I hadn't planned to interfere. Meant it when I promised Sienna I'd let her handle George's psychological torture chamber masquerading as elite coaching.
But promises are for people who don't have to watch someone they're falling for get systematically destroyed in real time.
"Again, Reyes," George snaps like his voice is a loaded weapon. "That landing was weak."
Sienna resets without hesitation. Moves like she's wound up and can't stop even if she wanted to. Robot mode fully activated.
I'm standing ten feet away, barely breathing, fists clenched so hard my knuckles are white.
"You're collapsing on the left side," he barks. "Lazy technique. Again."
Another landing. Her knee dips—I catch the wince she tries to hide. George either misses it or sees it and doesn't give a shit. Probably the latter.
"Again."
Riley speaks up from behind him, voice steady but careful. "She's already done seven reps—"
"She'll do ten," George cuts him off without even looking. "We're not here for participation trophies."
Sienna steps back into position like she hasn't heard a word. Face blank, body mechanical. But her ankle's shaking—anyone paying actual attention can see it.
Anyone who gives a fuck about her wellbeing, anyway.
"Let's go, Reyes," George says, voice dripping condescension. "Unless you need someone to hold your hand through this?"
That's it. Done. Finished.
I step forward before my brain can talk me out of it. "Sienna. Stop."
The gym freezes like someone hit pause on the entire universe. Every motion halts, every conversation dies. Sienna stays still, eyes down, body frozen mid-step.
George turns to me slow and smug, like he's been waiting for this moment his entire pathetic career.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That's enough."
He starts walking toward me, chest puffed out like a rooster with anger management issues. Voice dripping fake authority.
"This is my floor, Callen. You don't run this session."
"Don't need to run it to call out abuse when I see it."
"She's training."
"She's limping."
"She agreed to this."
"She's scared."
Now we have an audience. Coaches watching, athletes staring, committee members in the mezzanine pretending to look at their screens while listening to every word.
Riley steps between us, hands raised like he's defusing a bomb. "Alright, let's bring it down a notch. This isn't the place—"
But George isn't finished. Never is.
He leans in, voice dropping to that special register assholes use when they want to make sure you feel every syllable.
"You care way too much about one gymnast. Why is that, huh?"
I don't blink. Don't flinch. Don't give him the satisfaction.
He raises his voice, loud enough for the whole gym to hear. Making sure everyone gets the full show.
"What is she to you, Ford?"
There it is. The question I've been dodging, the landmine I've been stepping around for months. The one that could destroy both our careers if I answer honestly.
What is she to me?
Everything. The answer I can't say, shouldn't say, will never say in a room full of people with smartphones and ethics committees.
But I don't have to answer because Sienna beats me to it.
"I'll do the modified version," she says, voice clear and steady and loud enough to carry across the gym.
George blinks like she just spoke in ancient Greek. "What?"
"I'm doing the modified routine. That's final."
She's not asking for approval. Not negotiating. Not apologizing. Just stating facts like she's reading the fucking weather report.
When she looks at me instead of him, I get the message loud and clear. Not now. Not like this. Please.
I step back. Once, then again. She needs space to draw her line in the sand, and I have to respect it even if every instinct I have is screaming to finish what I started.
George turns like he's won some kind of victory, but he hasn't. Not even close.
Sienna just took control of her own narrative, and that's worth more than any argument I could've won.
Practice ends in the kind of silence that feels like suffocation. George leaves first—probably to rehearse whatever damage control speech he's planning to feed the committee about "difficult coaching transitions" and "professional boundaries."
The tension doesn't lift when he walks out. Just settles deeper, weighing down every corner of the gym like toxic fog.
I linger near the monitors, pretending to review footage. Truth is, I'm not ready to leave her yet. Can't walk away when she's sitting there looking like she just survived a natural disaster.
Sienna's perched on the edge of the mat, legs pulled in, water bottle clutched between both hands like she needs it to stay grounded. Adrenaline crash hitting hard—I can see it in the way her shoulders shake, the way she stares at nothing.
Riley kneels beside her, offers a fresh bottle. "You don't owe that man another injury," he says quietly.
Smart kid. Sees what the rest of these idiots miss.
Sienna doesn't respond, just twists the cap off and stares at the water like it holds answers to questions she hasn't asked yet. But she doesn't walk away either, which means she's processing instead of fleeing.
Progress.
I stay where I am, hands clenched at my sides, every muscle tight with leftover rage and protective instincts I can't act on.
Can't keep pretending I'm fine standing on the sidelines while she gets torn apart. Can't let her keep falling while I do nothing useful except document her destruction.
Not again. Not like this.
The question George asked hangs in the air like smoke: What is she to you?
The answer's simple and complicated and completely fucking dangerous.
She's the person I'd destroy my career to protect. The athlete who makes me remember why I loved this sport before it tried to kill me. The woman who kisses like she's claiming territory and fights like she's got nothing left to lose.
She's everything I shouldn't want and can't stop needing.
And George knows it.