Two hours later, the committee made it official with the kind of bureaucratic efficiency that would be impressive if it wasn't destroying my life. They called it a "temporary coaching reassignment" to "ensure equal access to Olympic coaching paths."
Fairness. What a fucking joke.
It wasn't about fairness at all. It was George using his connections, flexing that legacy power he's cultivated over decades of destroying athletes, and watching the system fold under his weight like a house of cards in a hurricane.
The worst part? She let it happen.
Sienna just stood there while they handed her back to the man who'd spent years systematically demolishing her sense of self-worth.
No fight, no protest, just quiet acceptance like she was resigned to her own destruction.
Monday hit like a psychological warfare storm. George took over her schedule completely—two-a-days with no rest built in, no nutrition monitoring, no recovery stretches. Just pure, concentrated toxicity disguised as elite training.
"Again," George barked from across the mat during a drill that should've been routine.
Sienna reset without a flinch, which honestly made my stomach clench worse than if she'd argued. The robot was back, replacing the girl who'd finally started to remember what joy felt like.
"Point your toes, Reyes. You're not lounging on a fucking couch."
She landed the pass clean—technically perfect and emotionally dead. No reaction, no eye contact, just silence where her personality used to live.
"Next pass. Let's go."
"Got it," she said, voice barely audible.
I stood on the sidelines with arms crossed, every muscle in my body screaming to intervene. Her technique was precise, almost robotic—sharp but lifeless, like watching a machine execute commands instead of an athlete expressing herself.
And her eyes? Completely gone. The spark I'd worked months to nurture had been extinguished in less than a week.
Later, I found her adjusting her grips behind the bars. Her knuckles were red raw, shoulders rigid with tension that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with psychological pressure.
"Sienna," I said quietly.
She didn't look up, just kept fiddling with those grips like they held the secrets to Olympic gold.
I stepped closer. "We need to talk."
"I'm late for bars," she replied, still avoiding my gaze like eye contact might actually kill her.
"He can wait."
"No, he can't." The finality in her voice hit like a slap.
"You don't have to do this," I said, pushing harder because someone needs to fight for her even if she won't fight for herself. "You can come back. You were thriving with me."
She finally turned toward me, movement slow and sharp like a blade being unsheathed.
"I was thriving because I was trying to earn my way into an Olympic slot. This—" she gestured toward George's domain of destruction "—this gets me there."
I shook my head. "This breaks you. You're slipping back into the version of yourself that didn't know how to breathe without permission."
Her voice dropped to a whisper that somehow hurt worse than yelling. "I'm not yours to protect anymore, Ford."
That hit me harder than I expected, like a punch directly to whatever's left of my heart. Then she walked away, shoulders squared as if our conversation hadn't just left a crater between us.
Every day after that felt like watching a slow-motion car accident while being powerless to prevent it.
George shouted louder, corrections got harsher, threats became daily occurrences. He yanked routines mid-drill, threatened cuts, treated her like a soldier instead of an athlete. Like a product instead of a person.
"Faster," he snapped one afternoon, voice carrying across the gym like a whip crack. "You're thinking again. That's your problem. Stop thinking and execute."
"I'll fix it," she muttered, barely audible.
"You'd better. Your spot isn't guaranteed."
No flinching, no fighting, just another set. She trained on a wrapped ankle, ignoring pain, ignoring me, ignoring the person she used to be.
Thursday afternoon, she landed heavy. I saw her wince before she even stood up, that telltale shift in weight that screams injury.
But she didn't ask for help, didn't ice it, just pulled her sock back up and limped to the next rotation like pain was just another item on her to-do list.
After cooldown, I caught up with her. "You're limping."
"I'm training," she answered, not even pretending to care about the distinction.
"That's not the same thing."
She grabbed her bag with mechanical efficiency. "Stay out of it."
"Sienna, come on—"
"Let me go, Ford," she said flatly. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."
I couldn't stop thinking about the bruises I couldn't see, the subtle hitch in her landings, the silence where her laughter used to live. She used to steal my clipboard just to annoy me.
Now she barely looked in my direction.
We used to drive home together, talking about technique and life and everything in between. She hadn't waited by my car in a week.
I sent a text once: > You okay?
She read it but never replied. Because apparently even basic human concern is now off-limits.
During a break, a junior gymnast asked me, "Coach, why isn't Sienna training with you anymore?"
I hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't sound like the bitter truth. "It's just a rotation change."
"But she looked happier before," the girl said with the brutal honesty only kids possess.
Yeah, kid. So did I.
That night, I stayed late and went through her training file like some kind of masochist.
Pulled up footage of her latest bar routine, watching frame by frame while my chest got tighter with each perfect, soulless movement.
It was flawless. Every grip, every pointed toe, every extension sharp and technically superior to anything I'd coached her to do.
But it was hollow. Like she was performing for someone else, like she wasn't even inside her own body anymore.
A ghost going through the motions while the real Sienna was buried somewhere deep where George's poison couldn't reach her.
I closed the laptop and stared at the floor, trying to process the magnitude of what I was witnessing.
This wasn't about medals or points or Olympic programs. This was about her—the real Sienna who laughed at terrible jokes, pushed limits because she could, who was learning to be more than just an athlete.
That version was slipping away, replaced by the old model with walls up and eyes that wouldn't meet mine. The one who existed only to execute commands and absorb criticism.
And yeah, that hurt more than I wanted to admit. Because watching George systematically destroy the person I'd helped her become felt like losing something I didn't even know I needed.
But more than that, it felt like failing her when she needed me most.
And that was something I wasn't sure I could forgive myself for.