Sienna’s POV
Ford Callen doesn't just challenge my technique, he challenges everything I've built my entire identity around.
And honestly? Fuck that noise.
Every time he opens his damn mouth, I can feel my carefully constructed world threatening to collapse.
His corrections aren't just about gymnastics, they're surgical strikes against the foundation George spent three years building. My routines, my discipline, my sense of self-worth are all wrapped up in George's methods.
Ford questioning those methods feels like he's questioning whether I'm worth anything at all.
During vault practice, I'm sprinting toward the table, feeling that familiar adrenaline surge that makes everything else disappear.
Mid-run, Ford holds up his hand like he's directing traffic.
"Sienna, wait," he says, voice calm but authoritative in a way that immediately pisses me off. "Try shifting your hands just an inch wider on the springboard. You'll get more power and better control."
I freeze for half a second, and that's what really gets me. The fact that part of my brain actually considers his suggestion before I shut it down.
"Coach Foster always said my hand placement was perfect," I snapped, words coming out sharper than I intended.
Because George did actually say that. Repeatedly! Usually right before telling me everything else I was doing wrong.
Without waiting for Ford's response, I reset and launch into the vault exactly like I always do. When I stick the landing, I shoot him a glare that could melt steel.
Try to argue with that result, asshole.
"Don't fix what isn't broken," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Ford doesn't respond immediately, just watches with that unreadable expression that makes me want to scream.
I know he thinks he's helping, but to me it feels like he's systematically dismantling everything that's kept me sane for years.
Later, during warm-ups, he strikes again.
"Try this with me," he says, demonstrating a series of stretches that look nothing like George's protocol. "It's designed to reduce injury risk and improve recovery time."
"This is how Coach Foster prepared us," I say, jaw clenched so tight I'm probably grinding my molars to dust. "I don't need anything new."
The refusal isn't just about pride, though that's definitely part of it.
Accepting Ford's approach means accepting that George might have been wrong about things. That maybe I've been doing damage to myself while calling it dedication.
Nope. Not going there.
My eyes locked on his, cold and unyielding. “You don’t know what it takes to get me ready.”
Ford doesn't push, just watches as I power through my own warm-up routine.
I can feel the burn in my muscles, the familiar ache in my joints that George always said was the price of excellence. The pain has become so normal I barely register it anymore.
But Ford's watching like he can see things I'm trying to hide.
When I launch into a complicated tumbling pass without waiting for his approval, I catch the flicker of frustration that crosses his face.
He wants to stop me, correct me, change what I'm doing. The other girls exchange quick glances—they can feel the tension too.
My brain is racing a million miles an hour. I don't want him here. Don't want this change, this reminder that George is gone and everything I thought I could count on is shifting beneath my feet.
But I can't let go. Won't let go. Because what if Ford's wrong and George's methods are the only thing standing between me and complete failure?
I keep moving, pushing harder than before, even though my ankle is throbbing with every landing. The pain pisses me off because it's proof that maybe George wasn't looking out for me the way he claimed.
But admitting that out loud feels impossible.
"Sienna, slow down for a second," Ford calls from across the gym. "Let's talk about that pass."
I turn, breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes. "I'm fine. I know what I'm doing."
"It's not about what you think you can do." He walks over, careful not to crowd me. "It's about what your body can handle, especially with that ankle."
The observation hits too close to home.
How does he know about my ankle? I've been hiding that pain for weeks.
"You weren't there when Coach Foster fought for me," I say, frustration bubbling to the surface. "You don't know what it took to get here."
His expression softens slightly, but his voice stays steady.
"I'm not here to replace him. I'm here to make sure you get the chance to finish what you started. Without breaking yourself in the process."
The words land like a punch to the gut because they sound too much like something I've been thinking but refusing to acknowledge.
What if I am breaking myself? What if this pain isn't normal? What if George's version of preparation was actually destruction disguised as discipline?
But thinking those thoughts feels like betrayal of the highest order.
"George saved my career," I say, voice harder than I feel. "When everyone else wrote me off, he believed in me."
"And now I'm here," Ford replies simply. "Believing in you too. Just differently."
Part of me wants to listen. Wants to trust that maybe there's a version of elite gymnastics that doesn't require sacrificing pieces of my soul for medals.
But that part is small and easily silenced by the louder voice that sounds suspiciously like George.
Trust no one. Work harder. Pain is a weakness leaving the body. Champions are made, not born.
I cross my arms and lift my chin, armor firmly in place. "I'm not changing my approach for someone who quit competing when things got tough."
It's a low blow and we both know it.
Ford's injury ended his career through no fault of his own. But I need him to understand that I'm not some project he can fix with better methodology.
"Fair enough," he says, not taking the bait. "But I'm not going anywhere. And when you're ready to try something different, I'll be here."