Private Coaching

Sienna’s POV

"Sloppy form on that dismount, Reyes!" Coach Foster's voice cut across the gym like a whip crack.

He stormed toward me, clipboard clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

"And those landings—are you gaining weight again? It's getting obvious!"

Around us, the other gymnasts froze mid-routine, their eyes darting between George and me like spectators at a gladiator match.

Sarah stopped her floor routine entirely. Maya's hands slipped on the beam.

"I hit my marks," I said, my voice steady despite the fire burning in my chest.

"Don't you dare argue with me!" George stepped closer, invading my space until I could smell his stale coffee breath. "Your body fat percentage is up. Your form is deteriorating. And if you think attitude is going to get you to the Olympics—"

"My weight is exactly what it was last month."

The gym went dead silent. Even the sound system seemed to pause between songs. George's face flushed red, his jaw working like he was chewing nails.

"Extra conditioning. Tonight. And tomorrow morning at five AM." He scribbled furiously on his clipboard. "Maybe hunger will teach you respect."

I stayed still, heart pounding from more than just exertion.

In gymnastics, perfection isn't a goal, it's a demand, and the price is your body, your mind, and everything in between.

I learned early enough that pain gets praised and silence keeps you safe. But even silence can't shield you when everything starts to shift.

The gym doors creaked open, and Maria Holloway, the center director, stepped inside.

Clipboard in hand. Tight jaw. I could tell something was off before she said a word.

“George. Sienna.” Her heels clicked across the floor. “We have an update. Ford Callen is joining our coaching staff.”

The name hit harder than George’s insults. I glanced at him, and the reaction came fast, pure disdain.

“Callen?” His voice climbed. “That washed-up has-been? Couldn’t handle being second best, so now you're bringing that reform zealot into my program?”

"Our program," Maria corrected sharply. "And he starts today."

"Over my dead body!" George's face went purple. "That man is poison! He destroys everything he touches with his soft-approach nonsense. My girls are champions because I make them champions!"

"Your girls are breaking down," Maria shot back, her composure cracking. "Injury rates are through the roof. Three girls quit last month alone."

"Weak links!" George slammed his hand against the nearest apparatus. "I don't coddle quitters!"

I stayed quiet, processing. I’d heard of Callen, of course. Everyone had. Olympic prodigy turned coach with a reputation for... well, a lot.

He was either ahead of his time or a walking controversy, depending on who you asked. George hated him, clearly. That alone made me curious.

"I..." I started, but the gym doors opened again.

Ford Callen walked in like he owned the place.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black athletic wear that made him look like death incarnate. His dark hair was tousled, a thin scar cutting through his right eyebrow like a battle wound.

But it was his eyes that commanded attention—sharp, observing, missing nothing as they swept the room.

He didn't announce himself. Didn't smile or offer pleasantries. He simply stood there, taking inventory of the chaos he'd walked into.

"Callen." George's voice dripped with venom.

"Foster." Ford's response was flat, emotionless.

The tension between them was electric, crackling across the space like live wires. Every gymnast in the room felt it.

We'd all heard the stories—former training partners, rival coaches, bad blood that went back years.

Something about the way he looked at me, not lascivious, not cruel, but clinical, and it made my pulse jump. And then I hated myself for noticing how attractive he was.

He looked like trouble.

The kind that didn’t yell but dismantled you with silence. I broke eye contact, jaw tight, and resumed stretching like it hadn’t happened.

"Sienna Reyes," he said, my name carrying weight in his deep voice.

"That's my athlete," George snarled, stepping protectively—or possessively—in front of me.

“Sienna, I know this is sudden,” Maria started. “Ford Callen has a different approach, but he’s been brought in for a reason. He’s highly respected.”

“I already have a coach,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Coach Foster’s methods work.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m not asking you to switch loyalties. Just… be open. We all want you at the Olympics. Callen’s here to help.”