Ford’s POV
Working with Sienna Reyes is like trying to perform surgery on someone who's actively fighting the anesthesia.
Her resistance isn't subtle, it's architectural. Every suggestion meets a wall, every correction gets deflected with surgical precision.
I get it. After years under George's psychological warfare, I'm the enemy who's trying to dismantle her entire worldview.
That doesn't make it less fucking exhausting.
One afternoon, I find her in the athlete's lounge, pushing lettuce around her plate like it personally offended her. The "meal" consists of about twelve leaves, some sad cherry tomatoes, and the kind of portion control that makes my chest tight with recognition.
I pull up a chair across from her. Time for another round of "Ford tries to prevent athletic suicide."
"Sienna, we need to talk about your nutrition."
She looks up, dark eyes steady and completely unyielding. "I'm fine, Callen. I eat what I need to."
Right. And I'm the Queen of England.
The lie sits between us like a third person. I can see the truth in the way she picks at her food, the faint shadows under her eyes, the careful choreography of someone who's turned self-starvation into an art form.
George's voice is probably still echoing in her head, the constant demand to be smaller, lighter, more "perfect."
I'm watching his psychological programming play out in real time, and it's making me want to punch something.
"This isn't about control," I say, keeping my voice softer. "It's about keeping you strong enough to survive practice, let alone competition."
She doesn't respond, just looks away with that jaw-clenched expression that screams ‘fuck off and leave me alone.’
Later in the gym, things go from bad to catastrophic.
We're working tumbling when she starts pushing herself past every reasonable limit. Two failed attempts at a triple twist, and I can literally see her body begging for mercy.
Instead of backing off, she charges at it again with the kind of determination that's one step away from self-destruction.
"Sienna, stop," I say, stepping directly into her path.
She skids to a halt, glaring at me like I just cancelled Christmas. "I'm fine! I have to land it."
"No. You're injured and exhausted. Trying to muscle through this will only make it worse!"
Her eyes flare with that particular brand of fury reserved for people who've been told "no" their entire lives. She's used to fighting, to proving herself, to ignoring every single warning her body sends.
But this time, I'm not backing down.
I guide her away from the tumbling area, and she doesn't physically resist, but the tension between us could power half the state. The other athletes stop what they're doing to watch—they can sense we're crossing some invisible line.
New coach trying to protect the rising star athlete who's never been protected from anything, including herself.
I knew, Sienna's loyalty to George isn't just about the man, it's the only foundation she has. When that cracks, everything's going to collapse.
I'm not sure she realizes how close to the edge she's already standing.
Over the next few days, I become a professional stalker, watching for the signs I've learned to recognize.
I'm not just trying to fix her technique—I'm trying to save her from burning out before she even hits her prime.
Every conversation about nutrition gets shut down. Every suggestion about rest meets cold silence. She's building walls faster than I can chip away at them, and I'm starting to feel like I'm fighting a losing battle.
One afternoon after practice, I caught her in the corner of the locker room, massaging her ankle. The skin is red and swollen, definitely not "fine" like she keeps claiming.
"You need to rest that," I say, moving closer. "That ankle isn't healed."
"I'm fine," she says without looking up.
Jesus Christ, if I hear "I'm fine" one more fucking time...
"Sienna, I'm not here to argue. I want you to succeed. But you won't get anywhere if you keep ignoring the damage you're doing."
She finally meets my eyes, and for half a second, I see the fight falter. The exhaustion, the pain, the part of her that's screaming for someone to make her stop.
But it comes back quickly, sharpened and fierce.
"I don't need saving," she says quietly. "I just need to finish what I started."
Fuck. I understand that better than anyone.
The desperate need to prove something, to justify all the sacrifice and pain. But I also know what finish lines look like when athletes refuse to listen to their bodies.
I've seen careers shattered because pride got in the way of survival.
The days that follow feel like an endurance test. She meets every attempt to help with resistance that's becoming more creative and sophisticated.
It's a constant power struggle disguised as professional coaching.
The other athletes are watching this play out like it's premium entertainment. Some look uncertain, like they're not sure who to root for or what any of this means for their own training.
But I don't have enough bandwidth to worry about team dynamics.
My focus is laser-locked on preventing Sienna from completing her current trajectory toward complete breakdown.
She's got talent that could take her to the fucking Olympics, but talent means shit if you destroy yourself before you get there.
She needs to learn how to accept help without seeing it as weakness.
Most of all, she needs to trust someone new after years of psychological conditioning that disguised abuse as excellence.
I know it won't happen overnight. Hell, it might not happen at all. She might fight me until one of us gives up or her body makes the decision for both of us.
But I'm not backing down. And I refuse to watch another prodigy burn out because the adults around them were too chickenshit to challenge a broken system.
Welcome to the world's most complicated coaching assignment.
If Sienna Reyes is going to make it to Paris intact, she's going to have to learn that sometimes the strongest thing you can do is admit you need help.