Sienna’s POV
Ford steps up to the mic first, and I stay beside him because apparently we're doing the united front thing now.
His hand rests lightly at my back—not to guide me, but to remind me he's there.
Standing in front of a packed press room feels like voluntary execution, except the executioner is me and the weapon is truth delivered at maximum volume.
He doesn't sugarcoat anything. Talks about George's psychological warfare, about fear weaponized as motivation, about athletes destroyed in silence to protect a system built on medals and willful blindness.
"Coaching should never cost someone their humanity," he says, voice cutting through the room like a blade. "And fear should never be confused with discipline."
I watch him speak and feel something shift in the room—recognition instead of just shock. People are finally understanding what we've been up against.
Then it's my turn to step into the spotlight and finish what we started.
"For years, I believed winning was everything," I begin, heart hammering but voice steady. "That if I worked harder, stayed silent, pushed through the damage, I'd finally be enough. But strength isn't about silence. It's about protecting yourself and others."
"I was taught to chase perfection. Instead, I found something better—power in reclaiming my voice."
Questions fly immediately, and one reporter cuts straight to what everyone's thinking.
"Are you two together?"
I glance at Ford, who meets my gaze with something calm, almost amused. Makes me smile despite the circus around us.
"We care about each other deeply," he says, unbothered by the implications.
Diplomatic non-denial. We're getting good at this.
"But what matters right now is making sure athletes are safe, supported, heard," I add, turning back to the crowd.
No need to label whatever Ford and I are. You can see it in how we stand shoulder to shoulder, how neither of us lets go. That's truth enough.
The ethics hearings afterward are exactly as brutal as expected. People we trusted throw us under buses to save themselves, while others finally find their courage now that it's safe to speak up.
Funny how bravery becomes contagious once someone else takes the first hit.
George gets his license stripped, career over, that twisted grip on all of us finally loosened. Watching him fall from grace feels better than any medal I've ever won.
Then come Olympic trials, and despite media vultures circling constantly, I block it all out. My final floor routine—the one Ford and I built together—isn't just about technique. It's about ownership.
When the team list gets posted, my name's there in black and white.
The celebration is perfect in its imperfection—beat-up cupcakes, music echoing off gym rafters, nothing fancy but everything right. I laugh harder than I have in months, feeling light for the first time in years.
This is what happiness tastes like. Good to know.
Ford's watching me from across the gym, hands in pockets, eyes tracking every move like he doesn't want to miss a second.
"You gonna stare all night?" I ask, crossing toward him.
"Depends. You done being the star of the room?"
Cocky bastard.
"Only if you're done looking like you want to drag me into the locker room."
He chuckles, low and dangerous. "Careful. I might."
"I dare you."
He steps closer, eyes gleaming. "You really think I need much convincing?"
"God, you're cocky."
"Only because I've seen you look at me like you want to climb me during conditioning."
"You're terrible," I laugh.
"You love it," he says, thumb brushing along my wrist. "Want me to remind you?"
I nod, and that's all the invitation he needs.
We barely make it down the hall.
His hand’s in mine, grip tight, our footsteps quick and quiet as we duck past the last lit corridor and slip through the door to the locker room.
It's empty. Late. Silent except for our breath.
The second the door shuts behind us, Ford slams me into it—gently, but with enough force to send my pulse spiking.
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s messy, open-mouthed, teeth grazing lips like we’re starved. We are.
My back hits the cool wood of the door and I gasp against his tongue, legs trembling already. His body presses against mine—solid, hot, and hard in all the right ways
“Still cocky?” I whisper against his mouth, teasing.
His grin is dangerous. “You have no idea.”
I pull his shirt over his head, hands immediately on his chest, feeling the muscles I’ve watched move from the sidelines for months. He’s warm, perfect, mine. He drops to his knees in front of me, eyes roaming over the way my beige bodysuit clings to every inch of legs.
“Fuck, Sienna…” His voice is low, reverent. “This thing is torture.”
“Take it off,” I murmur, voice shaking. “And find out what it’s hiding.”
He peels it down slowly, fingertips grazing my thighs, my hips, over my stomach and breasts until I’m standing bare in front of him.
The cool air hits my skin and makes me shiver, but then his mouth is on me. Hot, open kisses over my collarbone, my shoulder, down to the swell of my breasts.
“Ford...” I breathe, voice cracking when his mouth closes over my nipple. He sucks gently, then harder, and my knees buckle.
He lifts me, one arm under my thighs, the other around my back, and carries me toward the locker benches.
His strength doesn’t surprise me—but the tenderness does. He sets me down, palms flat on my thighs, and just looks at me for a moment like I’m something he's been starving for.
“Spread your legs, baby,” he says, low and rough.
I do, and he drops to his knees between them—but before he can lean in, I stop him. My hands reach for the waistband of his pants, tugging them down just enough to free him.
His cock springs out, thick and flushed, already leaking. I wrap my hand around him, slow and deliberate.
“You’ve been teasing me all night,” I murmur, stroking him. “Feels like I should return the favor.”
His breath shudders. “Sienna...”
I lean in, licking the tip, tasting him, then take him into my mouth. His fingers grip the bench, jaw tight, moaning as I suck him deep, letting him slide down my throat inch by inch.
“Fuck,” he growls. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”
I pull off with a smirk. “Then take me before you lose it.”
He grabs me by the waist, standing, and flips me around in one smooth move so I’m braced against the lockers. My cheek touches the cool metal. His body presses behind mine, one hand gripping my hip, the other spreading me open.
He rubs his cock between my folds, soaking himself in my arousal, and then slides in slow.
So full. I gasp, fingers curling against the lockers as he bottoms out.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You feel so fucking good.”
He starts to move—deep, steady thrusts that hit every nerve. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping skin, our gasps echoing off the tiles, the filthy rhythm of our bodies tangled together.
His hand slides around to my front, rubbing tight circles over my clit. My eyes roll back.
“I want to feel you come,” he growls. “Come all over my cock.”
It hits me like a wave. I cry out, legs shaking, pussy clenching tight as the orgasm rips through me. He fucks me through it, every thrust harder than the last.
Then he pulls out, spins me, and lifts me back onto the bench. He slams back inside, both of us breathless, sweat-slicked, needing to feel it all.
I cry out, biting my lip as he thrusts harder, deeper, his hands gripping my hips tight enough to bruise.
The sound of our bodies echoes through the room—wet, loud, messy. One of his hands slides between my legs, again circling my clit, and I choke on a scream.
“I’m close,” he gasps, forehead pressed to mine. “Where do you want it?”
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in tighter. “Inside. I want all of you. I want to feel you tomorrow.”
His lips crash into mine, and with one last thrust, he spills inside me, groaning my name as he comes hard, pulsing deep, full and thick. I moan with him, arms around his shoulders, both of us completely undone.
The locker room goes quiet. For a moment, there’s only breathing. Sweat. Heat.
Then he gently pulls out, catches me when I wobble, and lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing. He finds a towel, wraps it around me, and sits us on the bench, holding me close, like letting go isn’t an option.
I press my forehead to his. “Ford…”
His thumb brushes my cheek, slow. “Sienna.”
We say it at the same time.
“I love you.”
We freeze. Then we laugh—soft and breathless and stunned. I blink back something that isn’t just sweat.
He cups my face, kisses me slow. “That wasn’t just sex.”
“No,” I whisper. “It wasn’t.”