“We might be enemies, Jennings, but I’m not going to let you throw the entire GB Athletics organisation to those vultures.”
“Enemies?” Jackson laughed. “Main character syndrome, much?” Something in Jackson lit up at the glare Owens sent him. “I don’t think about you nearly enough to consider you myenemy, Owens,” he lied. He may not have considered him an enemy, but he definitely didn’t like Owens calling him out for not being considerate of other people. He especially disliked him being right. Jackson turned on his heel and booked it to the lifts. He was suddenly far too tired to deal with the hot and cold he was getting from Owens anymore, or to think about why he gave a shit at all what his fellow runner thought.
Jackson was very, very late. It was slightly mortifying with the track literally in front of the hotel lobby, its metal railings glinting in the pale March sun. But there was nothing for it. Beth had rung him, stressing about Dad wanting to build a new shed and ignoring the doctor’s orders to rest. He’d had to calm her down, then talk his dad out of it over the phone. Jackson could tell the man was going stir crazy, desperate for a project, but there wasn’t much Jackson could do from here.
Already in a mood when he arrived, he was hardly thrilled to see Owens standing next to Anders when he walked through the gate. A cold breeze swept across the track, tugging at his jacket and sending the faint scent of pine through the air.
“You’re late, Jennings,” Anders barked. “Get a hustle on.”
Owens arched a brow and smirked at him. “I wonder why,” he mused airily.
Jackson nodded and fell into a quick warm-up. He didn’t need yet another ticket to the Owens and Anders buddy show. He got it; they’d worked together for years. Whatever.
By the time Jackson had finished his leg swings, Owens was already circling the track. Jackson fell into step with him, feeling the cold air bite at his lungs, the warmth of his legs from movement a sharp contrast. The familiar beat of his feet on the slightly slick track, legs cycling rhythmically beneath him,helped drain the tension of his hectic morning, and by the time he sank into a deep lunge to finish his warm-up sequence, he felt like himself again.
“So, you have a nice evening?” Owens’s voice cut through the calm that had engulfed Jackson.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jackson rose to his feet. Something in Owens’s tone had triggered his defence systems, but before he could do anything, Anders was over, instructing them to line up and informing them they were running Yasso 800s. The groan that echoed in the air, with Jackson and Owens lamenting their fate in perfect sync, may well have been audible from space.
The Yasso 800 workout consisted of running ten 800m intervals at a consistent pace with equal amounts of active recovery time between repetitions. They were meant to be good predictors of marathon times, which was likely why Anders wanted to run them today, to take stock before the London Marathon. London would be Jackson’s last big race before the Olympics—Owens’s too, he imagined. ’Cause it wasn’t like Anders hadn’t made it clear that Elliot Owens would be joining him on that start line in August. So, the Yasso made sense.
Still, it was the fucking worst workout.
Jackson knew he had a habit of starting too fast. It had been an issue since he’d first started running, but something about the thrill of a race got to him, and he struggled to hold himself back. Lining up with Owens, he could feel that familiar bubble of euphoria building, and he tried to tamp it down, but the second Anders set them off for the first rep, he was flying.
The second rep was the same, though Jackson’s brain came back online partway through and he tried to pull back, recognising that there was no sane world in which he should be leading by as much as he was.
By the fifth rep, he was feeling his earlier mistake. He started to slow his cadence, trying to get his heart rate under control while questioning every choice he’d made that had brought him to this point. Why had he become a runner anyway? He could have been a barista or a film critic. God, that would have been a great job, just sitting, watching films, not being passed on the track by ElliotbloodyOwens.
Wait. Passed by Elliot Owens?
Absolutely fucking not.
Jackson pushed again on the sixth lap. He wasn’t letting Owens win this.
By the eighth rep, he was hanging on for dear life, reciting mantras in his head that were questionable in their effectiveness, and also very actively feeling like he might vomit.
The final lap was upon them, and Jackson wasn’t sure he was going to make it. He could hear Anders shouting something, but it was all just noise as he pushed and pushed.
It wasn’t enough.
Owens sailed past him again, looking like he was out for an easy morning jog, and had the gall to laugh when Jackson collapsed behind him as they finished.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he pushed himself up into sitting. Cold air brushed against his sweat-damp skin, making him shiver slightly even as his muscles burned from the effort. Holding his head in his hands, he caught his breath and mentally berated himself for his lack of control.
A hand appeared in front of him, and he gratefully allowed it to pull him to his feet, only to find himself standing face-to-face with Elliot Owens.
“You okay?” Owens asked. It almost sounded like genuine concern in his voice. God, how bad did Jackson look to have Owens concerned for him?
“I’m fine. I’ll catch you next time,” Jackson replied.
Owens arched one of those perfectly groomed brows at him. “Sure you will, Jennings.”
“Nice one though.” It almost physically pained Jackson to deliver the compliment.
“Thanks. Stamina’s kind of my thing.”
Before Jackson’s brain had processed the comment, Anders was with them. He tossed Jackson a bag of sweets—they’d been working on trying different fuel sources, as he’d admitted he hated gels at one of their early sessions. Anders launched into a review of their performance with nothing but praise for Owens and a nice, long list of everything Jackson had done wrong. Any inkling of goodwill towards Owens that he’d been allowing to fester was wiped away as Jackson watched him take in Anders’s praise like the lapdog he was.
