There are different kinds of pain in sports. Some sharpen you into a better athlete. Some slowly grind you into dust.
But the kind that forces you to sit still while someone you're falling for gets systematically destroyed in real time? That's the kind that rewrites your entire nervous system.
I'm perched on the edge of her couch, fists pressed into my thighs hard enough to leave bruises, while Sienna curls into the corner like she's preparing for psychological warfare. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, ankle propped on a pillow, eyes already exhausted from the fight we haven't even started yet.
"Please," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "Let me handle George."
I don't respond immediately. Just stare at her, trying to calculate some version of this where I don't completely lose my shit.
"Ford." Softer now, like she's talking to a wild animal. "If you step in too early, they'll think you're the problem. He'll twist everything. Make it about your jealousy, your inability to accept his success. He always does."
"I don't give a fuck what he thinks."
"Well, I do," she fires back, suddenly sharp. "Because I actually give a damn about what happens to your career."
That stops me cold. Because she's not just asking me to stay quiet—she's asking me to watch her get destroyed while pretending it's a strategy.
I don't nod. Don't agree. But I give her what she's asking for: my silence.
For now.
The next morning hits like a psychological sledgehammer.
George strolls into the gym like he's reclaiming his kingdom, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle swinging like a weapon. The second his foot touches the mat, he starts his reign of terror.
"Let's go, ladies. Three months to turn this team into Olympic gold, not group therapy sessions."
I plant myself off to the side, every muscle coiled like a spring.
He doesn't look at me directly, but he knows exactly where I am. Every word that comes out of his mouth after that is designed to hit like a targeted missile.
"You call that a landing? I've seen crash test dummies with better body control."
"This isn't a spa day, Reyes. You don't need to like the routine to execute it."
Then, louder, for my benefit: "You want comfort and validation? Join a fucking book club then!"
Most of the athletes keep their heads down. A few visibly wince.
Sienna just keeps moving like a robot following programming, eyes glued to the floor, running warm-ups on pure muscle memory.
Perfect technique. Zero soul.
She rolls her ankle longer than necessary during stretches, doesn't even blink when he adds extra drills like punishment for existing.
During beam work, she wobbles. Barely, but enough.
George starts slow-clapping. Deliberate. Mocking. "Well, well. That's what happens when you confuse emotional support with actual coaching."
I move before my brain catches up. One step forward, chest tight, ready to end this motherfucker's career and mine in the process.
Then I stop. She asked me to let her handle it.
So I stand there like a coward, every muscle screaming for action, while the girl I can't stop thinking about takes psychological hit after hit from the same coach who destroyed her before.
"This is fucked," someone mutters beside me.
I turn slightly. Riley, the junior coach. Quiet, observant, usually keeps his mouth shut.
"She's disappearing," he whispers. "Right in front of us."
I don't answer because we both know he's right. It's in the way Sienna tapes her ankle like she's binding wounds. How she avoids eye contact with everyone, including me. The silence that follows her like a toxic cloud.
Then she steps up for her next routine. One she has absolutely no business attempting on that ankle.
"Sienna," I call out, breaking my own promise. "Don't."
She doesn't even glance in my direction and George smirks. "Problem, Callen?"
"Yeah, actually," I say, stepping forward. "Huge fucking problem."
"Ford, don't." Sienna's voice cuts through the gym like a warning shot.
But I'm done. Completely, utterly done. "You’re literally destroying her and I'm not gonna stand here, pretending this is coaching."
"Jealous much, Ford?” George's smile turns predatory. “Can't handle that she chose the better coach?"
"Better coach?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You're a psychological terrorist with a whistle."
"Ford, stop." Sienna moves between us, panic written all over her face. "Please."
"No," I say, not taking my eyes off George. "I'm done watching him turn you back into that scared robot who apologizes for breathing."
"I'm handling it," she hisses.
"You're not handling shit. You're surviving. There's a difference."
"Touching. Really.” George claps once, sharp and mocking. “But last I checked, she's my athlete now. So unless you want to file a formal complaint—"
"Maybe I will."
"With what evidence? That I'm demanding excellence? That I don't coddle my athletes like they're made of fucking glass?"
"That you're abusing them," I say flatly.
The gym goes dead silent. Sienna's face goes white. "Ford, what are you doing?"
"What I should've done weeks ago."
"Careful, Callen.” George's expression shifts, calculating. “That's a serious accusation. Could damage your career if you can't back it up."
"Try me."
"Ford." Sienna grabs my arm. "Stop. Please. You don't understand what you're doing."
I look at her—really look. At the fear in her eyes, the way she's protecting the man who's systematically destroying her.
"I understand perfectly," I say. "I'm choosing you over my career. Again."
Her face crumples. "I never asked you to do that."
"You didn't have to."
George watches this exchange like it's entertainment. "How romantic. The washed-up coach sacrificing everything for his little pet project."
That does it.
I take a step toward him, and Sienna moves faster, pressing both hands against my chest.
"Don't," she says urgently. "He's not worth it. I'm not worth it."
"Like hell you're not."
But I stop. Because she's looking at me like I'm about to destroy the last good thing in her life.
Maybe I am.
George adjusts his clipboard, smug satisfaction radiating off him. "Well. This has been enlightening. Sienna, let's get back to work. Callen, there's the door."
I look at Sienna one more time. She's torn between us, caught in the middle of a war she never asked for.
"This isn't over," I tell George.
"No," he agrees. "It's not. But you might want to consider how much you're willing to lose before you decide what your next move is."