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.”