Ford’s POV
The Olympic committee meeting feels like a tribunal designed specifically to crush athletes' dreams while maintaining plausible deniability.
Sitting in this windowless corporate hellscape, I can practically taste their skepticism about Sienna's readiness.
They're throwing around phrases like "mental stability concerns" and "questionable recovery trajectory" like they're discussing quarterly earnings instead of someone's entire life.
Time to remind these desk jockeys what actual coaching looks like.
"Sienna Reyes is one of the most resilient athletes I've ever worked with," I say, voice steady and loaded with the kind of authority that comes from actually knowing what the fuck I'm talking about. "She's not just ready. She's going to be a force at the Olympics."
The room goes quiet. Good. I lean forward, making eye contact with each of them.
"If you want to see someone who fights through pain and doubt, someone who refuses to quit even when every instinct tells her to, that's Sienna. She's been through hell and came out stronger."
What I don't tell them is that most of that hell was inflicted by people just like them—authority figures who confused cruelty with motivation, who broke her down and called it building character.
After the meeting, instead of going home to forget this bureaucratic nightmare, I find myself back at the gym.
Because apparently my personal life now revolves entirely around one complicated gymnast who's gotten under my skin in ways that should come with a warning label.
Sienna's there, naturally, moving through drills with that focused intensity that makes everything else disappear.
But I'm watching the details now—the slight tremor in her hands after difficult sequences, the way she pushes food around her plate without actually eating, how her frame looks even smaller than usual.
She's still destroying herself, just more quietly now.
The realization hits like a punch to the gut. I've been so focused on technique and trust that I've missed the ongoing self-destruction happening right in front of me.
One afternoon, she's working on a new vault, something technical and unforgiving that requires the kind of precision George probably beat into her.
She keeps missing the mark, and I can see doubt creeping into her expression like poison.
That look. Christ, I know that look.
It's the same haunted expression I had when my career ended, when everything I'd built my identity around crumbled.
"Breathe, Sienna," I say, stepping closer. "It's about control, not brute force. Trust your body to know what it's doing."
She nods, but her eyes tell a different story. This vault isn't just a skill to master, it's everything she's afraid of losing wrapped up in one impossibly difficult sequence.
I don't push.
Instead, I step back and let her process, which is apparently my new coaching philosophy: give space instead of applying pressure. Revolutionary concept in this sport.
Later, I find her sitting alone by the equipment rack, looking like she's carrying the weight of the world on shoulders that are already too thin.
"You okay?" I ask, because apparently my professional vocabulary has been reduced to checking on her emotional state every five minutes.
She shrugs without looking up. "I don't know if I can do this."
The quiet admission hits harder than if she'd screamed it. I sit beside her, close enough to offer support but not so close that she feels crowded.
“You’ve been through worse,” I said quietly. “Remember that.”
"That's the problem.” Her laugh is bitter, almost like a sob. “I'm still here, still fighting, but it feels like it's never enough."
Fuck George Foster and everyone like him.
"I get it. I fought that same battle." I pause, letting my own past settle between us. "But you're not fighting alone anymore."
She finally meets my gaze, and for a moment, those walls she keeps so carefully constructed come down just enough for me to see the exhausted, scared kid underneath all that fierce determination.
"How do you keep going when everything inside tells you to stop?" she asks.
Good question. Wish I had a better answer.
"You find something worth fighting for. Something bigger than fear or pain." I hesitate, then added, "For me, it was proving I could be more than my worst moment."
She nods slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "I want that. I want to believe I can be more than this."
More than what George made you believe you were.
"You already are," I tell her. "You just have to stop punishing yourself long enough to see it."
She looked away again, but this time it felt different. It was like she was considering the possibility of change, not giving up.
"Ford," she says, hesitating like she's not sure she should continue.
"What's up?"
She looks down, then back up with a shy smile that transforms her entire face. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me, even when I wanted to give up on myself."
Jesus, she's going to kill me with that vulnerability.
"That's what I'm here for," I say, trying to keep my voice steady when what I really want is to pull her close and promise her that no one will ever hurt her again.
She looks up then, and there's hope shining in her eyes—real hope, not the desperate kind that's built on fear. "I'm starting to think I might actually make it."
"Not might," I say firmly. "You will."
The certainty in my voice surprises even me, but watching her face light up makes something tight in my chest loosen.
The road ahead is still complicated as hell, filled with competitions and committees and all the political bullshit that comes with elite athletics. But something fundamental has shifted between us.
I can see it in the way she looks at me now—not just as a coach, but as someone who believes in her unconditionally.
Someone who sees her potential instead of just her problems.