Ford’s POV
Olympic trials are approaching like a freight train, and apparently everyone thinks the solution to pressure is applying more fucking pressure.
I'm sitting across from Eleanor Vance, head of the Olympic committee, in a windowless room that feels designed specifically to crush souls and extract compliance. She's got that corporate shark smile that means someone's about to get professionally eviscerated.
This should be fun.
"Callen," Eleanor begins, voice sharp enough to cut glass, "we need a champion. Not a cautionary tale."
"I perfectly understand the stakes," I reply, keeping my voice level despite wanting to tell her exactly what I think of her intimidation tactics. "But pushing Sienna beyond healthy limits isn't going to get us there."
Eleanor leans forward like a predator sensing weakness. "Your methods are too soft. We don't have time for therapy sessions disguised as coaching. We need results. Faster routines, higher difficulty, stricter weight requirements. That's what guarantees medals."
Right. Because destroying athletes has worked so well historically.
"Sienna's health isn't negotiable," I say, jaw tightening. "Her weight is appropriate for her body type, and we can achieve peak performance without risking her well-being."
Eleanor's lips press into that thin line that means 'you're about to learn why I'm in charge and you're not.'
"You realize this stance could cost us the qualification spot? Are you willing to gamble with the team's future for your... principles?"
My principles. Like basic human decency is some kind of luxury accessory.
"I'm willing to stand by what's right," I say, which sounds noble but probably just signed my professional death warrant.
The room goes dead quiet—the kind of silence that means someone's about to drop a bomb disguised as reasonable discourse.
"You're walking a dangerous line, Ford." Eleanor's voice drops to something that could freeze hell. "The committee isn't just watching your coaching. We're watching everything."
The implication hits like a sledgehammer wrapped in bureaucratic politeness. They're not just questioning my coaching methods, they're letting me know they have ammunition if I don't comply.
Manipulative bitch.
"I understand," I say, because what else can I say? Actually, go fuck yourself with your Olympic politics seems career-limiting. I wish.
Eleanor leans back, satisfied she's made her point. "Your injury changed your perspective. Fine. But the committee needs to see results. If you can't deliver, we'll find someone who will."
"Understood," I reply, mentally calculating how long I can maintain this balancing act before everything explodes.
After the meeting, I call Sienna because keeping this shit to myself feels impossible.
"Hey," she answers on the third ring, voice soft but alert.
"Hey." I pause, trying to figure out how to explain that her Olympic dreams are being held hostage by people who see her as expendable hardware.
"The committee wants me to push you harder," I say finally. "More hard routines, strict weight limits. The full psychological warfare package, you know."
There's a pause that stretches long enough for me to imagine her processing the implications.
"I figured," she says quietly, and the resignation in her voice makes me want to hunt down every committee member individually.
"I won't do it," I tell her. "Not if it risks destroying you in the process."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely. We're going to get you there safely. It might not be the fastest route, but it'll be the right one."
Assuming I don't get fired first.
"Thanks, Ford." Her relief is audible, and it reminds me why I'm willing to go to war with these people.
"I mean it, Sienna. Your well-being matters more than their medal count."
Even if that stance might end both our careers.
Later, I'm presenting the training plan to the coaching staff, and the resistance is immediate and predictable.
"Callen, this isn't how we've done things," one of the old guard says, shaking his head like I've suggested we replace gymnastics with interpretive dance. "You're risking the team's chances."
"We're evolving," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Protecting our athletes doesn't mean lowering standards. It means smarter training and better recovery protocols."
Revolutionary concept, I know.
The room buzzes with murmurs that range from skeptical to openly hostile. These people built their careers on the 'break them down to build them up' philosophy, and suggesting alternatives feels like personal attack.
"I've seen what happens when we prioritize medals over human beings," I continue. "I won't let that happen to Sienna or anyone else."
Riley gives me a slight nod—the first sign of support I've gotten from anyone today. It's small, but it means something in a room full of people who think I've lost my mind.
At least someone gets it.
The truth is, I'm walking a tightrope over a pit of career-ending consequences. The committee has made their position clear: comply or get replaced by someone who will.
George is lurking in the shadows waiting for me to fail. Riley might be collecting evidence of my relationship with Sienna.
And somehow I'm supposed to navigate all this while actually coaching.
But looking at the faces around this table, coaches who've spent years accepting that breaking athletes was just the cost of excellence, I realize why I'm here. Not just to win medals, but to prove there's a better way.
Even if it destroys me in the process.
The meeting ends with grudging acceptance rather than enthusiasm, but it's enough. For now.
The committee's threats still hang over everything like storm clouds, but I've made my choice. I won't sacrifice Sienna for their medal ambitions, won't let them turn her into another cautionary tale about the price of Olympic dreams.
Some battles are worth fighting, even when you're probably going to lose.
The stakes couldn't be higher—her Olympic chances, my coaching career, our secret relationship that could detonate everything if exposed. But watching Sienna train, seeing the fire in her eyes even when she's exhausted, reminds me what I'm fighting for.
Not just medals. Her future. Her well-being. Her right to succeed without being destroyed in the process.
The path ahead is going to be brutal, with enemies circling like vultures and pressure coming from every direction. But I'd rather go down fighting for what's right than succeed by perpetuating a system that treats athletes like disposable equipment.
Welcome to the most complicated coaching assignment of my life.
At least it's never boring.