Private Coaching

Chapter 21

Ford’s POV

Having George back in the gym is like having a malignant tumor that everyone pretends is just a harmless mole.

His presence doesn't just fill a room, it suffocates it. Every conversation gets quieter, every movement more careful, like we're all walking through a minefield disguised as a training facility.

I watch Sienna during practice, cataloging every micro-expression that suggests George is getting under her skin. The way her shoulders tense when his voice carries across the gym. How her usual fluid confidence turns brittle and overthought.

He's in her head again, and I want to physically remove him from the premises.

"You alright?" I ask during a water break, keeping my voice low. "Seem off today."

She forces a smile that wouldn't fool a blind person. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Right. And I'm the Easter Bunny.

"If something's bothering you, you know you can tell me." Preferably before you internalize it and start destroying yourself again.

She hesitates, then sighs like she's releasing weeks of suppressed anxiety. "It's George. He's been... watching. Like he's waiting for something."

Yeah, he's waiting for you to crack so he can swoop in and play savior.

"That man could make a Buddhist monk want to commit violence," I say, stepping closer. "You don't have to listen to his bullshit anymore."

"It's hard to turn off years of conditioning," she admits quietly. "Especially when he's right there, cataloging every mistake I make."

George's greatest talent is making people forget they have value beyond their usefulness to him. The truth is, I feel the psychological pressure too.

It's not just Sienna who's on edge, it's all of us, walking around like we're being surveilled by someone who collects secrets for sport.

But the real paranoia hits when I notice Riley lurking around our conversations like some discount private investigator.

Speaking of people who need hobbies.

"Hey, Coach Callen," Riley sidles up after practice with the kind of forced casualness that screams I have an agenda. "Long day, huh?"

"Yeah, the team's pushing hard," I reply, trying to sound like someone who isn't mentally calculating escape routes.

Riley shifts from foot to foot, eyes tracking Sienna as she heads toward the locker room. "You and Sienna make a good team."

Danger, Will Robinson.

"Thanks," I say, because what else am I supposed to say? Actually, we make a better team horizontally, or vertically, well actually any way that helps me bury my cock deep enough inside her to hear my name flying from her perfect lips, but that's classified information.

"She's really responded to your coaching style," he continues, and there's something in his tone that makes my internal alarm system start blaring.

This conversation has subtext written all over it.

Because later that night, I catch Riley doing his best impression of a CIA operative, ducking behind equipment when Sienna and I are having what he probably thinks is a suspicious conversation about her beam routine.

Subtle as a brick through a window.

"Do you think he knows?" I ask Sienna the next day, voice barely above a whisper.

She looks down, biting her lip in that way that means she's been thinking the same thing. "I don't know. But I feel like we're being watched constantly."

Welcome to paranoid relationship hell, where every normal interaction feels like evidence of a crime.

"We need to be more careful," I say, even though being more careful feels impossible when every professional interaction we have is loaded with personal history.

"I know." Her eyes meet mine, and I see the exhaustion there. "But sometimes it feels like I'm walking a tightrope with no safety net."

That's because you are, sweetheart. We both are.

The attraction between us hasn't lessened, if anything, the secrecy has made it more intense. Every stolen glance feels dangerous, every accidental touch electric. But the paranoia is turning every moment into a risk assessment.

Is this look too long? Was that touch too lingering? Did anyone see us standing too close?

"Ford," Sienna says during footage review, voice carefully neutral, "do you think we're being too reckless?"

Every damn day.

"I think we don't have much choice except to stay one step ahead of everyone else," I reply, scanning the room automatically for eavesdroppers.

"It's exhausting," she admits.

Tell me about it.

"We can do this," I say, meaning it. "And I'm not going anywhere."

But even as I say it, I'm hyperaware of every person in our vicinity. The way that junior gymnast keeps glancing over. How Riley always seems to materialize whenever Sienna and I are in the same general area.

Everyone's a potential threat when you're living a lie.

After practice, I catch Riley hanging around the lockers with the kind of studied nonchalance that screams ‘I'm definitely up to something.’

"If you're looking for gossip, you won't find it here," I say, voice low but carrying enough edge to cut glass.

He shrugs, but his eyes are calculating. "Just making conversation."

Sure you are. And I'm here for the love of recreational gymnastics.

"Well, make it somewhere else."

Not today, discount Nancy Drew.

That night, alone in my apartment, I replay every interaction from the day.

The way Sienna's confidence falters when George's shadow crosses the gym. How Riley watches us like he's collecting evidence for some future tribunal.

The smart thing would be to end this before it destroys both our careers. The professional thing would be to maintain appropriate boundaries and focus on Olympic preparation.

Too bad I've never been particularly smart or professional when it comes to Sienna.

Because here's the thing that keeps me awake at night: she's not just my athlete anymore. She's the person I think about first when I wake up and last before I fall asleep.

She's the reason I give a shit about anything beyond just getting through each day. And that makes her both my greatest strength and my most dangerous vulnerability.

George can play his psychological games. Riley can lurk around corners collecting his suspicious glances. The entire gymnastics community can whisper about inappropriate relationships and professional boundaries.

None of it changes what I know to be true.

Sienna is worth every risk, every sleepless night, every moment of paranoia.

Not because she's talented or because she might win Olympic gold, but because she makes me remember what it feels like to care about something more than just survival.

I run a hand through my hair, decision crystallizing. We'll be careful. We'll be smart. We'll play the game better than everyone trying to catch us.

Because losing her isn't an option.

Not to George, not to Riley, not to anyone who thinks they know what's best for us better than we do.

Game on.