You know that feeling when someone's shining a spotlight directly into your soul for reasons you can't quite pinpoint? That's been my constant companion all week, and I know exactly who to thank for it.
Riley fucking Martinez.
He's always been the calm, quiet, observant type—easy to ignore, blend into the background, make notes nobody asked for. But ever since Sienna and I let things slip behind closed doors, something's shifted in his entire energy signature.
Stopped acting like a coach. Started acting like a prison warden with a grudge.
He stands closer during practice now, watches longer, takes notes that feel less like training observations and more like evidence collection.
I didn't say anything at first—maybe guilt was screwing with my perception, making me paranoid about shadows that weren't actually there.
Then Sienna shows up at my door looking like she's been hit by a psychological freight train.
Hoodie pulled over her head, sleeves swallowing her hands, eyes darting around like she's checking for snipers. Voice barely above a whisper when she asks, "Can I come in?"
I step aside immediately. "Of course."
She perches on the edge of my bed, picking at her shorts hem like it holds the secrets to survival. Eyes keep drifting toward the window even though curtains are drawn tight as a vault.
"I think someone saw us," she says, words so quiet I almost miss them.
My blood turns to ice water. "Saw us where?"
"Last night. In the recovery room." She won't look at me. "I thought I heard something outside the door after we—"
"You didn't," I cut her off quickly. "No one saw anything."
"But what if they did?" Panic creeping into her voice. "Coach Riley's been acting strange."
I sit beside her, close enough that our knees touch. "He's always a little strange."
"Not like this," she insists. "He keeps watching me. And you. Watching both of us like we're specimens in a lab."
I try to keep my voice steady, reassuring. "Sienna, there's no proof of anything. We were careful. You have to trust me."
She finally meets my eyes, expression tight with worry that's eating her alive. "Are you sure?"
I nod with more confidence than I feel. "Absolutely."
She doesn't respond immediately, just lets out this shaky breath and leans her head against my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her and hold on, even though it feels like my chest is splitting open with guilt.
Because I know. I fucking know someone saw. I know Riley's onto us. And I know I'm lying to protect her, protect us, even if it's making me sick to my stomach.
The next day, I don't even get my gear off before Riley corners me after practice like a predator who's been planning his attack.
"Got a minute?"
I don't ask what it's about. Follow him to the back equipment room—the one with flickering overhead light and cracked tile that screams "clandestine conversations happen here." Door shuts behind us with finality.
No small talk. Just the hum of ventilation and the weight of incoming disaster.
"End it," he says.
My hands clench before I can stop them.
His tone doesn't change, stays flat and matter-of-fact. "Whatever it is between you and Sienna, cut it off. Now."
I don't respond. Let the silence stretch, waiting to see how far he'll push this power play.
"You think this is a game?" he asks. "You get caught, and it's over. The committee will drop you before your name even dries on the termination papers."
Still nothing from me. Strategic silence sometimes says more than words.
He steps closer, invading my space. "She's on the verge of making history. You really want to be the scandal that ruins everything for her?"
That one lands like a gut punch. He sees it too—the hesitation, the flicker of guilt I can't quite hide. Moves in for the kill.
"If you actually care about her, then do the right thing. Walk away before someone makes the decision for you."
"You done?" I ask, voice low and dangerous.
He narrows his eyes. "You don't believe me?"
"I believe you're jealous," I say, letting steel creep into my tone. "I believe you're pissed that she doesn't rely on you anymore. And I definitely believe this has more to do with your bruised ego than her safety."
"I'm trying to protect her."
"No," I fire back, sharper now. "You're trying to control her. There's a difference."
For a second, I think he might actually throw a punch. Jaw locks, fists clench, whole body vibrating with the kind of rage that doesn't need volume to be threatening.
But he stays still, probably calculating whether assault charges are worth it.
I step around him, open the door. Before leaving, I turn back once.
"If you want to run to the committee, go ahead. But don't think for a second I won't fight back."
I don't tell Sienna what happened. She's already carrying enough weight—the pressure, expectations, fear that one wrong move costs her everything she's worked for. The last thing she needs is knowing we're standing on a psychological landmine.
But I can feel it ticking.
Riley thinks he's protecting her, but he's really protecting the institution. The system that chews up athletes and spits out medals. The machine that values results over human beings.
And if it comes down to saving my career or protecting Sienna from that machine?
I won't hesitate to let the whole damn place burn.
Because here's what Riley doesn't understand: I'm not just falling for an athlete. I'm falling for the person who reminds me why this sport used to be beautiful before politics and power plays turned it toxic.
Sienna represents everything gymnastics could be if we stopped treating athletes like products. She's joy disguised as discipline, strength wrapped in vulnerability, excellence that doesn't require self-destruction.
Losing my career to protect that? To protect her?
Not even a fucking question.