Sienna’s POV
I didn't want to go out that night. Honestly, the last thing my exhausted, overtrained body needed was a trip to some dive bar where the drinks cost too much and the music's too loud.
But when my phone started buzzing with texts from Maya and the girls—"Come out! You've been a hermit!"—I caved like a house of cards in a hurricane.
Maybe a few hours pretending to be a normal twenty-one-year-old instead of a walking anxiety disorder in a leotard would help me forget the constant tightness in my chest.
Spoiler alert: it didn't.
The bar was typical college chaos—sticky floors, overpriced cocktails, and enough secondhand embarrassment to power a small city.
My friends were in full social butterfly mode, flitting between conversations about guys, drama, and other shit I couldn't bring myself to care about.
For about an hour, I felt lighter. Like maybe I could be someone who wasn't constantly calculating calories or obsessing over technique.
But no matter how hard I tried to push him out of my head, my brain kept circling back to Ford fucking Callen.
I hated how calm he always seemed, like he had some secret manual for handling life that nobody else got to read. The way he could walk into any room and immediately own it without even trying.
How his presence made my skin feel like it was charged with electricity.
God, I'm pathetic.
"You're thinking about him again," Maya announced, sliding into the booth with a fresh round of shots. "That broody coach with the attitude problem."
"I am not—"
"Please. You get this look on your face like you're solving calculus problems. It's either Ford or you're having a stroke."
The other girls started giggling, which naturally led to them egging me on until I was doing a full theatrical impression of Ford's coaching style.
"Adjust your shoulders, Sienna," I said, adopting his clipped tone while exaggerating his posture. "Don't collapse your ribs, Sienna. Breathe through the stretch, Sienna."
I threw my hands up dramatically. "Sweet Jesus, the man's a bigger pain in my ass than George ever was!"
The table erupted in laughter, and for a moment it felt good to let loose like that. To make fun of the person who'd been living rent-free in my head for weeks now.
That's when Maya's expression shifted, her eyes going wide as she looked over my shoulder. "Uh, Sienna..."
That’s how all of the previous laughter died instantly. I didn't need to turn around to know why—the sudden heat crawling up my neck was explanation enough.
"Glad to know I'm such a hit outside the gym," came that familiar dry voice.
Fuck my entire life.
I turned slowly, trying to look composed even though my heart was attempting to break out of my ribcage. Ford stood there with his arms crossed, wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt that should have been illegal in seventeen states.
"Ford," I managed, my voice coming out smaller than intended.
"Bar night, huh?" He raised an eyebrow. "That recovery schedule you're so obsessed with must've slipped your mind."
The sarcasm hit like a slap. "Didn't know I needed your permission to have a life."
"I don't care if you have a life," he replied without missing a beat, "but alcohol isn't helping with recovery. Especially not when you've got training in the morning."
My cheeks flamed with embarrassment and defiance in equal measure. "Well, maybe I don't want to recover. Maybe I want to be a normal person for five fucking minutes."
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded like something had been decided and headed toward the bar.
Coward.
But here's the thing about liquid courage—it makes you do stupid shit like stare at your coach like he's personally responsible for global warming and your own sexual awakening.
Every time he moved, my eyes followed. The way his muscular shoulders filled out that t-shirt. How his hands wrapped around his beer bottle. The sharp line of his jaw when he laughed at something the bartender said.
Once, our eyes met across the crowded bar. Just for a second, but I felt it like a live wire under my skin.
I looked away too fast, pretending I hadn't been mentally undressing someone who was technically my boss.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm definitely not losing my mind.
Somewhere between round four and a questionable karaoke rendition of "You Oughta Know" that would haunt my nightmares, Maya found herself a guy. One of those tall, broody types with a motorcycle helmet and bad decisions written all over his face.
Fantastic. Now I'm drunk, stranded, and my dignity is somewhere on the floor next to my self-respect.
By closing time, I was leaning against the wall near the exit, trying to look like I had my shit together instead of like someone who'd made a series of increasingly poor life choices.
Ford appeared beside me, slow and casual like always. He stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that made my brain short-circuit.
"Lost my ride," I admitted, because apparently alcohol turns me into someone who states the obvious.
"How?"
I let my head fall back against the wall. "Maya left with some guy who had a motorcycle and 'dangerous eyes.' I told her that's code for 'serial killer,' but she was already halfway onto the back of his death trap."
Ford's jaw ticked, but he didn't laugh. "You didn't call a cab?"
"Phone's dead. Like my dignity and probably my liver. It's been a banner night."
Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close. "Come on."
I followed without protest, which should have been my first warning that the alcohol had completely demolished my decision-making abilities.
The cab smelled like fake pine air freshener and regret, but the back seat was dim and quiet. Too quiet. Ford slid in beside me, his body close enough that every nerve ending I owned suddenly woke up and started paying attention.
The ride to my apartment felt endless. Every bump in the road sent him closer to my side of the seat, and I was hyperaware of everything—the way he breathed, the heat radiating off his body, the subtle tension coiled under his calm exterior.
Halfway there, gravity, or stupidity, made my head drift toward his shoulder. He didn't move away, but I felt him tense like a bowstring about to snap.
When we pulled up outside my building, the cabbie mumbled something about arriving, but I stayed frozen. My heart was hammering so hard I was surprised it wasn't audible.
"You okay?" Ford's voice came out low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel.
No. Not even close.
I turned toward him, my cheek brushing his shoulder as I shifted in the small space. He was watching me with those storm-dark eyes, jaw clenched but mouth looking like it held secrets I needed to know.
The smart thing would have been to thank him, get out of the cab, and pretend this night never happened.
Instead, I kissed him.
Slowly, deliberately, like I'd been planning it for weeks instead of acting on pure liquid courage and terrible judgment. I kissed him like I meant it, like I'd been dying to know what he tasted like.
His breath caught, I felt it, and for a second he froze, probably shocked that his drunk, disaster of an athlete had just made the worst professional decision in gymnastics history.
Then he kissed me back.
Holy shit.
His hand slid to my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like he wanted to tear it off. His mouth moved against mine with a hunger that made my brain completely shut down.
Heat, need, and every bit of tension we'd been dancing around for weeks exploded in the back of a cab that smelled like disappointment.
I didn't want to stop. Ever.
But he broke away suddenly, breathing like he'd just run a marathon, eyes wide and stunned.
"You're drunk, Sienna," he said, his voice rough and broken. "And you shouldn't kiss your coach."
That word—coach—landed between us like a bucket of ice water.
I snapped back, spine stiffening as reality crashed into my tequila-soaked brain. The professional boundary I'd just obliterated. The power dynamic I'd completely ignored. The fact that I'd just kissed someone who held my athletic future in his hands.
"You're not my fucking coach," I said, voice sharp and cold as winter morning.
I shoved the door open and stepped out without looking back, slamming it hard enough to rock the cab. Let him sit there with that. Let him figure out what the hell we'd just done.
Because I sure as hell didn't know.