The victory party is exactly what you'd expect from a bunch of athletes who've been living under pressure for weeks—loud, chaotic, and fueled by enough adrenaline to power a small city and possibly overthrow a government.
The bar near our hotel is packed with gymnasts, coaches, and random people who probably have zero idea what they're celebrating but are happy to drink to whatever success is floating around.
Music's too loud, drinks are overpriced, and everyone's talking over each other like they're competing for some kind of volume medal.
For the first time in months, the knot in my chest has loosened enough that I can actually breathe.
I'm nursing a beer and trying to look like a responsible adult coach instead of someone whose rising star athlete just completely destroyed the competition and looked fucking magnificent doing it.
Sienna placed second overall, nailed every routine, and didn't injure herself in the process.
That last part might be more important to me than the actual medal, which probably says something deeply concerning about my priorities.
I'm talking to other coaches about training schedules and recovery protocols, nodding along to conversations about technique adjustments, but honestly?
I keep losing track of what people are saying because I'm hyperaware of exactly where Sienna is in this crowded bar.
She's across the room with Maya, nursing a beer and looking more relaxed than I've seen her since George's reign of psychological terror ended.
No tension in her shoulders, no darting glances to see who's watching. Just a normal twenty-one-year-old celebrating a victory.
This is who she could be all the time if the sport hadn't tried to destroy her sense of self.
"Callen, you listening?" One of the other coaches, Mike from the men's team, is staring at me expectantly.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you're planning any technique changes for nationals."
Right. Nationals. Professional responsibilities. The reason I'm supposed to be here instead of staring at my athlete like some kind of creep.
"Still evaluating," I say, which is coach-speak for "I have no idea what you just asked me."
Mike nods like this makes perfect sense and launches into some story about his team's beam struggles, but I'm already losing focus again because Sienna's laughing at something Maya said, and the sound cuts through the bar noise like it's specifically designed to fuck with my concentration.
I should not be this aware of her laugh. This is problematic on approximately nine different hell levels.
Maya suddenly grabs Sienna's arm and starts dragging her toward the dance floor where half the team is already making questionable decisions to music that's too loud and too bass-heavy.
Then Maya spots me and waves with the kind of enthusiasm that usually precedes disaster.
"Coach Callen! Get over here!"
Fuck my entire life.
I look up from my conversation, eyebrows raised in what I hope looks like professional confusion instead of panic. Maya waves me over with the gravitational force of someone who's had more to drink than she should have.
"Victory dance!" she announces when I reluctantly approach. "It's mandatory. Team bonding!"
"I don't really dance," I say, which is true and also the least of my concerns right now.
"Everyone dances at victory parties," Maya insists, already pulling me into the crowd. "Besides, your precious rising star athlete needs a partner."
Sienna looks like she wants to murder her best friend, which honestly? Fair reaction.
The music shifts to something with an actual beat, and suddenly I'm surrounded by sweaty gymnasts and Sienna is standing closer than she should be in a public place filled with people who could destroy both our careers with a single cell phone video.
The strobe lights make everything feel surreal, like we're in some alternate universe where coaches and athletes dance together and nobody thinks it's inappropriate as hell.
"This is your fault," I say, leaning closer so she can hear me over the music and immediately regretting the decision because now I can smell her.
"My fault? Maya orchestrated this entire thing."
"You're the one who won today. No victory, no party."
She seems to consider this logic while we're pushed closer together by the crowd.
We're not really dancing, more like gravitating toward each other while bodies press against us from all sides.
Every time someone bumps into us, my hand automatically finds her waist to steady her, and I swear I can feel the heat of her skin burning through her shirt like a brand.
This is fine. Everything is professional and appropriate and I definitely don't notice how perfectly she fits against me.
The music gets louder, bass thumping through the floor and straight into my bones.
The crowd gets denser, pushing us into our own little pocket of space in a corner where the lighting is dimmer and the air is thick with sweat and terrible decisions waiting to happen.
I'm looking at her like she's a problem I need to solve, which she absolutely is. My eyes keep dropping to her mouth, those perfect lips I can't stop thinking about since that night in the cab, then back up, and every time they do, something hot and electric shoots through my entire nervous system.
When she shifts closer, accidentally, I'm sure, my breath hitches like I've been sucker-punched.
My hand is still on her waist, thumb apparently operating independently of my brain and brushing against bare skin where her shirt has ridden up.
The contact sends electricity straight through me, and from the way her pupils dilate, she feels it too.
The crowd surges around us, pushing us even closer until we're pressed together from chest to thigh and I can feel her heart hammering against mine.
My free hand comes up to cup her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone, and I'm pretty sure she stops breathing entirely.
"Sienna," I say, her name rough and low, barely audible over the music.
This is insane. This is career suicide. This is—
She rises up on her toes and closes the distance between us, pressing her mouth to mine like she's claiming something she's been starving for.
My response is immediate and hungry—hand fisting in her hair, pulling her closer, kissing her back like I've been thinking about this every goddamn.
For about ten perfect seconds, nothing exists except the taste of beer on her lips and the way her body feels pressed against mine and the complete and utter destruction of every professional boundary I've ever tried to maintain.
Then reality crashes back in like a freight train loaded with career-ending consequences.
"Shit," I breathe against her mouth, eyes darting around the crowd to see who might have witnessed this spectacular display of professional misconduct. "We can't do this here."
Right. Careers. Age gaps. Power dynamics. The fact that we're surrounded by people with cell phones and social media accounts.
But my body doesn't give a fuck about any of that. My body wants to back her against the nearest wall and find out what other sounds she makes when I kiss her neck.
"Come on," I say, taking her hand because apparently I'm committed to this path of mutual destruction. "Now."
We need to get out of here before I do something that gets us both kicked out of gymnastics permanently.
But as I pull her through the crowd toward the exit, her fingers tighten around mine, and I realize I'm already in so deep that getting kicked out might be worth it.
Fuck.