Ford’s POV
Walking into this conference room feels like entering a corporate execution chamber designed by someone with a grudge against basic human decency.
The temperature drops about ten degrees the moment we cross the threshold, and it's not just the air conditioning. It's the collective chill of authority figures who've confused cruelty with competence and think destroying people equals building champions.
Eleanor Vance sits at the head of the table like a corporate vulture in a power suit, radiating the kind of authority that comes from never having to worry about the consequences of her decisions.
The other committee members buzz around her with hushed whispers, all sharp suits and sharper ambitions.
Sienna's beside me, looking calm on the surface but I can feel the tension radiating off her like heat from pavement. She knows what's coming. We both do.
Time to find out if my principles are worth more than my career, I guess.
"Coach Callen, Ms. Reyes," Eleanor begins, voice cold enough to freeze hell. "We need to see results. We need drastic measures."
Here we go.
"Ms. Reyes, a weight restriction of ninety-eight pounds. Coach Callen, you will implement the new quad routine, regardless of risk."
The words hit the room like a judge's gavel, final, non-negotiable, designed to crush any resistance before it can form.
Ninety-fucking-eight pounds.
For someone Sienna's height, that's not athletic optimization—it's medically supervised starvation.
These people are fucking psychopaths!
My eyes drift to the corner where George Foster sits with that smug expression I've grown to despise. He's here in an "advisory capacity," which is corporate speak for "the guy who broke athletes for sport and somehow still gets invited to meetings."
Of course he's enjoying this.
George's presence feels like a shadow from every nightmare I've had about this sport—the reminder that some people genuinely believe destroying someone's body and mind is acceptable if it produces shiny objects.
I meet Eleanor's gaze head-on, jaw tightening. "I will not put my athlete's health at risk."
"Sienna's weight is healthy and appropriate for her body type. The new quad routine, as currently designed, is unsafe. I won't implement either directive."
The tension in the room ratchets up immediately. I can practically hear the collective gasp of committee members who aren't used to being told no.
That's when I feel Sienna's hand brush against mine—subtle, steady, grounding. The contact reminds me why I'm here and why this fight matters more than my professional survival.
Some things are worth career suicide.
"There's a difference between pushing limits and breaking athletes," I continue, forcing conviction into every word. "We will not break Sienna."
Not for medals, not for glory, not for any of this Olympic politics bullshit.
I turn to look at her, and the silent message that passes between us is stronger than any speech I could make: I'm with you. Completely. No matter what this costs us.
The committee members exchange shocked glances like they've just witnessed someone challenge the laws of physics. Apparently, coaches with principles are rarer than I thought.
Which explains a lot about the current state of elite athletics.
"Coach Callen, this is not a negotiation.” Eleanor's voice cuts through the silence, sharper now. “You have a responsibility to deliver a champion. We won't accept excuses or hesitation."
"I understand the pressure," I reply, not backing down an inch. "But true responsibility means protecting the athlete, not exploiting them. If Sienna's health fails, if she gets injured, we lose far more than a competition spot—we lose a person."
George snorts quietly, and I catch the flicker of disdain in his eyes. The sound makes my teeth itch, but I don't take the bait. His era of systematic athlete abuse is over, whether he realizes it or not.
One of the committee members—thick glasses, sharp suit, the look of someone who's never sweated for anything in his life—leans forward like he's about to deliver the killing blow.
"Coach, the committee's position is clear. Either you follow these directives or risk losing your coaching credentials."
The room feels suffocating, but I refuse to back down. Some battles are worth fighting even when—especially when—you're probably going to lose.
My principles were forged in the fire of my own destroyed career. I won't let another athlete get fed into that same meat grinder.
"If losing my credentials means standing up for what's right, then so be it," I say, meeting his gaze steadily. "Sienna's well-being comes first."
And that's the line in the sand. Career over principles? Not happening.
Sienna squeezes my hand—subtle but unmistakable support that reminds me I'm not fighting this battle alone. She looks calm but determined, reflecting the same fire I feel burning in my chest.
We're in this together, consequences be damned.
Eleanor's lips tighten into something that might generously be called a smile but looks more like a predator baring teeth.
"Very well. We will take your refusal under advisement. But be warned: time is running out, and so is our patience."
The meeting ends with all the warmth of a funeral, committee members filing out while shooting looks that range from bewildered to openly hostile.
George lingers long enough to give me a smirk that promises future complications.
As the room empties, Sienna and I sit in the aftermath of what might have been the most expensive moral stand of my coaching career.
Worth it? Absolutely.
Terrifying? Abso-fucking-lutely.
The committee wants a champion built on the broken bodies of expendable athletes. George wants to prove his methods are still relevant. The entire system wants us to comply, submit, accept that destroying people is just the cost of Olympic dreams.
Too bad for them.
Some fights are worth having even when the odds suck. Some principles are worth defending even when it costs everything.
And some athletes are worth protecting, no matter what.
Looking at Sienna—jaw set, eyes blazing with determination despite what we just walked into—I realize something fundamental: Win or lose, get fired or celebrated, this is who I want to be.
The coach who said no. The one who chose the athlete over the medal.
The one who remembered that champions are built, not broken.
The path ahead is going to be brutal. The committee will make good on their threats. George will capitalize on any weakness he can find.
Our secret relationship is still a ticking time bomb.