“Of course,” Elliot whispered. His father had signed the young prodigy over a year ago, and he was about to make his full marathon debut. His father may not have meant it as a threat, but it certainly read as one.
“The nutritionist he’s been working with has paid dividends.”
“Good for him,” Elliot replied.
"We've signed some great new athletes, too. Ones who really know how to take risks to be the best. Who understand sacrifice."
"I understand sacrifice," Elliot replied, affronted.
"I know you do. That’s why you'll outlast Playboy idiots like Jennings. Keep the risks for the road, not the papers, and you'll build a legacy to be proud of."
"Yes, Dad."
“Get some rest, Son.” His father sighed.
“Night. Give Mum my love.”
Elliot stared at the wall, blank, after they hung up. His mind kept circling back to what his father had said earlier: “a roster full of queer athletes.” He hated them for it, for the attention they drew. If he made it, and he bloody needed to, there would be rumours. Rumours about him, about why he’d been selected. Because Jennings, Hewitt, and even Anders felt the need to put their personal business out there for public consumption. It was as if they didn’t understand how dangerous that was, as if they didn’t see how it could destroy everything they’d built. The last thing Elliot needed was more scrutiny on his personal life.
The silence of the room pressed in. He thought about his family and what he’d once cost them, and he did what he always did. Pushed it down. Locked it tight. Other people could be honest. He couldn’t. Not when one truth from him could unravel everything all over again. Elliot cracked his fingers, the tension building up in every inch of his body. He grabbed a bottle of juice from the minibar and sat cross-legged on the duvet as he scrolled through the endless options on the hotel’s in-room entertainment system for a loud, distracting action film.
Once he’d drained the bottle, Elliot stretched himself out. The film was still playing in the background, but it couldn’t hold his interest enough tonight to distract him from his circling thoughts. He navigated over to his social media and posted the final clip he’d prepped for the day. With his shot at the Olympics hanging in the balance, he knew he couldn’t afford to let anything slip. The athletics world demanded perfection in all areas; there was no room for any cracks.
Elliot scrolled absently through his feed, his thumb swiping up and up and up until something caught his eye.
Jackson Jennings.
That bloody clip he’d shown him on the plane. He still didn’t understand what had possessed Jennings to ask him for advicelike that. Sure, he’d likely been given the same spiel Elliot had about burying the hatchet; one his father’s assistant, Sue, had reminded him of yet again when she’d informed him that the campaign he’d been hoping for had gone to Jennings. ‘Don’t let him get under your skin, show the selection committee you can put the good of the country first. Blah Blah Blah.’
Elliot watched the clip again, scoffing at the low production value and the overt attempt at a thirst trap. Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to scroll away. The lighting in the clip was all off, and it was grainy, just like he’d told Jennings.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he tapped on Jennings’s profile. There was a newer post, taken in a hotel room identical to the one Elliot was currently lying in. His breath caught in his throat. He’d tell himself forever that it was the shock that Jennings appeared to have actually taken his hastily offered advice and cleaned his camera lens. It had nothing to do with the soft tilt of his head, or the way his hair tumbled loose from the green bobble he’d tied it up in, drawing the eye down the curve of his neck. God, even Elliot’s own brain wouldn’t let him hold on to that delusion.
Jennings had set his phone up at an angle, catching his upper body as he moved through what looked like a fairly standard series of stretches. Shirtless, hair rumpled, muscles shifting visibly under pale, freckled skin as he went through slow, deliberate movements.
There was something unguarded about it. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the usual infectious grin he turned on everyone he knew. This was casual, almost intimate. Elliot watched as Jennings yawned midway through a set, his mouth going wide, his abs flexing with the motion before he shook it off and kept going. The sleepy weight of it, the way his movements lacked their usual precision, made warmth coil low in Elliot’s stomach.
He should scroll past. He really should. He was absolutely going to do that.
Instead, he watched. And then rewatched.
This was worse than the times he’d done this in his own flat, hidden from the world. Jennings was just down the corridor. His room looked exactly like this one. It felt almost intimate.
Elliot swallowed. His mouth felt dry. He went to take another sip of his drink, only to remember it was empty. Shit.
The video looped again. Elliot felt like he noticed something new each time it cycled through. He watched intently as Jennings rolled his shoulders back, his neck stretching enough for the tendons to stand out. His skin looked warm, like he’d crawled out of bed and decided to start moving. The low light made everything softer, more touchable. Elliot’s fingers tightened around his phone.
He should turn it off. He should go to bed.
Instead, he tapped the video so it filled the full screen.
Elliot was already half hard as he watched the way the plaid pyjama bottoms fell lower on his rival’s hips as the routine progressed, as he catalogued the way stray strands of fiery hair escaped the bun Jennings wore it in as he moved, falling softly to his chin. Elliot rubbed himself over his tracksuit bottoms. He wasn’t going to do this, was he? It was too far, too pathetic. Too weak.
It had been a while, though. He’d been too…too something, to bother going out. Melancholic maybe. And now that his interest had been piqued, his cock was demanding attention. Elliot let the video keep looping, holding it directly over his face as he gripped his cock with his right hand. It felt fucking brilliant, and besides, it wasn’t like Jennings would ever know. Nobody would.
He let his imagination run wild. He pictured Jennings there with him, imagined licking down that firm chest and tugging the ridiculous flannel pyjamas down further. It wasn’t hard tovisualise, with the bed identical to the one Elliot was lying on clearly visible in the frame of the video. This was fucking pathetic. He knew it. He had to work with Jennings now; he shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. But he couldn’t stop himself.
Precum leaked from his tip as he let himself get lost in the fantasy, working himself faster as he watched Jennings drop into an impossibly low lunge. Fuck.
