Part One: Optics
“What the hell did you do?”
Chapter 1
Jackson
Valencia, 3.5 years to the next Summer Olympics
Nobody ever thought he’d get this far. Jackson Jennings, a veritable nobody as far as the running world was concerned, crossed the line at the Valencia Marathon as the fifth Brit home. He was only seconds behind Elliot Owens, one of the most celebrated up-and-coming marathon runners in the country. The man was practically royalty as far as running went; a true legacy with the kind of times that proved he deserved the hype. Jackson had chased him for the final three kilometres, never quite able to catch him, but that was fine. Competition aside, the view from behind Elliot Owens wasn’t exactly bad.
Jackson bent double, lungs burning, vision edged with white. He’d pushed damn hard today, and it had paid off. When he straightened, the crowd noise crashed over him. He hobbled forward, coming face-to-face with the man himself. Up close, he was even more irritatingly perfect. Pale blond hair that somehow still looked styled after 26.2 miles, and those electric blue eyes that made brands salivate. Owens was the kind of athlete algorithms followed around like loyal dogs, plastering his face across Jackson’s feed in ads for meal-prep services he couldn’tafford, but lingered on regardless. For a moment, their eyes met, and a spark of interest lit up Jackson’s exhausted body. He tamped it down and tore his gaze away, forcing his legs toward the elite recovery tent, dodging reporters—not that many were aiming for him. He was a nobody with a shiny new personal record today, but he wasn’t planning on staying a nobody for long.
Inside, the tent hummed with quiet chatter as athletes gathered in small groups, greeting old friends. It was Jackson’s first full marathon as a professional, and he was still getting the lay of the land, but he was good at making friends and comfortable in crowds. He grinned at a couple of athletes he recognised from smaller races as he made his way through, hunting down somewhere to rest. He dropped onto a padded bench with a groan, his legs protesting, only to look up and freeze.
Darius Hewitt. If Elliot Owens was running royalty, Darius was actual royalty—or close enough that Jackson hadn't figured out the technicalities, anyway. He did know that he was titled, talented, and stupidly handsome with his warm brown skin and sharp cheekbones.
“Nice race,” Hewitt said, sliding onto the bench beside him, long legs folding with an ease Jackson envied as his own legs still shook from the effort. “First time in Valencia?”
“Yeah.” Jackson forced down the inner fangirl clawing up his throat. Equals, he reminded himself. They were equals now. Probably.
“Fast, right?” Darius grinned, and a dimple softened his patrician features. “Saw you PR’d.”
Jackson nodded, unable to keep the proud smile from his face. “I swear half of it’s the course and the other half is the atmosphere. Feels like the crowd is dragging you along.”
A flurry of activity pulled both their gazes to the tent entrance. Elliot Owens stumbled in, sweat-soaked and scowling, trailed by a tall, hawk-eyed man Jackson recognised as Owens’s father and agent, a former legendary marathon runner. Mr Owens’s hand clamped onto his son’s shoulder, steadying him.
“Hewitt,” Owens said flatly as they passed.
“Owens.” Darius’s reply held all the warmth of a winter frost.Guess those two aren’t friends, then, Jackson thought sardonically.
The tension thrummed, and Jackson felt it like a change in air pressure. He pushed to his feet despite his screaming calves and offered a hand with an uncertain smile. “Hey, mate. Jackson Jennings. Nice race today.”
The older man tightened his grip on his son, and Owens’s brow twitched. He didn’t take Jackson’s hand. “Thank you,” he replied, softer than Jackson would have expected.
“I’ll catch you next time.” Jackson kept his most charming grin firmly in place.
There was a pause that felt like it lasted three lifetimes as Owens looked Jackson up and down, evaluating him, and clearly finding him wanting.
“I very much doubt that,” Owens drawled. “You’ll have to work on your discipline if you ever expect to catch up with me.” Then he just moved past them, long strides carrying him deeper into the tent.
Jackson lowered his hand, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He cursed his pale complexion and ginger hair, knowing they betrayed every ounce of the embarrassment he was desperately trying to conceal.
He stood silently for a moment until Darius let out a laugh beside him. “So you’ve now had the unique pleasure of a post-race snub from Elliot Owens. Congratulations, that's the real proof you're a contender."
“Is he always like that?”
Darius smirked. “Usually he’s worse.” He stood, stretching his arms over his head to reveal a glimpse of smooth brown skin under his vest. “Chip on his shoulder big enough to sink theTitanic, that one.”
Jackson nodded, though he couldn’t quite wipe the frown from his face.
“Don’t let him get to you. Elliot Owens has always been a dick.” Darius jerked his head toward the side exit. “Come on. I’ll show you where to get the best recovery meal. You can’t come to Valencia and not have the paella.”
Jackson followed, still buzzing with adrenaline, exhaustion, and the pure absurdity of being guided out the back of an elite tent at a Spanish marathon by a man with a PB he couldn’t even dream of, who probably had his own coat of arms.
He let himself be guided forward, though something pulled his attention. Elliot Owens, leaning against a massage table, alone as his father took a call across the tent. Their eyes met for a moment, and Jackson could have sworn he saw a flicker of something there, but it disappeared as fast as it had arrived, and Owens turned away. Jackson wrote it off as the oxygen-deprived imagination of a man who needed carbs.
Jackson shook himself and turned his attention back to his new friend. Sometimes you meet people, and something just clicks. He hadn’t expected to find that, but he could tell Darius was one of those people for him. They kept up a light stream of cautious chatter. Nothing deep; race strategy, weather, and which parts of the old city were worth seeing. Later that night, Darius didn’t bat an eye as Jackson shamelessly flirted with their cute waiter. And when he apologetically ditched to follow said waiter back to his place, the most famous runner in Britain just handed over his phone number, for safety, and told him to have a good night. Jackson was pretty sure he’d made a friend for life.
