So here's the thing about pain in gymnastics: there's the kind that builds character, and the kind that straight-up ruins your life. Guess which one I got to experience firsthand?
I'm sitting in my office well past closing, in the dark like some kind of vampire who forgot how day-night cycles work. My elbow's propped on the desk, fingers drumming this annoying rhythm that's probably driving the janitor insane.
Not working. Not reading. Just existing in this weird liminal space where my brain decides to throw a trauma party and invite all my worst memories.
Thanks, brain. Really needed that tonight.
The quiet here doesn't calm me down—it amplifies everything. Like turning up the volume on a song you hate but can't stop listening to. And once that mental playlist starts, good luck hitting skip.
Nationals. Of course it's always fucking Nationals.
Picture this: arena thick with tension, warm-ups running late because someone cough George cough was playing mind games with the schedule. I'm sitting at the edge of the mat doing my usual shoulder roll routine—right side, left side, pretend everything's fine.
My leg had been aching for weeks. Not smart to ignore it, but adrenaline is basically liquid stupidity that convinces you pain is just weakness leaving the body or whatever motivational garbage coaches feed you.
Then George Foster struts across the floor like he's auditioning for a cologne commercial. Same smug smile, same I-own-this-place energy. Shoulder-checks me "accidentally" because subtlety is dead and George killed it.
"Loosen up, Callen."
Didn't even look at me. Classic power move.
"Nice to see you too, George," I replied, going for maximum dead-fish energy.
Jordan, my teammate and designated voice of reason, gave me the look. "You're gonna let that slide?"
"He's insecure. Let him act tough." I shrugged because what's the point of feeding trolls?
"He's been screwing with the mat order all season. Wouldn't be surprised if he pulled something today."
I glanced over. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Spoiler alert: it wasn't.
"Next up on floor exercise, representing Team USA, Ford Callen."
Lights shift. Jog to center. Smile for cameras like you're not internally screaming. Drop into starting pose. Breathe.
This was it. Everything I'd worked for, sacrificed for, bled for. The moment that was supposed to define my entire existence.
First tumbling pass, and immediately I knew something was wrong. The mat felt off—stiffer, like someone had messed with the springs. But you can't stop mid-routine because you have a feeling, so I pushed through.
Too much power, not enough control. Twisted early, missed the angle, landed like a sack of broken dreams.
Pain shot up my leg so fast it knocked the breath out of me. I went down hard, clutching my ankle while the crowd collectively gasped. Someone screamed. The announcer's voice turned into background noise.
"...unexpected fall from Callen, medical staff to the floor..."
Everything blurred together—lights, sound, the crushing realization that my life just ended in front of thousands of people. And there's George at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, looking about as surprised as someone watching paint dry.
Hospital bed. Leg in a brace. Coach pacing like a caged animal while the doctor stands there with his clipboard of doom, wearing that carefully neutral expression they teach in Medical School 101.
"Severe fracture. Talus bone is shattered. Few ligaments torn. You'll need surgery to reconstruct the joint."
Cool. Love that for me.
"What about recovery?" Coach asked, because someone had to.
Doctor hesitated. Never a good sign. "Even with rehab, the range of motion won't meet elite standards."
"So I'm done." Not a question.
"You won't compete again."
And that was it. No dramatic music, no slow-motion montage, just a guy with a clipboard casually mentioning that my entire identity was now obsolete.
The rumors started immediately because gymnasts love drama more than they love chalk. Some said George tampered with the mats. Others claimed he bribed equipment crew or threw off my timing with that bump. Nothing proven, just whispers and speculation.
But I knew. George knew. And that was enough.
I shake off the memory because dwelling is for people who have time to waste. My shot was over, but I made myself a promise that day: if I ever saw someone else heading for the same cliff, I wouldn't just watch them jump.
The gym lights start shutting down, one by one, like the world's most depressing timer. I grab my jacket, finally ready to admit defeat and go home.
Then I hear it. Soft thud of landing mats. Quick footsteps.
Someone's still here.
I walk to the hallway, lean against the wall by the viewing window, and there she is. Sienna Reyes, grinding through vault after vault like she's trying to drill a hole through the floor.
This isn't practice. This is obsession wearing a leotard.
Her hair's falling out of its ponytail, face pale with exhaustion, but she keeps going. Vault. Land. Walk back. Reset. Again.
Every movement is technically perfect, but it doesn't look like focus. It looks like fear. She's not performing like a competitor—she's reacting like someone trying not to drown.
One landing wobbles. Her ankle gives slightly, and she curses under her breath. Without missing a beat, she resets and goes again.
This isn't drive. This is desperation, and I can spot the difference from a mile away.
Another vault, cleaner this time, but her takeoff was late. The kind of late that destroys knees and ends careers.
My hand moves to the door handle, but I don't open it. Not yet.
Sienna walks back toward the runway, shaking out her arms like everything's fine, like she's not half a step away from completely breaking apart.
I step inside.
She doesn't notice me at first, just resets herself and takes a breath.
"You planning to walk tomorrow?" I ask.
She freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn around, doesn't say a word. But her shoulders sag just enough.
Got her.