Private Coaching

Chapter 12

Sienna’s POV

I should've stopped training hours ago, but apparently my self-preservation instincts have completely abandoned ship.

The empty gym feels safer than my own thoughts right now, which says something deeply concerning about my mental state.

The mats are still warm from day training, overhead lights buzzing like dying insects, and I'm standing here pushing a body that's already waving white flags of surrender.

This is healthy. This is totally normal behavior.

Another tumbling pass, another shaky landing that makes my ankle scream in protest. I clench my fists, reset, and immediately eat shit on the next attempt.

The frustration surge is so familiar it feels like muscle memory, that chest-tightening panic that used to hit when George was watching.

Except George isn't here. So why does this feel exactly the same?

"You're holding back," Ford's voice cuts through my spiral from somewhere behind me. "Not physically. Emotionally."

Jesus Christ.

I spin around, heart hammering like I've been caught committing a crime. Which, considering how many training protocols I'm currently violating, isn't entirely wrong.

He's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, jaw tight, those storm-dark eyes locked on me with intensity that makes my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio.

How long has he been watching me slowly lose my mind?

"I'm doing everything as you said," I snap, louder than intended because apparently volume control is another skill I've temporarily misplaced.

Ford steps forward, not fast, but with the kind of deliberate movement that suggests he's not planning to let me deflect my way out of this conversation.

"Are you? Or are you just doing enough to keep me satisfied while you chase some impossible version of perfection that doesn't exist?"

My stomach drops because he's right and I hate that he's right and I especially hate that he can see through my bullshit so effortlessly.

"That's not fair," I say, but my voice wavers like a teenager caught lying about her curfew.

He moves closer. Too close. Close enough that I can see the lines around his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls like he's fighting some internal battle.

"You're still performing for approval, Sienna. Not yours. His. You train like George is still in your head, still watching, still waiting for you to fail."

Fuck.

"You don't know what it was like," I whisper, staring at the floor because meeting his eyes feels too dangerous right now.

"No, I don't," Ford agrees. "But I know what it looks like when someone's training from fear instead of freedom. I've been there."

The word "freedom" hits like a physical blow because when's the last time I did anything that felt free? When's the last time I moved because I wanted to instead of because I was terrified of what would happen if I didn't?

"You think I want to be like this?" The question comes out sharper than intended as I step toward him. "You think I haven't tried to change?"

His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't judge, just holds steady while I fall apart in front of him.

"I think you've never had permission to."

Permission. Like it's that simple.

Like I can just decide to stop being fucked up and everything will magically fix itself.

The room suddenly feels smaller, his presence filling every available inch of space. I notice his hand at his side, fingers twitching like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.

"I'm not broken," I whisper, because that's what this feels like. Like he's cataloging all my damage and finding me insufficient.

"I never said you were."

Then he reaches up, hesitating for half a second before his thumb brushes across my cheek, catching a tear I didn't realize had fallen.

The contact burns more than it soothes, but I don't pull away because apparently I'm a glutton for complicated situations.

"I see the strength you don't let yourself own," he says, voice low and rough in a way that makes something deep in my stomach clench. "You deserve to fight for yourself, not for a ghost."

We're standing too close, breathing the same air, and the tension between us is so thick it's practically visible.

His hand lingers at my jaw, and for one absolutely insane moment, I want to kiss him.

Because everything in me is drawn to him—his stubbornness, his honesty, the way he looks at me like I'm more than just a collection of athletic achievements and psychological damage.

This is a spectacularly bad idea.

But bad ideas have been my specialty lately, so why stop now?

The moment stretches between us like a held breath, electric and inevitable, and I can see in his eyes that he's thinking the same thing I am.

That we're about to cross a line that'll change everything.

Then the universe decides to remind us both that we're idiots. A crash echoes through the building, metal weights hitting the floor like a gunshot, and we spring apart like we've been electrocuted.

My breath hitches, his hand drops, and suddenly there's too much space between us and not nearly enough.

We stare at each other like deer in headlights, both pretending that whatever just almost happened was a figment of our collective imagination.

"That was probably James," Ford says, clearing his throat. "He forgets to rerack the plates."

Right. James. Weights. Normal gym sounds. Not the universe cockblocking us.

"I should cool down," I mutter, brushing past him toward the stretching area.

But as I move, my shoulder grazes his chest, and the brief contact sends heat shooting through me like I've touched a live wire.

My heart's hammering so hard I'm surprised it's not audible, and I know damn well it has nothing to do with the workout.

"Sienna," Ford says as I'm walking away, and I stop but don't turn around because I'm not sure I can handle looking at him right now. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself."

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. "I'm not."

But we both know I'm lying.