Chapter 2
Elliot
Boston, 2 years to the next Summer Olympics
Boston used to be Elliot’s favourite race. There was something about the prestige and challenge of racing the world’s oldest annual marathon that spoke to the fierce competitor inside him. He tried to remind himself of that fact as he struggled through the high winds and faltered on the stretch known in running circles as Heartbreak Hill.Doing well today wasn't optional, it was a necessity. His coach had started talking about the Olympics, even though they were still two years out, and nobody was taking this year's performance into consideration. Only the twelve months in the lead-up would count as far as points and finish times went, but when it came to team fit, someone was always watching. Selection was mostly time-based, with the fastest three runners being sent to represent the country, but there was always a chance of the committee using discretionary selection. Elliot wanted more than anything to be one of the three athletes lining up for Team GB on the marathon start line, so he was prepared. He was networking, building up his image and making sure nothing would stand between him and the treasured Olympic call-up. It was the thing that would make upfor everything he'd cost his family. It would make all of it worth it, all the sacrifices he’d made to be the dedicated, perfection-seeking, clean-living athlete the sporting world loved to hate.
He crossed the line three minutes behind his PB, with disappointment marring his face. Not enough. His efforts today wouldn’t impress anyone. In fact, he was certain his dad, or rather, his agent, had already drafted a multi-paragraph email detailing each and every one of his failings. Elliot collected his medal, did his best to smile at the small collection of running journalists who asked him perfunctory questions about how he was feeling and the race conditions. They didn’t really care; he hadn’t done anything spectacular, and he damn well knew it. It wouldn’t be enough to garner any attention or secure any additional sponsors.
“Can you comment on Jackson Jennings’s result?” a reporter asked, snapping Elliot out of his self-pity spiral.
Jackson Jennings. The media loved pitting them against each other lately. Jackson was an affable, proudly queer, working-class success story, who had burst onto the scene in Valencia, coming too bloody close to besting Elliot. He was a perfect foil to how Elliot knew he was perceived, the cold athletics legacy, groomed from birth to be a star. Elliot wouldn't be surprised if his own father had manufactured this rivalry in the press to stir up some media attention. It was mostly bollocks—Jennings wasn’t a threat, even if Elliot did spend a little too much time analysing his race strategies and thinking about the ridiculous roadrunner tattoo on his thigh that peeked out from under his shorts when he lengthened his strides in the final stretch. Even if he had to swallow down the jealousy that flared when he watched him so easily flirt with anyone and everyone, with no thought to what the press might say.
“I haven’t seen the results,” he replied. “Has Jennings pulled off a course record or something?” he asked, injecting a boreddrawl into his voice, though his interest and worry had been piqued. His dad would never stand for someone like Jennings besting him, not when he saw everything Elliot did as a reflection of his own reputation.
The reporter cocked his head. “No, he pulled out at ten miles. A DNF.”
Fuck. A wave of sympathy rushed unexpectedly through Elliot, but he maintained his aloof expression. A DNF was rough for anyone. They happened, sure. Sometimes the best decision was to stop rather than risk an injury that could keep you out of contention for six months or more. Even at elite levels, a marathon is a damn long race, and there is plenty of time for things to go terribly wrong. For all that Jennings infuriated Elliot, he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
“That’s unfortunate,” he replied. “But these things happen. Sometimes lifestyle catches up with us.” He winced internally as the words landed. It wasn't what he'd meant, but he knew how that sounded. This was the last thing he wanted to be known for. It was one thing for him to hide himself away, but he shouldn't be condemning others for choosing not to—that wasn't a good look. But there was nothing for it; the words were already out. He was ushered into the recovery tent for post-race health checks, then released to a brief sports massage before he made his way back to his hotel, desperate for food and rest, earlier words all but forgotten.
He waited for the lift, daydreaming about the hot shower awaiting him upstairs. First, though, he’d make a quick stop by Jennings’s room. Just to make sure he wasn’t beating himself up too badly. With his dad back in the UK, dealing with his other clients, Elliot had a little bit more freedom to at least speak to the man without setting himself up for an hour-long lecture on what someone like that could do to his image. His dad was obsessed with image, with how Elliot's reflected on his legacy,and Elliot owed it to him to follow his lead. He didn’t hate Jennings, though. He…well, he didn’t know how he felt, but he knew he pushed himself harder when he was in the corral with Jennings, that the adrenaline of the race had nothing on the rush of chasing him down.
The lift opened to the fourth floor, where several of the British athletes had been put up. It wasn’t a posh hotel by any means. He’d certainly stayed in better while travelling with his family in his father's racing days. The rooms were functional, but not luxurious. Each one consisted of nothing more than a bed, a small bathroom, and a desk. It was all very modern and open plan, with a screen of tempered glass separating the sleeping area from the bathroom and a foot of space to walk around the bed on either side.
Elliot made his way down the purple-carpeted corridor, passing his own room and aiming two doors down. He rapped on the door he'd seen Jennings exit from that morning. There was no answer, but muffled sounds and a loud thump echoed from the other side of the door. This hotel had clearly not considered soundproofing a priority. He knocked again, sharper this time. “Oi, Jennings,” he shouted. “You alive in there? Are you injured?”
More muffled voices, then Jackson flung the door open. He was shirtless, wet hair thrown into a haphazard bun on top of his head and low-slung grey sweatpants barely concealing a very, very obvious erection. Elliot’s brain short-circuited.
“Owens,” Jackson said with an arched brow. “You checking up on me? Thought you’d be concerned my lifestyle might rub off on you.”
Elliot cringed, his earlier comment coming back to bite him. “I didn’t think you’d heard that.”
“It’s all over social media. Real nice, Owens.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Jackson shrugged. “What are you doing here, then?”
Elliot bit his lip. “I wanted to check you were alright.”
Jackson crossed his arms. “Well, thanks for your concern, but I’ll live. Just an old injury playing up.”
A lump lodged itself in Elliot’s throat as his eyes tracked a droplet of water that fell from Jennings’s hair as he spoke. He followed it over the curve of his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone, then lower, lower down his abdomen. The door opened wider as Jennings shifted, but Elliot was so transfixed by the path of that one little water droplet that he almost didn’t notice the other person in the room. On the bed, visible from the open doorway, was Darius Hewitt. Britain’s marathon poster boy, covered by the hotel duvet with a look of resignation on his face. Elliot’s eyes shifted to clock the rest of the room: two sets of clothing strewn about the floor, steam from the shower dissipating in the air. The connections were forming rapidly in his brain.
He'd never have guessed. Elliot had kind of realised they were friends, but that was only because he saw them so often. He hadn't expected…this. At least Hewitt appeared to possess a modicum of discretion, something that seemed to be beyond Jennings. The risk he was putting himself at, though, it made Elliot’s skin tingle. His father had warned him that proximity to someone like Jennings could start rumours, but then, Hewitt would have a layer of protection granted by his title and hereditary wealth that the rest of them didn’t. Elliot looked up at Jackson again, straight into those warm brown eyes that held a wariness he’d never seen before.
“You can’t say anything,” Jackson said with a glare.
“Obviously.” He sneered. The implication was clear, and look, Elliot knew he was a dick, but he wasn’t that much of a dick—or stupid enough to out the man the country saw as its next big star of the marathon. He turned on his heel and stormed back tohis room, slamming the door shut and turning the shower to a scalding heat, willing it to wash away the pain in his muscles and the sinking feeling in his stomach that he couldn’t quite name.
Chapter 3
Jackson
Copenhagen, 1.5 years to the next Summer Olympics
After pulling out of Boston just ten miles in, Jackson was desperate to prove himself in Copenhagen. He had been benched for months, stuck in his tiny bedsit in London while his fellow runners flew around the globe racking up PBs and appearance fees that he really could have used. It felt like shit. But then, everything had felt like shit since Boston, so it wasn’t anything new.
