The Coach’s Favorite

[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."