“Thinks he’s god’s gift to running, I swear,” Jackson groused.
He was on a video call with Darius. They were rehashing a conversation that Jackson knew his friend must be tired of by now, but proximity to Owens was making every feeling of inadequacy a hundred times worse. Jackson knew he was being annoying, but once he got going on Owens, he couldn’t stop. He could hear how ridiculous he sounded, but Elliot Owens had been consuming way too many of his thoughts. There was nothing worse in his mind than four weeks with stupid, perfect Elliot Owens and his stupid, perfect finishing kick; his stupid, perfect posture; stupid, perfect hair; and stupid, perfect eyes, all in this stupidly perfect location.
Darius rolled his eyes, laughing at Jackson for his fixation. It was kind of rude, actually.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if you’d seen him today. Basking in Anders’s praise, and then you know what he said to me? ‘Oh,stamina’s kind of my thing.’ What the fuck? Who says shit like that?”
“Sounds like a come-on,” Darius laughed.
“Can you imagine?” Jackson joined in with Darius’s laughter. “I just don’t get how he can be so cold all the time.”
“Yes, Owens is a dick. We’ve established that. How’s your dad?”
The abrupt shift in conversation struck Jackson hard, and he immediately sobered. “He’s doing ok. Struggling with having to rest.”
Darius snickered. “Runs in the family.”
“I know, I know.” Jackson smiled despite himself. “I wish I were there, though. I feel like the timing’s wrong. Maybe I should give up my spot and…”
“Don’t even joke about that, Jackson. I know I was a dick to you when the news broke, but you worked hard for this.”
“No, I know. I wouldn’t… I’m just…” There was no way he could explain how messed up he was over being selected first. It should have been Darius; everyone knew it.
“Being dramatic?”
Jackson smiled. “Me? Never.”
They might not be fully back to where they’d once been, the Olympics still a gulf between them, but it was nice to be able to talk to Darius like this. They’d hit a rough patch in their friendship not long ago, and Jackson knew it was his fault. It was just, well, he’d started to have feelings, and he knew feelings didn’t align with the arrangement they had, so he’d pulled back. His inconvenient feelings weren’t worth losing a friend over. Jackson had always been a bit much for everyone in that department. In any case, he was over it now. He always did move on quickly. Crushes, hairstyles—Jackson Jennings was nothing if not adaptable.
Jackson rolled onto his side, his phone warm in his hand, thoughts of Owens still circling in his head. God, maybe Darius wasn’t wrong; he had to get control of this fixation. Owens was going to be in his face constantly for the next four weeks. Likely longer, if he was named for the team—and he would be, there was no question in Jackson’s mind about that. Owens was a formidable competitor. It wasn’t even hyperbole when he said stamina was his thing—he was built for endurance, and his long, lean limbs held undeniable strength. Anders had been clear that whatever issues the two of them had had in the past needed to stay there. Olympians didn’t sulk, they adapted. Jackson had never been good at letting things fester anyway. If Owens was going to be this unavoidable, then maybe the smarter thing was to get closer, not further away. Be civil. Be helpful. Be the version of himself no one could look at and think,yeah, he shouldn’t be here.
Chapter 8
Elliot
St. Moritz, Switzerland, March 17th, 5 months to the Olympics
Elliot needed his brain to shut up. Tension was buzzing under his skin, and he couldn’t settle in the sterile hotel room. The first session in St Moritz had gone well, and he knew it. Anders had looked proud of his efforts in the Yasso, but he knew he couldn’t rest on his laurels. Every moment here, he was under scrutiny, needing to prove that he belonged on the Olympic team, that he could work with Jennings and represent their country.
His phone rang. His dad. Again. He’d ignored three calls so far today and knew he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. He answered.
His dad barely said hello before launching into shop talk. “I spoke to Davies this morning. He’s got an ear in the selection committee. You're still in the running, Son. Just stay focused.”
Elliot sighed. His father was constantly doing this; reaching out to selection committee members he knew from his own days in professional athletics, convinced that Elliot couldn’t achieve anything without his interference.
“I know I am. I’ve more than hit the standard repeatedly, and Anders has assured me—”
“Anders isn’t the only voice on the committee, Elliot. You need to learn how to play the game.” His dad interrupted before he could get a word out. “I’ve reminded them how it would look if they put Hewitt on the team now over you.”
“Like they cared about medals?” Elliot snarked.
His father ignored the quip. “An openly gay head coach and a roster full of queer athletes. Elliot, even you can see potential headlines there.”
Elliot swallowed his words. It shouldn’t matter, but that was naive, and Elliot wasn’t naive. He’d already destroyed one career when he didn’t understand the implications. Now, he knew better.
“Anders hates the Hewitts. He’d never.”
“Still, don’t take your eye off the prize. Chris Green’s been putting in some impressive work lately. I’m expecting a strong showing from him at London.”
