Ford’s POV
The gym at six AM is my kind of paradise—empty, quiet, and blissfully free of drama. Just me, some equipment, and the kind of silence that doesn't judge your life choices.
Too bad my life choices have been spectacularly questionable lately.
Sienna's in the corner stretching, and I'm trying to pretend I'm not cataloging every movement she makes.
The way she slides into a perfect split, arms lifting like she's conducting some invisible orchestra—Christ, she's beautiful when she thinks no one's watching. Which is a problem, considering I'm definitely watching.
Her headphones are in, world locked away, but I catch the glances she steals in my direction. Quick looks that feel like tiny cracks in the professional facade we've been desperately trying to maintain since our hotel room encounter.
Three days. It's been three days since I completely destroyed every boundary I've ever set for myself.
"Form's improving on that entry," I say, clipboard in hand, trying to sound like a coach instead of someone who knows exactly what she sounds like when she comes. "Push off earlier. You're losing height."
"Got it," she replies without looking at me, but I catch that faint smile she's trying to hide.
We're so fucked. And fucked each other so good. Damn.
We haven't talked about that night—not really. Can't, obviously, because what exactly would that conversation look like?
Hey, thanks for the best sex of my life. Also, please don't get me fired.
But the tension is there in every interaction. The way my hand lingers when I'm correcting her form. How she leans into my touch just slightly longer than necessary. The loaded silences that say everything we can't.
Professional relationship, my ass.
That's when the gym door creaks open like the beginning of a horror movie, and my day officially goes to shit.
George Foster walks in like he still owns the place.
Well, fuck.
Even with a cane and his arm in a sling, the man moves through space like a predator who's just spotted wounded prey. Conversations die, movements slow, and suddenly everyone's pretending to be very interested in their equipment.
Classic George. Make an entrance, dominate the room, remind everyone who holds the real power.
His eyes scan the gym with that smug satisfaction I remember all too well, and when his gaze locks on mine, the look is pure calculation.
He's here for a reason, and that reason is probably going to ruin my week.
I don't look away. Won't give him that satisfaction. His smirk deepens like he's already counting points in some game I didn't know we were playing.
George doesn't say a word, just posts up near the sidelines like some malevolent gargoyle, watching everything with the kind of attention that makes skin crawl. His gaze zeroes in on Sienna, and something protective and violent flares in my chest.
Keep your fucking eyes off her.
She hasn't looked his way once, but her shoulders have gone tight, movements less fluid. She feels his presence like a poison in the air, and I want to physically remove him from her sight line.
This is going to be a problem.
Fifteen minutes later, Sienna vanishes. At first, I figure she's gone to refill her water or hit the bathroom. But she doesn't come back, and that familiar knot of dread starts twisting in my stomach.
One of the junior coaches hurries past and drops the bomb casually: "Coach Foster asked to see her. In his office."
Son of a bitch.
My hand clenches around the clipboard hard enough to leave marks.
That office hasn't been his for months, but everyone still calls it Foster's office. For Sienna, that room isn't just an office—it's a fucking trauma chamber. The place where he systematically broke her down and called it coaching.
The mental image hits immediately: George behind that desk, fake paternal smile in place, delivering his particular brand of psychological warfare. Making her doubt herself, doubt me, doubt everything we've built together.
Oh, I'm going to kill him.
I don't remember deciding to move, but suddenly I'm stalking down the hallway like I'm heading into battle. Which, let's be honest, I probably am.
The door to his office is closed, but I don't knock. George is sitting behind the desk like he never left, cane propped against his chair, that same cold smile that never reaches his eyes.
"Callen," he says smoothly, like we're old friends catching up. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
"What do you want?" I ask, closing the door behind me because this conversation is about to get ugly.
"Straight to business.” He chuckles, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “I like that about you. Always so... protective of your athletes. It's touching, really."
"Sienna's her own person," I say, keeping my voice level despite wanting to throw him through the window.
"Is she?" George leans back, studying me like I'm an interesting specimen. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like she's gotten quite attached to you. Unprofessionally so."
My blood turns to ice. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, come on, Ford. You think I don't see the way you two look at each other? The way you hover around her like some lovesick puppy?" His smile turns predatory. "I built this program. I know every secret this place holds."
He knows. Jesus Christ, he knows.
"You're fishing," I say, but my voice sounds less certain than I'd like.
"Am I?" George picks up a pen, twirls it between his fingers. "Because if I were to mention to certain people that I had concerns about the nature of your relationship with Miss Reyes..."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke. My career, her career, everything we've worked for—all of it balanced on the edge of this asshole's whim.
"Stay away from her," I say, stepping closer to his desk. "Whatever game you're playing, leave her out of it."
George's smile fades, replaced by something colder and infinitely more dangerous.
"You forget who's really in charge here, Ford. I may not be officially coaching anymore, but I still have friends. Influence. Connections."
Translation: I can destroy you both whenever I feel like it.
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a reality check." He leans forward, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "You've gotten comfortable in my absence. Forgotten your place. But I'm back now, and things are going to change."
Over my dead body, you fucking psychopath.
I want to tell him exactly what I think of him and his threats. Want to explain in graphic detail what I'll do to him if he goes anywhere near Sienna again. But I can't, because he holds all the cards and we both know it.
"We'll see about that," I say instead, turning toward the door.
"Callen." His voice stops me. "Give Sienna my regards. Tell her I'm looking forward to our next conversation."
Fuck you, George. Fuck you and everything you represent!
I leave his office with my blood boiling and my career hanging by a thread. Sienna's waiting in the hallway, looking shaken but trying to hide it behind that stubborn pride I've come to know so well.
"You okay?" I ask, fighting the urge to pull her close.
She nods, but I can see the cracks in her armor. "Yeah. I'm fine."
No, you're not. And neither am I.
George is back, and he probably knows about us. The careful balance we've been maintaining just got blown to hell, and I have no idea how we're going to survive what comes next. I guess, it’s time to figure out if what we have is worth fighting for.
Looking at Sienna, jaw set, eyes blazing with determination despite whatever George just put her through, I realize it's not even a question.
Bring it on, Georgie. Let's see what you've got.