"I've seen that spiral before," I said, going for the gentle-but-firm approach. "You don't pull out now, it doesn't end with a medal. It ends in surgery."
Silence. Classic.
I waited, then dropped the hammer. "Take the night off. That's not a suggestion."
She walked away without a word, which honestly? Good.
Sometimes the best conversations are the ones that don't happen.
Here's what I've learned about gym mornings: they smell like chalk, sweat, and concentrated delusion, and they happen before normal humans have achieved basic consciousness.
It's like someone took all the worst parts of being awake and compressed them into one aggressively early experience.
I'm not even halfway through my coffee—barely at the "maybe I won't murder anyone today" stage—when I walk into George Foster's personal torture chamber, already operating at full psychopath capacity.
Whistle around his neck like some kind of demented camp counselor, barking orders at teenagers like he's training Navy SEALs instead of athletes who should probably still be worried about algebra homework.
The sound of his voice could strip paint. The smugness radiating from his face could power a small city.
Sienna's on beam, executing a routine that looks less like gymnastics and more like really expensive robot programming.
Every line is perfect, every movement calculated, zero soul whatsoever.
She's physically present but mentally checked out somewhere around Mars. Her body's going through the motions while her brain has clearly left the building and filed a restraining order against consciousness.
One landing hits weird—ankle wobbles, balance shifts—and she doesn't even pause. Just resets and goes again like minor injuries are background noise.
I wince. My brain goes, "Let it go, Ford," but my feet have already made executive decisions about walking over there.
George spots me immediately because apparently he has radar for people who might threaten his little kingdom of dysfunction. His face does this thing where it transforms into a smile so fake it should come with a warning label.
He strolls over like we're old fraternity buddies about to reminisce about keg stands and bad decisions.
"Well, look who's finally making himself useful," he says, grinning so wide it's basically facial assault. "Figured you'd be hiding in your office, rewriting training plans no one asked for."
I match his energy with maximum fake enthusiasm. "And miss the magic of morning chaos? Wouldn't dream of it."
He lets out this laugh that sounds like it died three weeks ago. "The girls are locked in. Totally focused."
I glance toward the beam where Sienna just nailed another sequence with all the emotional investment of someone reading a grocery list.
"Yeah. Super focused. Especially the one who looks like she's five minutes away from a complete system shutdown."
His smile stays glued on, but his jaw does this subtle clench thing. Dead giveaway. "They're elite athletes, not preschoolers. If they want gold, they've got to earn it."
"Right. Gold over basic human physiology. Totally sustainable business model."
He steps closer, dropping his voice to that special register coaches use when they want to sound threatening without creating witnesses.
"Look, I get that you're still bitter about how your career ended. But don't take it out on my gym."
"Your gym?" I raise an eyebrow because seriously? "Pretty sure these athletes belong to the federation. Or do you keep their contracts in your glove compartment next to your participation trophies?"
His grin twitches. Barely, but I caught it.
"Stay in your lane, Ford."
I let the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable. Then I smile and say, "Always do."
He walks off with his neck turning this lovely shade of rage-red, and I just stand there, arms crossed, watching Sienna finish another flawless, soulless routine.
Her landing is textbook perfect. Not a single technical fault. But her face doesn't change—no relief, no satisfaction, nothing.
She steps off the beam, gives one efficient nod, and resets like she's a machine running diagnostics.
Behind her, two younger girls are straight-up copying her every move. Same stretches, same rigid shoulders, same dead-eyed focus.
One of them winces when she lifts her leg wrong but doesn't stop because apparently pain is just another item on the to-do list.
She's watching Sienna like she's the holy grail of gymnastics, even when following that example is actively hurting her.
I look around. Nobody's talking. Nobody's drinking water.
Nobody's doing anything remotely human. Just rows of silent, perfectly controlled athletes executing orders like they're afraid of what happens if they don't.
This isn't training. This is manufacturing. George isn't developing champions—he's mass-producing trophies with built-in expiration dates.
The realization hits me like a slap: these kids think this is normal. They think this is what elite training looks like. They're copying Sienna's dysfunction because they think it's the blueprint for success.
One girl—can't be older than sixteen—attempts the same beam sequence Sienna just finished. Her form is solid, but there's this brittle quality to her movements, like she's made of glass and knows it.
She lands, wobbles slightly, and immediately looks toward George with this expression of pure panic.
He doesn't even acknowledge her, just makes a note on his clipboard, and her face goes blank again.
Jesus Christ. He's not just destroying Sienna—he's creating an entire generation of athletes who think self-destruction is the price of admission.
The younger girl resets and tries again, pushing through what's obviously a strained wrist because stopping would mean admitting weakness, and weakness is apparently a capital offense in George's twisted little empire.
"Damn it," I mutter, watching this psychological carnage disguised as elite training. "You're doing it again, George."