St. Moritz, Switzerland, March 25th, 5 Months to the Olympics
Elliot Owens.
ElliotfuckingOwens.
Jackson was in a state of shock over the turn their long-running rivalry had taken at altitude camp.
He’d believed Elliot when he said it was a one-time thing. Hell, he hadn’t even expected to get that much, so he didn’t feel like he had any right to complain. But one time had turned into stealing private moments wherever they could. A hand job in the showers after a swim, a filthy kiss in the lift. Now that Jackson had experienced Elliot Owens unrestrained, he wasn’t sure how he could ever go back.
The man was consuming virtually all of his thoughts. Jackson kept his focus trained on when he could orchestrate a scenario where he’d get to touch him again. It was almost enough to distract him from the clawing dread he felt when he thought about his family, or the inadequacy every time he saw his training stats and was reminded that he didn’t deserve a first-round pick. He needed the distraction, and it was helping, but he wasn’t sure it was helping Elliot the same way, and that botheredhim because, against his better judgement, he'd started to care about him. He couldn’t let Elliot realise that, though. Jackson knew the one thing that would make him turn tail and run faster than a gold medal sprint was the idea of this being anything more than a hookup.
The problem with the inconvenient caring was that Jackson couldn’t turn it off, and caring about Elliot meant worrying about him. Because that pain in his Achilles didn’t bode well for his Olympic chances. Jackson couldn’t be the one to tell him though. Didn’t think he’d even listen.
Jackson had been attending regular physio appointments since arriving in St. Moritz, but it was becoming obvious that Elliot was dodging his. He wasn’t sure how he was managing to get away with it, but he was going to get to the bottom of it. He was going to force Elliot to get checked out, or he’d take sex off the table.
Maybe.
Well, probably not, but Owens didn’t know that.
He crossed the corridor and banged loudly on Elliot’s door. “Owens, open up.”
Elliot opened the door shirtless and barefoot with a towel around his neck and only a pair of tracksuit bottoms on. Jackson was momentarily distracted from his mission as he watched Elliot smirk and lean casually against the doorframe, showing off the sculpted perfection of the muscles flaring along his ribs.
“How can I help you, Jennings?”
“I want you to come with me to physio,” Jackson blurted out. It wasn’t quite as subtle an approach as the one he’d planned to take, but realistically, the effect would have been the same either way.
Elliot clammed up and backed into his room. “I go to physio, Jennings. You don’t need to take me.”
“I know you’ve been skipping sessions since you hurt your ankle.”
Elliot glared for a second, then pulled Jackson into the room by the front of his shirt. He slammed the door shut before he whirled on Jackson. “Anyone could overhear you. Do I need to remind you again about the bloody journalists? Or our coach, for that matter?”
“Well? I’m right, aren’t I?”
With a sigh, Elliot sank onto the bed. “I can’t go. They’ll notice something’s wrong, and then Anders will pull me. I need London to have a shot at the Olympic team, you know that.”
“You can’t keep an injury secret, Owens.”
“I can if you help me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please.” Elliot looked up at him from under his long lashes. “I need this. You can keep an eye on it with me. If it gets bad, I swear I’ll go, but…”
This was not how Jackson had expected this to go. Now, instead of convincing Owens to get treated, he was entering into some sort of clandestine operation to hide his injury from their coach. He knew he shouldn’t agree, but the desperation in Elliot’s eyes had him nodding along.
“You promise you’ll see someone when we get back?” he asked.
Elliot nodded. “Promise.”
“And you’ll take it easy. Ice it, tape it, do everything you can while we’re here?”
“You can help me with the tape every morning if you want.”
Jackson did want that. Not just because he wanted another excuse to touch Elliot, but because he wanted to be certain it was done every single day. Something deep inside was compelling him to take care of the other man, because it didn’t seem like anyone else in Elliot’s life would.
The next morning, Jackson was at Elliot’s door bright and early as promised, ice pack and tape in hand. In fact, he was so on time that Owens had clearly just got out of bed to answer his soft knock on the door. Jackson had never seen him quite so dishevelled. Elliot’s hair stuck up in half a dozen directions, his T-shirt was rumpled, and one sock was missing.
