Ford’s POV
Watching Sienna Reyes train is like watching a Ferrari that's been programmed to drive exactly twenty-five miles per hour—technically flawless and completely fucking tragic.
She moves through George's brutal session with the kind of mechanical precision that wins medals and destroys souls. Form tight, transitions crisp, landings precise enough to satisfy a Swiss watchmaker.
But I'm not just watching the routine—I'm cataloging the dysfunction.
Every smile after each pass is manufactured bullshit that doesn't reach her eyes. Every sequence ends with her gaze darting to George like a puppy waiting for scraps of approval.
When she doesn't get them, her shoulders bunch up around her ears like she's bracing for impact.
And then there's the way she lands—clean but cautious, like she's masking serious pain. The slight favor of her left leg, the micro-hesitations that most people would miss.
I've spent enough time around overtrained athletes to recognize the signs of someone whose body is staging a quiet rebellion.
Professional boundaries say stay in my lane. Basic human decency says this girl's about to break, and everyone's too invested in the status quo to give a shit.
When George steps away to take a phone call, probably coordinating another athlete's systematic destruction, I make my move.
Sienna's toweling off near the corner of the mat, jaw clenched like she's grinding her teeth to powder.
"Sienna," I say, keeping my tone neutral. "That last floor series—if you adjust your elbow position slightly on the layout, you'll take pressure off your ankle. Might reduce strain long-term."
She turns toward me with the kind of slow-burn fury that could melt steel.
"I know exactly who you are," she snaps, voice calm but loaded with practiced venom. "You're the has-been who couldn't handle losing to Coach Foster. Now you're trying to crawl back by sabotaging his athletes."
Well, shit. That's not her voice—that's George's greatest hits collection coming through her mouth. The loyalty is so blind it's practically weaponized.
"I don't need your help," she adds, like I'd offered to perform surgery on her grandmother. "Keep your analysis to yourself."
She walks off with perfect posture and enough suppressed rage to power a small city.
I let out a breath, run a hand over my neck, and just watch her go. Not surprised, but definitely impressed by the intensity of that verbal evisceration.
George has trained her well, not just in gymnastics, but in defending his methods against anyone who might suggest alternatives.
Later that day, I pulled up competition footage spanning her entire career. I want to see the full arc—where she started, what changed, when the light went out.
Her early routines are fucking beautiful.
She moves like she owns every inch of floor space, with an unpolished brilliance that makes her impossible to ignore. Raw talent wrapped in genuine joy for the sport.
But over time, something shifts. The spark gets systematically trained out of her, replaced with mechanical precision that's technically superior and emotionally dead.
Her power dulls, timing becomes too exact, like she's programmed out every instinct that made her special.
I slow the footage down frame by frame, hunting for details people miss.
Hand tremors between passes, delayed blinks that signal exhaustion, micro-adjustments that suggest chronic pain. All signs of an athlete being methodically run into the ground by someone who mistakes destruction for discipline.
If I could access her training logs, I'd have the full picture of exactly how far George has pushed her toward the breaking point. But that would require cooperation she's clearly not interested in providing.
The next morning, I get to the gym early because sleep is apparently optional when you're obsessing over someone else's impending athletic suicide.
Sienna's already there, of course she is; alone on the balance beam, moving through her routine with the kind of forced determination that screams "my body is betraying me but I'm pretending everything's fine."
Her ankle visibly gives out during the dismount. She catches herself before eating shit, but barely.
The wobble, the overcorrection, the way she immediately looks around to see if anyone noticed—classic signs of someone training through serious injury.
I step forward, ready to call her off the beam before she does permanent damage, but Maria walks in wearing her "everything's about to go sideways" expression.
"Callen," she says, motioning me aside. "George Foster was in a serious car accident last night. He's stable, but doctors say he won't be returning to coaching anytime soon."
Well, fuck. The universe has a twisted sense of timing.
"You'll be taking over his athletes," Maria continues. "Effective immediately. Including Sienna Reyes."
I don't flinch, but I'm not exactly celebrating either.
The last thing I want is inheriting someone else's athletes under these circumstances, especially one who thinks I'm the devil incarnate.
Sienna steps forward before I can process the full implications.
"I'd rather train alone than work with someone who's spent years trying to destroy my coach's career," she says, voice flat and cold as January pavement.
She starts to walk away, but her ankle wobbles on the landing. Not just soreness—that joint is genuinely fucked.
George has been letting her train through serious injury, probably for weeks.
The smart play is letting her go. Let pride take her wherever it needs to, avoid the inevitable clusterfuck of trying to coach someone who actively hates me.
But something in me won't let it go. That instinct I've learned to hate, the one that says this girl is drowning and doesn't even know she's underwater.
She's not just talent being wasted. She's a kid who's been shaped into a product, molded into someone else's vision of success until she's forgotten what her own dreams looked like.
I watch her limp away, still pretending she's fine, and the decision makes itself.
If I have any shot at pulling her back before she breaks completely, physically, mentally, or both, it has to start now.
Even if she hates every second of it. Even if she fights me every step of the way.
Because sometimes the people who need help most are the ones most determined to refuse it.
And Sienna Reyes is about to become my most challenging project, whether she likes it or not.
This should be fun.