I saw it coming like a slow-motion car crash. Didn't want to, tried to ignore the warning signs, but I fucking knew.
I'd pictured it in my head a hundred times—what would happen if she kept pushing past human limits while everyone looked the other way. And then it happened. Not a close call, not a warning shot, but a full-scale nightmare.
Sienna collapsed in the middle of training.
One second she's on the beam, executing with that mechanical precision George programmed into her. Next second she's on the floor, not moving, body crumpled like someone cut her power cord.
The gym freezes. Someone screams. Paramedics get called.
I can't even get close—they're already lifting her onto a stretcher before I push through the crowd. Someone shouts about her ankle, another mentions she hasn't eaten in over a day. She's pale as fucking paper, barely conscious, thinner than I've ever seen her.
The air in the facility shifts. Everyone moves slower, speaks softer, like the building itself just witnessed something that shouldn't have happened.
And me? I want to rip the walls down with my bare hands.
She told me she was fine, that she could handle George's torture regimen. I believed her because I trusted her judgment. But more than that, I trusted the system to catch her if she slipped.
I was a goddamn idiot.
By nightfall, the Olympic Committee calls an emergency meeting. Not scheduled, not routine—emergency. Like this is some shocking surprise instead of the train wreck we all saw coming from miles away.
Boardroom reeks of burnt coffee and anxiety. Everyone looks like they're waiting for someone to snap, and honestly? They probably are.
Technically, I'm not allowed to speak—observer status only—but I don't plan to stay quiet if it comes to that. I sit near the edge, arms crossed, head down. Waiting for my moment.
George is late because of course he is. When he finally strolls in, he looks calm as ever. Not a wrinkle in his polo, not a hair out of place. Like he just came from a golf game instead of watching one of his athletes get carried out on a stretcher.
"Let's begin," one of the board suits says. "Coach, we need clarity on how an athlete in Sienna Reyes' condition was cleared for advanced-level training."
George doesn't blink. "She's a hard worker. Always has been. Sometimes too much. This was a minor setback. She just needs rest."
I stare at the table, digging nails into my palms hard enough to draw blood.
Another board drone leans forward. "She passed her physical evaluation last week. Was that assessment inaccurate?"
"Evaluations don't catch everything," George says with a shrug. "Athletes have off days. You don't scrap a training plan because of a twisted ankle or skipped meal."
That's it. Done. Finished.
I stand up. "She didn't twist her ankle. She collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition."
George turns toward me like I'm a child interrupting adult conversation. "You're not authorized to speak."
"Too fucking bad," I say. "Because I've watched this happen too many times to sit back now."
He rolls his eyes. "Not this martyrdom bullshit again."
"This is the last time," I say, louder now. Room goes dead silent, every board member turning toward me.
Don't care.
"I saw the signs weeks ago. She told me she was skipping meals to stay in his arbitrary weight range. Training seven hours a day. She wasn't just tired—she was systematically destroying herself. And nobody did a damn thing."
George leans forward, voice sharp. "You're blaming me for an athlete who can't self-regulate?"
"I'm saying she didn't do it because she wanted to. She did it because she was terrified. Scared of getting cut, scared of disappointing you, scared of being replaced by the next girl willing to die for your approval."
"I train champions," George says flatly.
"No," I tell him. "You break them. One after another. And you act like psychological warfare is just part of elite coaching."
He narrows his eyes. "You think this emotional speech is going to change anything?"
"It's not a speech. It's a statement. I've already written the press release. Every major outlet in the country will have it by morning. Photos, messages, voice recordings. From Sienna, from others. This isn't isolated—it's systematic. And I'm done protecting a system that destroys people."
One of the senior board members shifts uncomfortably. "Coach Foster, we're advising you to leave the facility while we conduct a full investigation."
George pushes back from the table, stands slowly. "You're making a mistake."
Nobody stops him as he walks out. I don't wait either—hit the parking lot and head straight for the hospital like my life depends on it.
Room 318. That's all the nurse needs to say before I'm taking off down the hall.
When I turn the corner, I stop short.
George is already in there.
"You need to get back on the mat as soon as the doctor clears you," he's saying, voice low and threatening.
Sienna's sitting up, IV in her arm, skin pale and lips cracked. But her eyes? Wide open, fully aware of what's happening.
"I'm not going back to your schedule," she says.
"You don't have a choice," he tells her. "You want the Olympics? Then you train. No breaks, no pity, no excuses."
"I have a choice," she says, voice steady as steel. "And I'm not doing this your way anymore."
"You think you're stronger than the system?" George asks. "Think you'll get anywhere without someone pushing you past your limits?"
She doesn't flinch. "Pushing is different from controlling. What you do isn't coaching. It's abuse."
George takes a step toward her bed.
That's enough.
I step inside. "George. Leave. Now."
He turns like I'm a fly he can't swat. "This doesn't concern you."
"If you don't walk out right now, I'm calling security and having you arrested for harassment."
He glances back at Sienna, but she doesn't look away. Stares him down with tubes in her arm and enough quiet strength to power a small city.
"You'll regret this," he says.
"I doubt it."
He shoves past me and disappears down the hallway like the coward he's always been.
Once the room's quiet, I move to her bedside and crouch down. Brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin's warm but clammy, eyes clear and determined.
"You okay?" I ask.
"I'm tired," she whispers. "So fucking tired."
"I know." I take her hand, careful of the IV. "But you're not alone anymore."
Her chin trembles. "I thought being strong meant handling everything by myself."
"No," I say. "Being strong means knowing when to stop surviving and start fighting. And now? We fight. You and me. Together. And this time, we finish it."