Sienna’s POV
The gym is emptier than usual, which should feel peaceful but instead feels like the calm before someone drops a nuclear bomb disguised as team bonding.
Most everyone's cleared out, leaving just me to clean up and pretend I'm not walking around with varying degrees of psychological damage. I'm wiping down mats when Sarah appears in the doorway looking like she's about to either throw up or have a complete breakdown.
Possibly both, considering the way this week's been going.
She doesn't say anything at first, just stands there with tears streaming down her face like someone opened a faucet behind her eyes.
Oh, this is going to be bad.
Sarah's the youngest on the team—barely eighteen, still has that wide-eyed optimism that the rest of us lost somewhere between our first eating disorder and third stress fracture.
Seeing her this destroyed feels like watching someone kick a puppy.
"Sarah, what the hell happened?" I ask, dropping the mat and moving toward her because whatever this is, it's serious.
She's crying so hard she can barely breathe, and when she finally manages to speak, I know exactly what's coming before the words leave her mouth.
"He cornered me after practice yesterday," Sarah starts, voice raw and desperate. "Said I was pathetic, that I'd embarrass the entire program if they let me compete. That I was too weak, too soft, that I'd never survive at elite level."
Classic George. Going straight for the psychological jugular.
She's shaking now, words coming out in gasps between sobs. "He said I was wasting everyone's time, that maybe I should quit before I humiliated myself. That my parents were fools for believing I had any talent."
Jesus Christ. Even for George, that's brutal.
"And then..." Sarah's voice drops to almost a whisper. "He said if I couldn't handle honest feedback, I'd never make it anywhere in life. That I was the kind of weak little girl who'd end up working some dead-end job, blaming everyone else for my failures."
Every word hits like a physical blow because Christ, I could recite this speech from memory. The casual evisceration of a teenager's entire sense of self, delivered with the authority of someone who's supposed to be building her up.
Welcome to the George Foster experience, where your value as a human being is directly tied to his approval.
The familiar nausea twists in my stomach, but underneath it something colder and fiercer rises up. Anger. The righteous kind that comes from recognizing your own trauma in someone else's story.
Enough. Fucking enough.
I reach out and grab Sarah's trembling hands because someone needs to anchor her before she floats away on a sea of self-doubt.
"You're stronger than he ever gave you credit for," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "You deserve so much better than that psychological warfare bullshit."
And so did I. So did all of us.
Sarah looks up at me through her tears, and I see gratitude mixed with the kind of relief that comes from finally being believed.
"Thank you, Sienna. I was so scared nobody would believe me."
Oh honey, we've all been there.
Her confession stirs something I've been avoiding for months—the uncomfortable truth that the man I spent three years trying to please was never actually trying to help me.
He was a manipulator hiding behind coaching credentials and a legacy built on other people's broken dreams.
Better late than never, I guess.
The room gets heavier after Sarah speaks, like someone's added extra gravity. The other athletes whisper among themselves, shooting nervous glances around like they're afraid George might materialize out of thin air.
But even as I'm processing Sarah's revelation, my brain is running its usual paranoid calculations: What if Riley uses this chaos to dig deeper into my relationship with Ford? What if someone decides my defense of Sarah looks suspicious?
Later that evening, I track down Ford in his office because keeping this conversation to myself feels impossible.
The gym has settled into night mode—all humming ventilation and creaky building sounds that make everything feel more intimate than it should.
Ford's behind his desk looking like he's aged five years in the past five hours, which considering the day we've had, seems about right.
I sit down without waiting for an invitation because formal politeness feels ridiculous given that we've seen each other naked.
"Sarah told us everything about George," I say, cutting straight to the point because dancing around it feels insulting to everyone involved.
Ford's jaw clenches, but he doesn't interrupt. Instead, his hand reaches across the desk to cover mine, and the contact feels like finding solid ground in an earthquake.
Steady. Always fucking steady, this man.
"We'll protect her," he says, voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that makes promises feel like contracts. "And we'll protect you too."
God, I want to believe that.
"It's getting harder to keep everything hidden," I admit, because apparently vulnerability is my new default setting. "The committee pressure, the rumors, Riley sniffing around like a bloodhound. And now this shitstorm with George."
Ford squeezes my hand. "I know. But we'll get through it. Together."
Together. The most dangerous word in my vocabulary.
"I'm scared, Ford." The admission comes out smaller than intended. "If this comes out—if anyone connects the dots about us—it could destroy everything. Your career, my Olympics, all of it."
He leans forward, eyes never leaving mine. "I'm willing to take that risk. You're worth it."
Jesus, he's going to kill me with sincerity.
I swallow hard because raw honesty makes everything more terrifying and more bearable simultaneously. "I want to believe that. I really do."
But believing in happy endings feels like setting myself up for disappointment.
"We'll be smart about it," Ford says. "Won't let anyone take you down. And we'll make sure Sarah gets justice, whatever it takes."
Noble intentions in an ignoble world.
The office feels smaller now, like the walls are holding their breath along with us. I let my head rest against the chair back, trying to organize thoughts that feel like they're moving at light speed.
"This is all so much," I say quietly. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm strong enough for any of it."
Ford lifts my hand to his lips, a gesture so gentle it makes my chest tight.
"You're stronger than you think. More than anyone on that committee could understand. You've survived what most people couldn't even face."
Pretty words. Hope they're true.
Looking at him, this man who's become my anchor in a storm of uncertainty, I realize something fundamental has shifted. Not just between us, but in how I see myself.
Maybe I am strong enough. Maybe we both are.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For standing with me. For believing in me when I can't believe in myself."
His smile is slow but genuine. "Always. Whatever happens next, you won't face it alone."