Ford’s POV
Some decisions sneak up on you. Others march toward you like an army with banners flying, giving you plenty of time to consider how spectacularly they're going to fuck up your life.
This is definitely the second kind.
I've been feeling it creeping closer for weeks—that low hum before a storm hits and destroys everything you thought was stable.
The Olympic committee's relentless pressure, George's carefully orchestrated return, Sienna's growing defiance—all of it building toward this moment where I have to choose between self-preservation and doing what's right.
My office has become a war room central, lit only by my desk lamp and the dull glow of a computer screen that's seen too many late nights.
Paperwork spreads across my desk like battle lines—Sienna's medical records, Sarah's written testimony, my own detailed notes on George's systematic psychological warfare.
Even the bitter emails that marked the end of my own competitive career are here, reminders of what this fight might cost.
But some things need to burn before they can be rebuilt, and this sport's culture of abuse is definitely one of them.
The story these documents tell is brutal but undeniable—a culture that rewarded dominance at any cost and buried the human wreckage left behind.
What I'm about to do won't just shake the foundation of elite gymnastics; it'll scorch the ground beneath my feet.
When I sit down across from Maria Holloway, my hands are steadier than they have any right to be. I push the thick folder toward her, its weight matching the knot in my chest.
Here goes nothing. Or everything.
"This sport needs to change, Maria," I say, voice low but carrying the kind of conviction that comes from watching too many athletes get destroyed. "The abuse has to stop. And it starts now, with us, not after another scandal surfaces."
Maria picks up the folder, flipping through pages slowly like she's reading her own professional obituary.
Her expression stays neutral, but I can see her processing every documented instance of abuse, every medical red flag that got ignored.
Welcome to the receipts, Maria. Hope you're ready for this.
I don't push her. I'm not here to convince her with empty promises or corporate speak. I'm here to lead by example, even if that example involves professional self-immolation.
After what feels like an eternity, she looks up. "This will shake everything, Ford. Are you ready for that?"
Am I ready to destroy my coaching career, piss off powerful people, and probably make enemies for life? Sure, sounds like a Tuesday.
"I don't have a choice anymore," I say simply. "The longer we wait, the more damage we enable."
Maria sighs but doesn't argue. We both know this is just the opening move in what's going to be a very ugly game.
Later that evening, I'm sitting on the bench outside the gym, watching shadows stretch across the floor as daylight fades. My brain's racing through potential consequences, but there's no way to prepare for the shitstorm heading our way.
Strategic planning only works when your opponents follow rules. These people don't.
Sienna appears beside me like she has some internal GPS for finding me when I'm spiraling.
She doesn't speak, just sits down with that steady presence that somehow makes everything less catastrophic.
Grounding. Who needs therapy when you have a twenty-one-year-old gymnast with more emotional intelligence than most adults?
Our hands find each other automatically, fingers tangling in a silent reassurance that we're in this together.
"The risk we're taking," I begin, because someone needs to acknowledge the elephant in the room, "could end my career. Could end everything I've worked for."
She squeezes my hand, meeting my gaze with calm I definitely don't feel. "And it could change everything for the better."
Optimism. Must be nice.
I study her—the strength in her posture, the quiet confidence she carries now. It's completely different from the girl who used to flinch at George's criticism.
"You're sure about this?"
Her eyes lock on mine with laser focus. "More sure than I've ever been. I want to fight. Not just for me, but for every athlete who's been hurt in silence."
And there's the reason I'm willing to destroy my career.
"It won't be easy," I warn, because someone needs to be realistic here. "We'll make enemies. The committee, George, probably some colleagues who prefer the status quo."
"I'm done hiding," Sienna says, voice steady as steel. "Done pretending this is just how things have to be. We owe it to everyone to speak up."
Jesus, she's magnificent when she's righteous.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "We'll need a strategy. Can't just dump documents and hope for the best. Has to be surgical, calculated."
She leans closer, determination sharp in her eyes. "Then let's make that plan."
I pull her closer, careful not to crush the fragile courage she's carrying. "Whatever happens, Sienna, I'm with you. No matter how far this takes us."
Her grip tightens around my hand. "And I'm with you. We're not just breaking the cycle. We're building something new."
The night settles around us, quiet except for distant gym sounds and the steady rhythm of our breathing. The risk is enormous, the path ahead uncertain as hell, but sitting here beside her, I feel something I haven't allowed myself in months.
Hope. Dangerous emotion for someone about to commit professional suicide.
I stopped choosing safety a long time ago. Now I'm choosing courage, even though courage looks suspiciously like walking into a wood chipper while wearing a tuxedo.
The internal negotiation has been going on for weeks: Keep your head down or stand up and fight, protect your career or protect the athletes, play it safe or do what's right.
Turns out the choice was never really a choice at all.
Looking at Sienna—jaw set, eyes blazing with determination to change a system that nearly destroyed her—I realize this isn't just about exposing abuse anymore.
It's about proving that some things matter more than professional survival.
Like integrity. Like protecting people who can't protect themselves.
Like the woman sitting beside me who's brave enough to take on an entire sport.