Jackson wasn’t entirely certain how he’d expected Owens to react when he’d thrown the door to his hotel room open with Darius still naked inside. It had been reckless, that was for sure, and completely unfair to his friend, but something in him had been trying to provoke a reaction. He’d known Owens for two years, seen him at almost every race and finished just ahead of or just behind him with remarkable consistency. But he didn’t know shit about him other than what he heard from Darius or saw in the press. It had been surprising to see him at his door, had felt like an olive branch he'd been waiting on for years, and he hadn't fully thought through the consequences of throwing the damn door open. He blamed the DNF that had had himdoubting everything about his place in the sport for the lapse in judgement.
Owens’s reaction had been… well, Jackson had thought it was something else at first. Then he saw it, the dark look in his eyes when he realised what he was actually looking at. That was the moment Jackson knew he’d made a massive mistake. He should’ve pretended he was out. Or asleep. Anything. He was bloody lucky Darius had forgiven him for it—and that Owens had kept those plump, pouty lips sealed. The unexpected discretion made him re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about the other man.
Now he was lining up in Copenhagen, healed, with something to prove. He'd been training with Darius, and he hated to admit it, but the discipline he’d forced on him had really made a difference. The rest of it was good too, though Darius had been very fucking clear that they were never going to be more than friends and an occasional stress relief to each other. It was fine; he didn’t expect Darius to be the love of his life or anything. But just once, it would be nice to feel like he was good enough. Instead, he felt like an impostor. Like the poor little boy everyone took pity on. Like he waskind offast,kind ofhardworking, andkind oflikeable. Above average, sure, but nowhere near the best. Nobody was expecting him to be winning championships or running in the next Olympics… or dating an aristocrat.
Owens's blonde hair shone bright in the sunlight ahead of him. Something burned within Jackson. He wanted, no, he needed to prove that he was better than ElliotfuckingOwens. He needed to make him look at him again. To look at him because Jackson was better than him. To look at him and regret everything in his life that had ever made him think he could best Jackson Jennings.
The starting gun went, and Jackson was flying. Pushing harder than he had in months. He knew it was his best performance yet before he even crossed the line; he could feel it in the ache of his calves and the pounding of his heart; and he could see it in the fact that he finished over a minute ahead of Elliot Owens. At the finish line, the press were finally interested in him. They gathered around, asking about his epic comeback. He spotted Owens off to the side, his father an ever-present shadow as he spoke to a cluster of reporters.
"Guess sometimes my lifestyle does pay off," Jackson quipped, loud enough that he knew Elliot heard it. He watched his father bend down and whisper something in his ear.
And then Owens said the last thing Jackson would have predicted, straight into the microphone of a rep fromRunner’s Lifemagazine. "Amazing, isn't it? How some people bounce back faster than science says a human naturally can."
Jackson froze. His stomach dropped. His fingers slackened on his water bottle. The words replayed in his head as a bitter taste rose in his mouth. For one stupid heartbeat, he thought he’d misheard. There was no way Elliot Owens—Mr. Golden Boy, Mr. Media-Trained-To-The-Gills—had implied he was doping. There was no way Elliot Owens, who’d spent two years pretending Jackson didn't exist, would finally acknowledge him only to dothat.
But the look on Elliot’s face told him everything—cold and distant, a flicker of emotion crossing it as he looked back at his father, whose face was tight but gave away nothing.
Jackson felt the ground tilt under him. He forced a laugh, too loud, too brittle. “Bloody hell, someone’s salty I kicked his arse today.”
A couple of journalists glanced between them, frowning. One raised her phone a little higher.
Shit.
His best friend materialised beside him. Jackson knew how bad it was if Darius was willing to put himself in front of the press next to him. They didn’t do that. Ever.
“We’re done,” he said pointedly, clasping Jackson’s shoulder so hard he thought his fingers might leave divots. “No more questions. Thanks, everyone, but we’re on a tight schedule, so sorry.”
Darius led him away. He felt the gazes of the crowd on him as he moved, one in particular burning through him like nothing else.
Jackson let himself be steered away, numbing himself to everything but the feel of the pavement beneath his feet. The roar of the finish line dissolved into an indistinct hum, like his head had been shoved underwater.
“Jackson. Breathe.” Darius sat him down on a bench inside the elite tent, the canvas walls offering the illusion of protection from the media circus outside.
He steadied himself, breathing slowly, and then a laugh bubbled up from his throat. Once it started, he couldn’t stop. “He’s just,” Jackson said between giggles, “such a fucking arsehole.”
He couldn’t believe Owens had done that. It was like the one unspoken rule of athletics: never mention doping. Of course he had though. Why would Elliot Owens give a damn about social rules?
Darius was staring at him as though he’d finally cracked. A race official carrying a tablet appeared in front of the two of them, and Darius elbowed him sharply in the ribs. The expression on the official's face was enough to kill Jackson’s inappropriate bout of mirth.
“Jennings, you’ve been randomly selected for enhanced screening.”
Jackson sobered completely. Random. Sure.
“I’ll wait,” Darius said. “We can share a car.”
Jackson shook his head. He knew how uncomfortable Darius was with the press and with being around Jackson in front of them, as though they’d know just by seeing the two of them together. He could handle this.
“Don’t argue, Jax. Just go. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Jackson nodded and followed the official in silence to the doping control station, cursing Owens all the way. He was exhausted, and this would delay him at least another half hour, at best. Nobody spoke to him; they just handed him the forms and a sealed bottle of water to drink while he waited. Then came the blood draw, then the urine sample. It was all very procedural. Very efficient. Still, the whole process took well over an hour in the end.
He found Darius and let him lead him out the back, away from the crowd outside who were still cheering on the amateur runners as they crossed the finish line.
The moment they were in a car, Jackson looked down at his phone. Ten missed calls from his agent.
He swiped them away and checked his other notifications. Lead settled in his stomach. It was everywhere; posts on every platform, random people quoting Owens, dissecting Jackson's time, speculating on his recovery, calling into question all of his previous achievements. God, he fucking hated social media sometimes.
"You're going to need to answer that," Darius said as the phone began vibrating again.
