I stood my ground, and I don't regret stepping in for half a second.
Was it the right move politically? Fuck no. By protocol standards? Also no. But morally? There wasn't even a question. Sienna needed someone to hit the brakes before she ground herself into actual dust.
The fallout came faster than karma with a vendetta.
Olympic Committee conference room, less than an hour later. Cold as a morgue, fluorescent lights that could blind satellites, polished glass table surrounded by six people who've perfected the art of avoiding eye contact. Not one smile, zero greetings, just judgment thick enough to choke on.
One of them cuts straight to the execution.
"Coach Foster has expressed concern that you've been interfering with his directives."
I raise an eyebrow. "Concern? Or wounded ego?"
The head suit clears his throat, smoothing his blazer like that'll make this conversation less toxic. "He believes your approach is limiting Ms. Reyes' full Olympic potential."
"She's overtrained, exhausted, pushing through injury like it's a fucking Olympic event itself," I say, keeping my voice level but letting the steel show. "That's not building an Olympian. That's manufacturing a breakdown."
They exchange looks—controlled, polite, the kind that says they've already decided but need to maintain the illusion of due process.
"She's progressing under his plan," another committee drone chimes in. "Results speak for themselves."
"Right. And when she collapses during qualifiers, that'll speak just as loud."
Silence stretches like a taut wire. Long enough for the twist in my gut to tighten into something resembling dread.
"We'll monitor the situation," Head Suit finally says.
I let that sit for a beat. "You already are monitoring. You're just comfortable looking the other way when it's convenient."
Nobody answers. They thank me—formally, flatly—and dismiss me like I'm a report they're done skimming.
I leave with my jaw welded shut and both fists clenched hard enough to leave marks.
By the time I hit the hallway, adrenaline's got nowhere to go. I'm about thirty seconds from putting my fist through the nearest vending machine when I spot her.
Sienna's sitting near the gym edge, tying her shoes with the kind of careful precision that screams "barely holding it together." Body looks drained, movements automatic. She doesn't notice me at first, just keeps adjusting tape around her ankle like it's the only thing preventing complete structural collapse.
Something in me cracks wide open.
I cross the room, stop in front of her. "Sienna."
She looks up, genuinely surprised. Like she forgot other humans existed.
"Come with me," I say, dropping my voice. "Don't have to go far. Ten minutes away from this psychological warfare zone. Clear your head."
She pulls back like I've electrocuted her. "No, Ford. Not this shit again."
"You don't have to keep destroying yourself for their approval."
She stands abruptly, energy sharp as broken glass. "I have to."
"You don't," I tell her. "You think you do, but that's the programming talking."
"I said I'm fine!" Voice cracks through the space, echoing louder than either of us expected. Heads turn—not for long, but enough to register we're having A Moment.
She looks away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "I'm handling it."
"You're not handling anything. You're fading, and everyone sees it except you."
Bitter laugh that doesn't sound remotely like her. "Everyone except the people who actually matter. Committee, evaluators, the ones with power to send me to Paris."
I stay quiet because what's the point? She's not wrong.
She runs a hand through her hair, exasperated. "Think I want this? Think I enjoy training until my legs go numb and my brain shuts off?"
"I think you're terrified," I say, careful not to push too hard.
She doesn't argue. Doesn't say anything. Just stares at the floor like it holds answers to questions she hasn't figured out how to ask yet.
That's when Riley materializes beside us.
"Everything okay here?" Voice calm, but his eyes are laser-focused.
Sienna straightens immediately, armor snapping back into place. "Yeah. I'm good."
He looks between us like he's reading a crime scene. "You sure?"
Another nod. "Yeah."
Without another word, she turns and walks toward the vault. No goodbye, no acknowledgment, just steps that look like they're costing her more than she can afford to spend.
I don't follow. Stay exactly where I am, breathing like I just lost a fight I never got the chance to throw a punch in.
Riley watches her go, then turns to me. "This is fucked up."
"Understatement of the century."
"She's not going to make it to Paris if she keeps this up."
"I know."
"George knows too. He just doesn't care."
I look at him—sharp kid, sees what the politics-obsessed adults miss. "What do you think I should do?"
He considers this like it's an actual question worth answering. "Honestly? I think you're fighting the wrong battle."
"Meaning?"
"You're trying to save her from George. But George isn't the real problem."
I wait.
"The real problem is she doesn't think she deserves saving."