Coaching Sienna Reyes is like trying to perform surgery on someone who keeps insisting the gaping wound is just a really aggressive freckle.
Every suggestion I make gets met with the kind of resistance usually reserved for hostile takeovers or root canals.
It's not just about gymnastics—I'm apparently challenging her entire existential framework, which seems to be built entirely on George Foster's toxic bullshit.
Today's fun begins during vault practice. She's sprinting toward the table with that familiar adrenaline-junkie intensity, and I can already see the problem brewing in her approach.
"Sienna, wait," I say, holding up my hand like I'm directing traffic instead of trying to prevent an injury. "Try shifting your hands just an inch wider on the springboard. You'll get more power and better control."
She freezes mid-stride, and for exactly half a second, I see it—that flicker of consideration before her defense mechanisms slam back into place like blast shields.
"Coach Foster always said my hand placement was perfect," she snaps, words sharp enough to draw blood.
Right. George said it was perfect, probably right before telling her everything else she was doing wrong. Classic abuser move—one compliment followed by seventeen critiques.
Without waiting for my response, she resets and launches into the vault exactly like she always does. Sticks the landing with the kind of precision that would be impressive if it wasn't clearly costing her.
She shoots me a glare that could melt titanium. Try to argue with that result, asshole.
"Don't fix what isn't broken," she mutters, wiping sweat like she's erasing evidence.
I don't respond immediately because honestly? I'm trying to figure out how to help someone who's actively committed to self-destruction. She thinks she's proving me wrong, but all I see is an athlete compensating for systemic problems with sheer force of will.
It's not sustainable. But explaining that to someone who's made stubbornness an Olympic sport feels like trying to reason with a hurricane.
Later, during warm-ups, I make another attempt at basic human decency.
"Try this with me," I say, demonstrating stretches that might actually help instead of just looking impressive. "It's designed to reduce injury risk and improve recovery time."
Her jaw clenches so tight I'm genuinely worried about her dental work. "This is how Coach Foster prepared us. I don't need anything new."
The refusal isn't just pride—though that's definitely part of it. Accepting my approach means accepting that maybe George's methods were harmful. That maybe she's been systematically damaging herself while calling it dedication.
Can't have that conversation yet. Girl's not ready.
"You don't know what it takes to get me ready," she says, eyes cold enough to freeze hell.
So I watch her power through George's warm-up routine, cataloging every wince she tries to hide, every micro-adjustment that screams chronic pain.
The burn in her muscles, the ache in her joints—George convinced her this was the price of excellence instead of the cost of his incompetence.
She's normalized pain to the point where she doesn't even register it anymore. But I can see it. Every landing, every transition, every moment where her body betrays the facade she's desperately maintaining.
When she launches into a complicated tumbling pass without waiting for approval—because apparently we're doing unauthorized gymnastics now—I feel that familiar frustration spike.
The other girls exchange glances. They can feel the tension too, probably wondering if they're about to witness a full-scale coaching meltdown.
My brain's racing. She doesn't want me here, doesn't want change, doesn't want any reminder that George is gone and her carefully constructed world is shifting beneath her feet.
But she can't let go either. Won't let go. Because what if I'm wrong and George's methods were the only thing standing between her and complete failure?
She keeps moving, pushing harder than before, even though her ankle is clearly screaming in protest. The pain pisses her off because it's proof that maybe George wasn't the saint she's made him out to be.
But admitting that feels impossible.
"Sienna, slow down for a second," I call from across the gym. "Let's talk about that pass."
She turns, breathing hard, sweat stinging her eyes like tears she won't let fall. "I'm fine. I know what I'm doing."
"It's not about what you think you can do," I say, walking over but keeping my distance. Girl's got fight-or-flight responses that could power a small aircraft. "It's about what your body can handle, especially with that ankle."
The observation hits like a slap. How does she not realize I can see what she's hiding? I've been where she is—ignoring injury, pushing through pain, convinced that acknowledgment equals weakness.
"You weren't there when Coach Foster fought for me," she says, frustration bubbling to the surface like lava. "You don't know what it took to get here."
My expression softens because honestly? This isn't anger—it's grief. She's mourning the loss of someone who probably saved her career while simultaneously destroying her sense of self-worth.
"I'm not here to replace him," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I'm here to make sure you get the chance to finish what you started. Without breaking yourself in the process."
The words land harder than I intended. I can see her brain processing the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this pain isn't normal. That George's version of preparation was actually destruction disguised as discipline.
But thinking those thoughts feels like betrayal.
"George saved my career," she says, voice harder than reinforced steel. "When everyone else wrote me off, he believed in me."
"And now I'm here," I reply simply. "Believing in you too. Just differently."
For a split second, I see it—that part of her that wants to listen. Wants to trust that maybe there's a version of elite gymnastics that doesn't require sacrificing pieces of your soul for medals.
But that part gets silenced fast by the louder voice that sounds exactly like George.
She crosses her arms, lifts her chin, armor fully engaged. "I'm not changing my approach for someone who quit competing when things got tough."
Low blow. We both know it. My injury ended my career through no fault of my own, but she needs me to understand that she's not some broken toy I can fix with better methodology.
"Fair enough," I say, not taking the bait because honestly? I've heard worse. "But I'm not going anywhere. And when you're ready to try something different, I'll be here."
She walks away, still limping slightly, still pretending she's fine.
And I stand there, watching a girl destroy herself in slow motion, wondering how the fuck I'm supposed to save someone who's convinced their drowning is actually swimming.
This is going to be a long season.