Part Three - Announcements
It was over. It was all fucking over.
Chapter 19
Jackson
London, Late April, 16 weeks to the Olympic Marathon
Jackson stood on the start line of the London Marathon. For the first time in his career, he knew he was the one everyone’s eyes were on in this race. With Darius having pulled out of the elite field in a desperate bid to save his reputation and relationship, Jackson’s Olympic call-up made him the top British contender, no matter what ElliotbloodyOwens thought. Jackson physically shook his head to dislodge the thought. He did not want to think about Owens right now. Not with so much on the line. Anders had told him to take this race easy. He understood, in principle. But that was easier said than done.
The major new sponsor he’d signed with expected to see results for the money they were spending on him, and that needed to come in either finish times or engagement. For the first time in his life he felt like he might be able to repay his family for all the sacrifices they’d made for him, and he couldn’t risk that—not for the Olympics, not for anything. The past two weeks, while he’d been allowing himself to wallow in the breakdown of hisabsolutely not a relationshipwith Elliot,he hadn’t exactly stayed on top of his socials, so results it was. Racing wasn’t all about financial success to him, but this year, more than ever, he needed it.
He bounced on his heels, firmly ensconced in the middle of the pack in an attempt to stop himself from starting too fast. Unfortunately, it meant he had a perfect view of a head of shiny white-blonde hair just ahead of him, glittering in the spring sun like a goddamn beacon.
He wondered how Elliot’s ankle was holding up. He’d seemed alright when they’d crossed paths at the track, running with Green as though everything was the same as ever. He’d looked utterly unbothered by everything, like Jackson had just been a blip in his perfectly planned life, and now he was ready to get back to his regularly scheduled programming. Back to the plan for his future that he’d set out for himself, where everything fit in neat little boxes and he never had to be vulnerable with anyone.
He knew he wasn’t being fair to Elliot. He understood why he was so careful, so controlled—didn’t mean he had to like it.
Jackson tried to get his thoughts back on course, picturing himself breaking the tape, visualising the moment and then imagining what that could lead to for him. He focused on the goal like his sports psychologist had taught him to.
The problem was that no matter how angry he was with Owens, no matter how much he’d hurt him with his words and his refusal to see how much Jackson cared, any thought of winning, any thoughts of the future contained him. He couldn’t picture a finish line without imagining Elliot Owens crossing it right alongside him.
Bloody wanker.
The gun went off, and Jackson turned all of his irritation into fuel. He was in the zone. He had a solid plan. A classic negative split, sticking in the middle of the pack for the first half of the race with a targeted surge around the thirty kilometre mark thatwould hopefully leave him enough in the tank for a powerful final kick. He wasn’t going to push too hard, but he wanted to come in under Olympic Standard, for sure. Even though it was already in the bag, he needed to prove to everyone that he deserved the spot. Maybe then he’d be able to convince himself that it was true.
Once they got going, Jackson managed to shake the fixation on Owens from his head. As soon as he’d disappeared from his line of sight, Jackson’s brain went blissfully blank in a way he was rarely able to achieve, focusing on nothing but the feel of the pavement beneath his feet.
The race was going exactly to plan, mile after mile he ran, surprising himself with how light on his feet he felt. He picked up his water and electrolytes at the thirty kilometre aid station and took a few sips before handing them off again and focusing on his cadence. He still had loads left in his legs, the pain he usually felt at this stage somehow refusing to be acknowledged. He could still see the frontrunner ahead of him, which was shocking in itself.
It was like he was running the perfect race, like maybe the committee really had known what they were doing when they called him up.
In the final 400m, Jackson let his heart take the lead as he kicked into a near sprint. He passed people who would typically be well ahead of him as he ran for the finish line. Crossing with a time of 2:05:58, an absolute personal best, and distracted as he was by his own performance, Jackson didn’t notice Elliot crossing the finish line several minutes behind him, his face a marred with pain. He also didn’t notice that despite the killer time, he hadn’t been the first Brit across the line at all.
The post-race interviews were exhausting in a way that went deeper than the run itself. Even for an extrovert like Jackson, dealing with the press was draining. He let himself get swept up in the excitement of the day, though, of what he’d achieved. He managed to mask his shock fairly successfully at learning Chris Green had come in nearly a full minute ahead of him, laughing off a probing question from a journalist with a quip about staying focused on his own race. He was pulled in every direction, the attention only waning hours later.
During the brief reprieve from interviews as other athletes left, Jackson was finally able to connect with his family. They’d all come on the train for the day to watch him race. It was all smiles and congratulations and huge, warm hugs that made him feel better than he had in weeks. His dad was on form; not a hint of the illness that hung over his head was noticeable as his laughter boomed over the cheering crowds. The only hint of discord was the way his mother hovered, checking on her husband in a way he’d never seen her do before. They didn’t stay long, leaving to try to get his three-year-old nephew Noah to take his nap, but they promised to bring dinner over to his flat that evening.
Jackson was only alone for a few minutes before he connected with Darius’s sister, Selena. His best friend’s little sister led him and some of Darius’s other friends to the aid tent, where Jackson’s favourite physio was manning the door. Seb let them in with a wide smirk on his face that was the first hint something was up, and then Jackson found himself getting more than an eyeful of Darius getting back together with his ex, Jamie. He probably should have been embarrassed by just how much he saw, but he was so excited to see his best friend finally getting everything he wanted that he barely noticed the awkwardness.
It was enough to make him believe in love again.
Not that he’d stopped, exactly, but after Elliot…well, Jackson had felt like he needed a break from it all.
Not that he’d been falling for him or anything, he’d just liked him a lot. Like, really a lot. Oh fuck, who was he even trying to convince?
As he was leaving, Seb called him over.
“Jax, you were at camp with Owens, right?” he asked.
Jackson hobbled over to him. He needed to get going soon and crash into his bed. That was how he planned to spend the next few days. Bed and food, proper recovery.
“Yeah, St. Moritz. Why?” he asked.
Seb grimaced. “I was treating him post-race, and I’m concerned.”
Jackson frowned. Seb continued. “If you’re in touch with him, can you tell him to ring me? I’m…”
