Ford’s POV
They brought me in to clean up the program, but no one warned me the rot started at the roots.
Five minutes into Elite Performance Center and I'm already cataloging the disasters.
State-of-the-art equipment crammed into a space designed by someone who clearly never coached a day in their life. Apparatus placement that forces athletes to weave around each other like they're playing human Frogger.
And the coaching methods? Christ. It's like stepping into a time machine set to "toxic masculinity circa 1985."
“This place could be Olympic-grade,” I told Maria during our initial sit-down, gesturing at the chaos visible through her office windows, “but it’s operating like a glorified high school gym.”
She winced and nodded, tight-lipped.
I knew what she wanted from me, to play nice, integrate quietly, don't rock the boat. Classic institutional thinking—let's fix the problem without actually changing anything substantial.
But I didn't drag myself out of semi-retirement to be a diplomatic wallflower. I'm here because this system is systematically destroying kids, and everyone's too invested in the status quo to admit it.
My first real glimpse of the damage comes courtesy of George Foster's afternoon masterclass in psychological warfare.
He's circling this girl like a shark who's caught the scent of blood, and she's performing her floor routine with the emotional range of a well-programmed robot.
I remembered her name from competition footage.
Sienna Reyes. Twenty-two. Olympic potential, a rising senior with clean technique and stiff expression, like someone trained to perform on autopilot.
She was in the middle of a floor routine when I stopped near the edge of the mat.
Perfect technique. Dead eyes. Every landing hit with mathematical precision, but zero soul. It's gymnastics performed like she's solving calculus problems in real-time.
I've seen this before, athletes trained to chase approval instead of excellence. The difference between performing and simply executing commands.
Sienna moves like someone who's forgotten that gymnastics used to be fun, assuming it ever was for her.
"Tuck tighter on that third pass, Reyes!" George barks loud enough for the entire gym to hear. "You're starting to get heavy!"
I glance at Sienna's frame—all sharp angles and visible ribs. If she's "heavy," then I'm a fucking elephant.
The casual cruelty hits me like a punch, but what really twists my gut is how she absorbs it without flinching. Like she's been conditioned to accept this shit as normal feedback.
Maria's standing beside me, studiously avoiding eye contact. The institutional blindness is stunning—everyone can see the abuse, but acknowledging it would require actually doing something about it.
The staff meeting later that week is peak corporate theater. Folding chairs arranged in a circle like we're about to share our feelings at summer camp, instead of discussing how to revolutionize an entire training philosophy.
George struts in fifteen minutes late because punctuality is apparently beneath him, radiating the kind of arrogance that makes my teeth itch.
"Nice of you to join us, Callen," he says, sliding into the chair directly across from me with a smirk that could curdle milk. "Hope the transition from retirement isn't too rough."
The condescension is so thick I could spread it on toast. But I've learned that responding to every provocation is amateur hour.
I keep my expression neutral while he launches into his usual sermon about discipline and medal counts.
I didn’t bother replying.
Ten minutes of George's self-congratulatory bullshit and I'm already plotting escape routes.
He's rambling about his "girls" like they're prized livestock he's personally trained, completely oblivious to the fact that half the room looks ready to fake their own deaths to get out of here.
Then came the shot I knew was coming.
"Some athletes just aren't built for the long haul," he says, his gaze finding mine with surgical precision. "Physical limitations, mental weakness—it all comes out eventually. Wouldn't you agree, Callen?"
I could let it slide. Should, probably.
But George Foster represents everything I spent five years trying to forget about competitive athletics—the casual cruelty, the manipulation and willingness to sacrifice athletes for personal glory.
"My focus is on building athletes who don't just survive long enough to collect hardware," I say, my voice carrying just enough edge to cut through his smugness. "I'm interested in creating careers that last, not training programs that break people for sport."
Direct hit. Boom. The room goes dead quiet, a few coaches are suddenly fascinated by their water bottles while Maria clears her throat and pivots to scheduling, but the damage is done.
George wasn’t used to being challenged. Especially not by me.
After the meeting, I didn’t linger and headed back to the gym to review footage. But when I walked past the floor area, Sienna was still there, running passes alone.
She didn’t notice me at first. Her hair was down now, clinging to the sweat on her neck. No music, just the soft echo of her landings and the faint sound of her breath.
The moves were cleaner than they’d been earlier, but the same tension held her shoulders rigid. Every step looked rehearsed, not felt.
When she notices me watching, her posture shifts almost imperceptibly. Not defensive exactly, but definitely guarded.
I don't approach—she's not my athlete, and I've already stirred up enough trouble for one day.
But I see enough to confirm my worst fears.
Someone has systematically trained the joy out of this girl. She's all control, zero instinct. All performance, no presence.
Athletes like her burn out spectacularly, whether they make the Olympic team or not.
That night I pulled her training logs—six months of detailed documentation that reads like a blueprint for athletic destruction. Overtraining schedules, obsessive weight tracking, zero flexibility in conditioning plans.
It's a masterclass in how to destroy a girl's relationship with her own body.
So the next morning, I brought the files to Maria’s desk.
"She's going to break," I say without preamble. "This regimen isn't sustainable, especially with Olympic pressure ramping up. We adjust her training philosophy now, or we lose her completely."
Maria sighs, suddenly looking every one of her forty-something years. "George has her on a path that's produced results."
"Short-term ones that'll destroy her long-term potential. Do you want her to win a medal, or survive this sport intact?"
She doesn't answer, which is an answer in itself.
I know I'm crossing every professional boundary by interfering with another coach's athlete. Stay in your lane, mind your business, don't rock the boat—the unwritten rules are clear.
But what I see in Sienna, beneath all that manufactured polish and fear-based discipline, is raw talent that doesn't need to be broken down to reach elite level.
It needs nurturing. Building up instead of systematic destruction.
She needs protection.