
"What?"
"You think I haven't noticed how different you've been since he started coaching you? You're not terrified all the time anymore. You actually smile during practice. And girl, the way he watches you..." She shakes her head. "That man is gone for you."
Is he?
"You're not freaked out that I'm having inappropriate feelings for my coach?"
"Honey, you're both adults. And after what Foster put you through, anyone who makes you feel safe deserves a chance." She pauses. "Even if the timing is absolutely terrible."
Before I can respond, Maya grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward the dance floor where half the team is already making questionable decisions to music that's too loud and too bass-heavy.
"What are you doing?"
"Facilitating," she says with a grin that usually means trouble. "Coach Callen! Get over here!"
I'm going to fucking murder her.
Ford looks up from his conversation, eyebrows raised in question. Maya waves him over with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests she's had more to drink than I thought.
"Victory dance!" she announces when he approaches. "It's mandatory. Team bonding!"
"I don't really dance," Ford says, but he's already being pulled into the crowd by Maya's gravitational force.
"Everyone dances at victory parties," she insists. "Besides, your precious rising star athlete needs a partner."
Kill me now.
The music shifts to something with a decent beat, and suddenly I'm surrounded by sweaty gymnasts and Ford is standing closer than he should be in a public place.
The strobe lights make everything feel surreal, like we're in some alternate universe where coaches and athletes dance together and nobody thinks it's weird.
"This is your fault," Ford says, leaning close so I can hear him over the music.
"My fault? Maya orchestrated this entire thing."
"You're the one who won today. No victory, no party."
Fair point.
We're not really dancing, more like gravitating toward each other in a crowd that keeps pushing us closer with every beat.
Every time someone bumps into us, Ford's hand finds my waist to steady me, and I swear I can feel the heat of his palm burning through my shirt like a brand.
The music gets louder, bass thumping through the floor and straight into my bones.
The crowd gets denser, bodies pressing against us from all sides until we're forced into our own little pocket of space in a corner where the lighting is dimmer and the air is thick with sweat and possibility.
Ford's looking at me like he's trying to solve a problem he can't quite figure out. His eyes keep dropping to my mouth, then back up, and every time they do, something hot and electric shoots through my stomach.
Ugh, just fucking kiss me already!
When I shift closer—accidentally, of course—his breath hitches, and I feel it like a physical touch.
His hand is still on my waist, thumb brushing against bare skin where my shirt has ridden up slightly. The contact sends electricity straight through me, and from the way his pupils dilate, he feels it too.
The crowd surges around us, pushing us even closer, until we're pressed together from chest to thigh and I can feel his heart hammering against mine. His free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone, and I'm pretty sure I stop breathing entirely.
"Sienna," he says, my name rough and low, barely audible over the music.
Fuck talking.
I rise up on my toes and close the distance between us, pressing my mouth to his like I'm claiming something I've been starving for. His response is immediate and hungry—hand fisting in my hair, pulling me closer, kissing me back like he's been thinking about this as much as I have.
For about ten perfect seconds, nothing exists except the taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his body feels pressed against mine.
Then reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water.
"Shit," he breathes against my mouth, eyes darting around the crowd. "We can't do this here."
Right. Careers. Consequences. Real life.
"Come on," he says, taking my hand. "Now."