There are routines that make you better, and then there are obsessive-compulsive rituals disguised as training.
Sienna Reyes lives entirely in the second category, and watching it is like witnessing performance art about self-destruction.
She weighs herself before and after every single session like the scale holds the secrets to Olympic gold. Same spot on the floor, same ritual of taking off her shoes, same micro-adjustments to get the "accurate" reading that'll probably send her into a spiral anyway.
Food? Also the enemy, apparently. Same meal every day, picking at maybe half of it like each bite is a personal failure. I've seen prisoners eat with more enthusiasm.
Everything's the same order, same movements, same robotic precision.
Girl doesn't know how to exist outside the lines George drew for her, and those lines are basically a psychological prison with really good lighting.
But here's the kicker—she recites George Foster's greatest hits like they're religious scripture.
"Repetition builds discipline. Pain is progress. Show no weakness."
I catch her whispering this shit during drills, stretches, even when she pauses for water she clearly doesn't want to drink. It's equal parts heartbreaking and infuriating.
That night, I don't go home. Can't.
Just drive around until I end up at Murphy's, this dive bar wedged between a bookstore and a boarded-up laundromat. Not looking for conversation, just need the noise in my head to calm the fuck down.
Halfway through my second drink, I hear this laugh that doesn't belong in a place like this. Too bright, too unguarded.
I turn around, and there she is.
Hair down, drink in hand, sitting with people who have zero idea she spends her days systematically destroying herself for sport. She's laughing—loud, easy, like nothing in the world weighs her down.
It's like seeing a completely different person wearing Sienna's face.
And suddenly, I understand the real tragedy here. This version of her exists.
She's just been buried under years of George's psychological warfare, suffocated by routines that were never about excellence—they were about control.
The girl at that table? That's who I need to figure out how to save.
Then I heard something that makes my blood pressure spike like I've been mainlining espresso.
"Adjust your shoulders, Sienna," comes this exaggerated voice that sounds suspiciously like mine. "Don't collapse your ribs, Sienna. Breathe through the stretch, Sienna."
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me.
I watch as she throws her hands up dramatically. "Sweet Jesus, the man's a bigger pain in my ass than George ever was!"
Her table erupts in laughter, and honestly? The impression is devastatingly accurate.
I do say her name too much. I do have that clipped tone when I'm trying not to lose my shit. And apparently, I've somehow managed to be more annoying than her abusive former coach.
Cool. Really crushing this whole mentorship thing.
The smart move would be walking away. Pretending I never witnessed this character assassination disguised as drunk girl bonding time. But my ego has apparently filed a restraining order against my common sense.
I make my way over, weaving through the crowd like I'm approaching a crime scene.
"Glad to know I'm such a hit outside the gym," I say, going for maximum dry sarcasm.
The laughter dies instantly. Her friend—Maya, I think—goes wide-eyed like she's witnessing the Hindenburg disaster in real time.
Sienna turns around wearing the kind of oh-shit expression that would be hilarious if I wasn't the target of her comedy routine. She's trying to look composed, but her heart's practically beating out of her chest.
"Ford," she manages, voice smaller than I've ever heard it.
"Bar night, huh?" I raise an eyebrow because apparently I'm committed to this passive-aggressive energy. "That recovery schedule you're so obsessed with must've slipped your mind."
"Didn't know I needed your permission to have a life," she shoots back, her cheeks already flaming with embarrassment and defiance.
"I don't care if you have a life, but alcohol isn't helping with recovery. Especially not when you've got training in the morning."
Her face cycles through about seventeen different emotions before settling on pissed off. "Well, maybe I don't want to recover. Maybe I want to be a normal person for five fucking minutes."
The words hit like a sucker punch because I get it.
The suffocating pressure, the constant monitoring, the way elite athletics devours every aspect of your existence until you forget who you are outside the gym.
I hold her gaze longer than necessary, something clicking into place. Then I nod and head toward the bar because staying in this conversation feels dangerous in ways I'm not ready to analyze.
But here's the problem: I can feel her watching me.
Every movement, every gesture, my every laugh with the bartender. It's like having a heat-seeking missile locked onto the back of my head.
When our eyes meet across the crowded bar, it's like touching a live wire.
Pure electricity, instant and unavoidable. She looks away fast, pretending she wasn't just eye-fucking her coach in a dive bar.
This is fine. Everything's totally fine. Professional boundaries are completely intact.
By closing time, I'm three drinks deeper into my "how did my life become this complicated" spiral when I spot Sienna leaning against the wall near the exit.
She's trying to look like she has her shit together instead of like someone who's made a series of increasingly poor decisions.
I walk over, casual as I can manage while my brain screams that this is a terrible idea.
"Lost your ride?"
She lets her head fall back against the wall. "Maya left with some guy who had a motorcycle and 'dangerous eyes.' I told her that's code for 'serial killer,' but she was already halfway onto the back of his death trap."
Despite everything, I almost smile. Almost. "You didn't call a cab?"
"Phone's dead. Like my dignity and probably my liver. It's been a banner night."
I should leave her here. Should let her figure out her own transportation like a normal adult. But the thought of Sienna drunk and alone in this part of town makes something protective and monumentally stupid kick in.
"Come on," I say, already knowing this violates about twelve different coaching ethics.
The cab smells like fake pine and poor life choices, but it's dim and quiet. Too quiet. When I slide in beside her, every nerve in my body suddenly wakes up and starts paying attention to things I have no business noticing.
Sienna shifts in her seat, and her thigh brushes mine.
Jesus.
She smells like skin-warmed vanilla and sweat from the gym—innocence and sin all wrapped together. Her dress rides up when she moves, baring more of her thighs and I look away.
Don’t fucking stare. But it doesn’t matter—she’s seared into my memory. Her strength. Her lines. Her fucking focus when she moves across the mat.
God, I’ve noticed everything. Every damn thing I shouldn't.
I'm so fucked.
I’m her coach, I remind myself again. And again. As if that’ll stop me from wanting to pull her into my lap and taste everything I can’t have.
Halfway to her place, her head drops lightly to my shoulder. I don't move away because I'm apparently a masochist with boundary issues, but I tense up like I'm about to snap in half.
When we pull up outside her building, the cabbie mumbles something about arriving, but she doesn't move. Just sits there, heart hammering so hard I can practically hear it.
"You okay?" I ask, voice coming out rougher than intended.
She turns toward me, cheek brushing my shoulder as she shifts. She's watching me with those Bamby-dark eyes, something unreadable flickering across her face.
And then all of the sudden she kisses me.
My breath catches. For a second, I freeze, completely shocked that my drunk disaster of an athlete just made the worst professional decision in gymnastics history.
Then I kissed her back because apparently my self-control decided to take an unscheduled vacation.
Holy shit.
My hand slides to her waist, gripping tight, pulling her in. Her mouth opens, heat pouring through me like gasoline to a spark. Every restraint I’ve had snaps in two. I want to climb on top of her, take her right here, let the whole world burn.
Her mouth moves against mine with desperate hunger that makes my brain completely shut down. Heat, need, and every bit of tension we've been dancing around explodes in the back of a cab.
I don't want to stop. Ever.
But reality crashes back in like a freight train, and I break away suddenly, breathing like I've just run a marathon.
"You're drunk, Sienna," I say, voice rough and broken. "And you shouldn't kiss your coach."
That word—coach—lands between us like a bucket of ice water.
She snaps back, spine stiffening as the professional boundary we just obliterated becomes crystal clear.
"You're not my fucking coach," she says, voice sharp and cold as winter morning.
But we both know that's bullshit.