Jackson took a steadying breath and answered the video call. "Hey, Brea."
“What the hell did you do?”
Jackson stuttered. He knew it was bad. Even a rumour of doping was enough to cost sponsorships. But he hadn't done anything; his tests were clean. It wasn't even something he'dconsidered. God, his parents were going to see this on the news. His sisters. "I didn't do anything. It was Owens—"
“Doesn’t matter.” Brea heaved a sigh. “You made an unsportsmanlike joke in front of half the sporting press. Mr. Clean Reputation and his fucking shark of a father heard you and retaliated. It's all over the internet. Congratulations. You're already losing sponsors. Spector Nutrition pulled out of talks five minutes ago.”
“What?” Jackson baulked. “They can’t do that. What he said… I didn't…”
“Optics, Jackson.” Brea snapped the word like it had personally offended her. “Spector don’t care if you’re clean or not, they care about headlines. Brand value. You run an insane time on the back of a DNF, then Owens says that to the press?” She shook her head. “They won’t risk their brand like that. They won't take my calls. They’re gone.”
It felt unreal, like he was watching someone else’s disaster.
Jackson swallowed, his mouth tasted like metal. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Brea’s voice softened for half a second. “I know. But you know how the game works. Appearances are everything. It's already harder for you, with…”
She didn't have to say it. Jackson knew his reputation made it difficult for sponsors to get on board with him sometimes. Sure, he was likeable, fun. But he didn't come off as…how had they put it?Family-friendly. It was fine that he was queer, they'd insist. But couldn't he be the right kind of queer? The kind with a husband and a dog? He knew what they wanted. Sure, Mr. Marketing Director, I'd love to. If you'd point me in the direction of someone interested in a partner who literally pushes themselves to the brink of collapse for a wage that barely covers their expenses and spends weeks at a time in isolated mountain locales for the auspicious promise of cutting a few seconds off onrace day. It was why he had to be so perfect in everything else—friendly, unfailingly kind, constantly volunteering his time, and the ultimate sportsman. Breaking those rules, even for a second, was career death.
He'd known it. But Elliot Owens could get under his skin like no other.
Jackson gulped in air, but it felt like swallowing glass.
Brea let out a breath. “Look, it’s bad, but it’s not the end, okay? You haven’t lost every sponsor. They’ll be watching, though.”
Jackson sighed. Of course they would.
“We go into damage control mode and get a statement drafted. A lot of people will be watching how you handle this, so for the love of god, do not retaliate. Do not go near Owens again. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t exist as far as you’re concerned. Do you understand me?”
Jackson nodded numbly. “Yeah.”
Avoid Owens. Sure. Great. He could do that. Because if Owens’s words could dothatin twenty seconds, then Jackson needed to stay the hell away from him. A familiar burn sparked low in his gut. Avoid him? Fine. Jackson would just have to win the old-fashioned way. On the road, on the leaderboards. Where it really counted. Because he wouldn’t forget this. Ever.
Chapter 4
Elliot
London, February, 6 months to the next Summer Olympics
Elliot Owens knew with absolute certainty that his villain origin story had started with one specific thing. Or rather, one specific person: Jackson Jennings.
It had been nearly a year since he’d last spoken to Jennings. The man avoided him like the bloody plague. And it grated. He found himself training harder, pushing his limits, all to force Jennings to acknowledge him again, to bring back the fire he’d seen in Copenhagen. But nothing.
Jennings couldn’t avoid him now, though. They were both helping out at a charity running clinic. Jennings was obviously here to impress Anders, the newest head coach of the British Olympic team—Elliot’s coach. As head coach, he was on the selection committee now, but Elliot would have been willing to help out even if he wasn't. He’d been working with Anders for years and respected the hell out of him.
The Olympics were only six months away now, and the first-round selection announcement would be any day; god, any minute. First round meant something—it was prestige, recognition, security. The next two athletes on the rosterwouldn't be named until after the London Marathon in April. Anxious energy accumulated in Elliot's body as he plodded around the floodlit track in the freezing February wind, with one of the slowest groups of runners at the clinic.
Team GB could send three athletes for the men’s marathon, and though in the past they’d run selection like the Americans—just one big race to see who finished top three—these days it was a lot more complicated, and political. Times mattered. The country's goal was for all athletes to finish top eight, and they weren’t quiet about that objective. But the selection committee, made up of bureaucrats, coaches, and former athletes, could also employ discretionary selection, meaning they looked at the whole picture: reliability, attitude, optics…all of it. And Elliot had heard enough through the grapevine to expect it this year. Even with the best times, there were no guarantees.
Elliot expected to be called in the first round. His times were solid; at least as good as Jennings’s and close enough to the best in the country. He was a legacy, and his own coach was the head of Team GB athletics. That should have given him an advantage and made discretionary selection work in his favour. Plus, he was well aware of how much Anders hated Hewitt and that he'd use the full force of his influence to keep him out.
When his group finally finished their training run. There was pandemonium near the stands.
Anders was red-faced and shouting, Hewitt was storming off, and Jennings… The look on Jennings’s face was enough to confirm Elliot’s worst fears. It was as though he wanted to celebrate, but something was restraining him, holding him back. There was only one thing Elliot could think of that would have caused that look. The first-round selection must have been announced, and from the look of things, it hadn't gone as expected, for anyone.
He picked up his phone, scrolling over to the news just to double check, but the sinking feeling in his stomach already told him everything.
Jackson Jennings. Of course. It was always JacksonbloodyJennings, wasn’t it?
