Ford’s POV
Ever since that cab ride, I can't stop thinking about the way Sienna tastes. It's fucking with my head in ways that should come with a professional liability warning.
The memory of her mouth against mine keeps surfacing at the worst possible moments—during staff meetings, while reviewing footage, every goddamn time she bites her lip in concentration.
Which she's doing right now, actually.
She's running through beam routines, and I'm supposed to be analyzing her form, noting improvements, making coaching observations.
Instead, I'm cataloging the way her leotard clings to her body, how sweat makes her skin gleam under the gym lights, the little sound she makes when she nails a difficult sequence.
Get your shit together, Callen. You're her coach, not some creepy asshole who can't maintain professional boundaries.
But watching her move is like watching poetry written in muscle and bone.
Sienna’s all controlled power and fluid grace, and when she glances over to see if I'm watching—which I always am—there's something in her eyes that makes my pulse spike.
The almost-kiss in the empty gym last week didn't help matters. The way she'd looked at me, lips parted, breathing unsteady, like she was fighting the same war raging in my head.
If that junior coach hadn't walked in, I would have crossed every line I've drawn for myself.
Still, I keep trying to rebuild professional walls, remind myself she's my athlete and this is my job, but watching her move through morning drills is like trying to ignore a fire alarm.
She's smaller than most of the girls on the team, but fierce as hell, and there's something about her stubborn defiance mixed with hidden fragility that pulls at me in ways that should come with a professional liability warning.
Sienna is still clinging to George's ghost like it's salvation instead of slow poison. I catch her sneaking sips from that sealed container of energy drink, pure sugar and caffeine that Foster apparently swore by.
One afternoon, after the others have scattered, I approach her during cool-down stretches. She's alone on the mat, hair loose around her shoulders, and the sight hits me harder than it should.
"Sienna, sticking to the prescribed regimen is crucial for your recovery," I say, trying to sound like a coach instead of someone who's been cataloging the way sweat makes her skin gleam under the gym lights.
She glances up with one of those tight, polite smiles that doesn't reach her eyes.
"I'm just doing extra to stay in top form, Coach Callen."
The formal address stings more than expected. We've moved past surnames, but she's using professional distance as armor now, I see it.
"The point of recovery is healing, not pushing yourself harder than before," I say, stepping closer than strictly necessary. "These old drills of George's—your body isn't ready for that intensity."
Her eyes narrow with familiar defiance. "I've heard all this before. You don't even remember what it's like to be at the top, to fight to stay there. How many years has it been since your last competition? A fifty? One hundred?"
Jesus, she's beautiful when she's angry.
"Yeah, maybe I’m old now for sport, but I still understand what it means to risk everything," I reply, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "Ignoring your limits isn't fighting smart. It's just self-destruction with better publicity."
She shifts her weight, and I catch a glimpse of uncertainty beneath the stubborn exterior.
I want to break through that shell without tearing it apart, want to touch her in ways that have nothing to do with coaching.
"Why do you keep doing this?" I ask, lowering my voice. "Why sabotage your own progress?"
She looks away, jaw tight with suppressed emotion. "Because if I stop, if I don't push, I'm nothing. Not good enough. Not worth the fight."
The pain in her voice hits me like a physical blow, and suddenly I want to hunt down everyone who ever made her feel that way.
"You're worth more than that, Sienna. More than what anyone else says or expects."
The words come out more intimate than I intended, loaded with subtext we both recognize.
She meets my gaze then, and there's something raw and unguarded behind those dark eyes. "Easy for you to say. You walked away, quit when it got too hard."
"I didn't quit. I wasn’t able to keep holding the top when my body broke." I hesitate, then add quietly, "But I'm not going to let that happen to you."
The silence stretches between us, and I want to tell her how extraordinary she is, how watching her train is like watching poetry in motion, how her laugh makes something tight in my chest loosen.
But the words stick in my throat because crossing that line would change everything.
Later that day, during a break, I found her sitting alone on the bench with her shoulders hunched.
Without asking permission, I sit beside her, close enough to smell her shampoo—something clean and floral that makes me want to bury my face in her hair.
The quiet between us isn't awkward, which should probably worry me more than it does.
"Why do you care so much?" she asks suddenly, turning to look at me. "Why not just coach the way Foster did? It'd be easier."
Because George's methods were systematic abuse disguised as excellence, and because looking at you makes me forget how to breathe normally.
"Because I want you to last, not burn out spectacularly," I say instead. "I know what it's like to be pushed until you shatter."
She scoffs softly, but there's less bite in it than usual. "Doesn't feel like you're making much progress with me."
"Progress isn't always visible. Sometimes it's learning to trust the process instead of fighting it." I pause, then add more quietly, "Learning to trust someone who wants to protect you instead of using you."
Her expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Trust is hard when the people supposed to protect you hurt you instead."
"I get that. The scars run deep." I meet her eyes, hoping she can't see how much I want to touch her. "But I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."
"You sure about that?" she asks, and there's something in her voice—hope, maybe, or challenge.
"Absolutely."
That afternoon, as we wrapped up practice, I saw her glance at me with something close to respect, or maybe just less resistance.
The battle wasn’t over, but the war had shifted.
We're no longer just coach and athlete trying to coexist. We're something messier, more dangerous and infinitely more complicated.
Every time I look at her, I'm reminded how much I want to protect her—not just as a coach, but as something more.
The way she moves, the sound of her laugh, even her stubborn defiance all pull at me in ways that should be illegal.
It's dangerous territory, but it's real. And watching her pack up her gear with slightly less tension in her shoulders, I realize I'm already too far gone to care about the consequences.
Some attractions are too strong to ignore, even when you know they'll complicate everything.