Sienna’s POV
Weeks of fighting Ford like he's personally responsible for global warming have finally mellowed into something resembling professional tolerance.
I pulled off a modified routine without my ankle screaming bloody murder, which counts as a win in my current disaster of an athletic career. Not perfect—nothing about my life is perfect anymore—but better.
The ache isn't gone, just quieter, like background noise I've learned to tune out.
Still, that night haunts the space between us like a ghost we're both pretending doesn't exist.
The kiss that never happened according to our mutual silent agreement, but somehow manages to make every interaction feel charged with electricity.
This is fine. Everything is professional and appropriate and I definitely don't think about his mouth every time he corrects my form.
The gym is empty except for us, lights dimmed to create this weirdly intimate atmosphere that's doing absolutely nothing for my ability to focus.
We're reviewing footage on his laptop, and he's standing close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally, sending completely inappropriate heat through my entire nervous system.
Neither of us mentions the cab. It's become this unspoken thing—the line we crossed and pretend we didn't, the moment that changed everything while changing nothing.
After watching me fail the same sequence for the fifth time, I break the comfortable silence with the question that's been eating at me for weeks.
"Why did you really quit competitive gymnastics?" My voice comes out quieter than intended, like I'm afraid of the answer.
I glance at him, then back at the screen where my technical failures are frozen in high definition.
"George said you couldn't handle losing. But I've seen your old routines online, and you were..." I search for words that don't sound like I've been stalking his competition history on YouTube. "Extraordinary."
Ford's entire demeanor shifts. For half a second, something raw and painful flickers across his face before the professional mask slides back into place.
"Injuries happen in this sport," he says carefully. "Some are accidents. Some aren't."
Well, that's cryptic as hell.
"What do you mean?"
He swallows hard, voice going distant like he's dragging up memories from somewhere deep and unpleasant. "George wasn't just a rival. He was the cause of my injury."
Wait, what?
"I was pushing for a combination he designed, even though my body was screaming to stop. George had this way of making you believe that pain was just weakness leaving the body." Ford's jaw clenches. "That stress fracture wasn't bad luck. It was the price I paid for trusting someone who saw athletes as disposable."
His confession hits me like a physical blow, the implications sinking in with cold clarity.
The parallels to my own experience under George's "guidance" are too obvious to ignore, but my defensive instincts kick in anyway.
"But still, you don't know anything about my relationship with Coach Foster," I snap, even as doubt starts gnawing at the edges of my loyalty.
"I know you haven't eaten a proper meal in days," Ford says quietly but with steel underneath. "I know you're training through injuries he chose to ignore. And I know that look in your eyes when you nail a routine—you're not performing for yourself or medals. You're desperately trying to earn approval that never comes."
His words slice through every defense I've built, sharp and accurate as surgical instruments. I stand up abruptly, fury rising like a tidal wave.
"You have no right to analyze me like I'm some damaged case study!"
"As your coach, it's my job to see what you're hiding even from yourself," Ford replies evenly, which just pisses me off more.
That's when my body decides to remind me exactly how right he is. Sharp cramps twist my stomach—the familiar punishment for days of existing on lettuce and self-denial.
I double over, hands clutching my sides, and suddenly Ford's there with his hand steady on my back.
"Are you okay?" The genuine concern in his voice catches me completely off guard.
It's such a contrast to the harsh criticism I'm used to that I almost start crying right there in the middle of the gym.
Someone actually giving a shit about my wellbeing instead of just my performance statistics? Revolutionary concept.
I straighten slowly, trying to swallow down the discomfort and what's left of my pride. "I'm fine."
Lies. All lies. Nothing is fucking fine.
When I try to step back and regain some personal space, my traitorous ankle gives out completely.
Ford catches me without hesitation, his hands steady at my waist, and suddenly we're close enough that I can see dark flecks in his gray eyes.
The air between us turns electric. His gaze drops to my lips, then back up, and there's a question in his expression that neither of us is brave enough to ask out loud.
"This is inappropriate," I whisper, but I don't pull away because apparently my self-preservation instincts have completely abandoned ship.
His gaze darkened, intense and unreadable, like he was fighting the same war raging inside me.
"Everything about this is inappropriate," he murmurs back, voice rough with something that makes my breath catch.
Understatement of the freaking century.
The space between us shrinks until I can feel heat radiating off his body, until our breath is mingling and my heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised it's not audible.
Every rational thought in my head is screaming at me to run, but there's something stronger pulling me closer, toward the dangerous territory we've been dancing around for days now since ‘the cab incident’.
His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from my face, slow and deliberate, sending electricity straight through my core.
The weight of his gaze pins me in place, and time feels suspended like we're in some kind of alternate universe where consequences don't exist.
Kiss him. Don't kiss him. This will destroy everything. This might save everything. Make a decision, you coward!
Then the moment shatters like glass hitting concrete.
The gym door slams open with a bang that could wake the dead, and one of the junior coaches walks in, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between Ford and me like a live wire.
I jump back like I've been electrocuted, my face flaming with embarrassment and frustration in equal measure.
Ford steps away smoothly, but I can see the same conflict in his eyes—the same war between what we want and what we know is professionally suicidal.
The junior coach starts chattering about scheduling or equipment or something equally irrelevant while I stand there trying to remember how to breathe normally.
Ford responds with appropriate coaching-related sounds, but I can feel his attention still locked on me.
When the interruption finally leaves, we're left in a silence so thick it's practically suffocating. The unfinished moment hangs between us like a question mark, dangerous and impossible to ignore.
Neither of us says anything, but everything has changed. Again.
This is going to end badly for everyone involved.