The Coach's Favorite
Description
Former Olympic champion Ford Callen has one rule: never get involved with his athletes. Then Sienna Reyes walks into his gym-talented, broken, and absolutely off-limits. When Ford discovers his star gymnast is being systematically destroyed by her abusive former coach, his protective instincts ignite into something far more dangerous. As Sienna fights for her Olympic dreams, Ford finds himself willing to burn down his entire career to save her. With the Olympics approaching and enemies circling, Ford and Sienna must choose: follow the rules that keep them apart, or cross every line for a love worth fighting for. Some boundaries are made to be broken. Some rules are worth the risk. And some things-like her-are worth burning everything down for.
Chapter 1
Aug 13, 2025
[Ford’s POV]
Walking into Elite Gymnastics Training Center was like stepping into a perfectly curated disaster. And I mean perfectly—someone had to work really hard to make this place look this screwed up.
The uneven bars were practically kissing the wall. The vault runway curved left like it was trying to escape the building. Half the mats looked like they'd been through a blender, then reassembled by someone who'd never seen a mat before.
Honestly, impressive in the worst possible way.
And the lighting? Chef's kiss of awful. Dark corners everywhere, which is basically gymnastics coaching 101 of what not to do.
You need to see everything—bent wrists, wobbly landings, the exact moment a kid's confidence dies. Can't coach what you can't see.
The whispers started immediately. Of course they did.
"That's Ford Callen."
"No way. Thought he was done."
Done. Love that. As if retiring at twenty-five because your shoulder decided to betray you means you just evaporate into thin air. But whatever—I've heard worse for the last eight years since then.
Gold medalist, washed-up legend, burnout king. Pick your favorite narrative.
My shoulder chose that exact moment to remind me why I was here instead of still competing. Sharp pain, right on cue.
Thanks, body. Really needed that callback to the worst day of my life.
And yeah, George Foster's fingerprints were all over that injury too. Shocker.
I headed upstairs to the balcony because I'm apparently a masochist who enjoys watching train wrecks in real time.
Girls' session was in full swing, and George's voice was doing its usual thing—bouncing off every surface like a really aggressive ping-pong ball.
"Sloppy again. Land tighter. You're slow today. That weight's not helping either."
Same George, same energy. Just louder, somehow. Which I didn't think was physically possible, but here we are.
I followed his verbal assault to its target: Sienna Reyes.
I'd heard her name floating around—Olympic potential, clean technique, the works. Watching her now, she had everything you'd want technically. Sharp angles, textbook form, execution so clean it could be in a training video.
But her eyes. Jesus. I knew that look because I'd worn it for years.
Not tired from today's workout. Tired from every workout. Tired from existing in a constant state of never being good enough.
She stuck a landing that should've been impossible—ankle barely wobbled, immediately reset like nothing happened.
No pause, no relief, just straight back to work. It was simultaneously impressive and deeply concerning.
"Again. Hit that dismount clean or don't bother showing up tomorrow."
She nodded. Didn't speak, didn't blink, just swallowed whatever reaction she might've had and moved.
I realized I'd been holding my breath watching this psychological warfare disguised as coaching.
"Jesus, George. Give it a rest," I muttered, knowing he couldn't hear me but needing to say it anyway.
Sienna looked like she was running on fumes. Actually, she looked like she'd been running on fumes for months and was now operating on pure spite and muscle memory.
George spotted me eventually and did this whole performance where he straightened up and dialed back the volume.
Like, oh, suddenly there's adult supervision, better pretend I know what professionalism looks like.
Too little, too late, buddy.
Back in my office—because apparently I have an office now, which is still weird—I dove into the athlete files.
Finally, some quiet. My brain needed a break from whatever psychological warfare I'd just witnessed.
Sienna's folder was a masterclass in red flags. Minor injuries that weren't minor, stress fractures, overtraining markers, and a training schedule that looked like something I would've burned just for existing.
Doctor's notes, ignored recommendations, recovery timelines that made zero sense.
Then I found the email from the center's physician. Flagged, of course, because apparently everyone knew there was a problem except the people paid to fix it:
"Foster's athletes, particularly Reyes, show concerning patterns of weight fluctuation and repeated stress injuries. Previous recommendations for modified training have been ignored. As the new technical director, please advise on the intervention protocol."
I read it twice. Then once more because surely I was misunderstanding something.
Nope. George had been ignoring medical advice. About weight issues. And stress injuries. While continuing to push athletes past their breaking point.
"Of course he ignored it," I said to my empty office, because talking to yourself is apparently what we do now.
This was George's whole deal. Loud, aggressive, and just smart enough not to leave obvious evidence. Except here it was, black and white, flagged by a medical professional who'd clearly given up trying to work within the system.
Sienna Reyes. Twenty-one years old, 5’’2’, 109 pounds. Olympic potential. Being systematically destroyed by someone who confused abuse with coaching.
My shoulder tightened again, like my body was trying to remind me what happens when no one steps in. When promising athletes get chewed up by coaches who mistake cruelty for motivation.
The thing that got me most? Sienna hadn't reacted once today. Not to the yelling, not to the rough landing, not even when George basically threatened her spot on the team.
She'd been trained—and I use that word deliberately—to keep her head down no matter what.
I walked to the window. The gym was finally quiet, just a few girls stretching while the chaos settled.
For the first time all day, the place felt peaceful instead of like it was constantly screaming.
George had been a problem for years. I'd known it back when I was competing, but I was too focused on my own medals and my own shot at glory to say anything.
Funny how perspective changes when you're not the one chasing Olympic dreams anymore.
"Some things never change, do they, George?" I said to the empty gym below.
The Coach's Favorite
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