Elliot leaned against the counter, staring at the blank wall. “But I’m not good enough.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A sigh down the line. “Whatever went off the rails, you need to deal with it. Take a week, then we’ll get back out there. The majors’ll still want you if you put in the work, but you’re better than what we saw last week.”
Elliot swallowed hard, forcing the words out evenly. “Sure. Appreciate the call.”
“Elliot.”
“I get it, Anders. Chris was faster on the day, and Hewitt’s the best we’ve got. It’s fine.”
“Don’t start with that martyr crap,” Anders snapped. “I know you ran injured, and I know you knew better, so whatever’s going on with you right now, sort it out.”
Elliot managed a thin laugh. “Sounds simple.”
“Sort yourself out, Owens,” Anders said again, voice softening. “You’re too good to waste this.”
When the line went dead, Elliot stared at his reflection in the black screen of his phone, jaw tight, eyes hollow, then he hit refresh on the BBC page one more time, as if it might tell him something he didn’t know.
Elliot made an emergency appointment and got himself straight to the physio the next day, because he was a professional and he knew no amount of wallowing would fix the problem with his ankle. He checked in at reception and settled in the waiting area. A stack of sports magazines sat on a table, and his eye caught on one with Darius Hewitt on the cover, looking like a moody bastard as always. His brain couldn’t quite manage to manifest the jealousy that had once been provoked by so much as the mention of Darius’s name, even though he’d taken an Olympic spot. Now, it just made him think of Jackson and their stupid fight in the taxi. The moment Elliot had ruined everything.
Darius was Jackson’s best friend, and Elliot…well, he cared about Jackson. He’d hurt him, though, and he didn’t know what Jackson wanted from him anymore—if anything. He didn’t have much to offer anyway.
His name was called, and Elliot hopped up on the table in Seb’s office. Seb gave his leg a cursory examination and then levelled him with one of the most frightening glares he’d ever been on the receiving end of.
“You should not have been running on this.”
“I had to,” Elliot countered. “I drastically reduced my mileage and I’m icing it and wrapping it religiously, but London was my last chance to prove myself for Olympic selection.”
Seb let out a long-suffering sigh, which was a bit offensive, because Elliot really did think he’d done the best he could. “Owens, this is bad. I’ll take a closer look and get some scans, butyou’re lucky it didn’t rupture. You’ll need to massively de-load. No speedwork, no long runs, none of it. I’d have expected you, of all people, to know better.”
Elliot baulked at that. His father’s career-ending injury was something people rarely mentioned to him, as though it was bad luck, like inviting a curse by speaking of it. But Elliot knew the truth. The injury hadn’t been that bad; it had been the shame that ended his father’s career—the shame he had caused.
“I’ll draw up a programme and we’ll start with de-loading and cross-training, but can add in shockwave therapy if you need it,” Seb explained. “You’ll need to be in here at least four days a week—have Phillipa book in a regular slot on your way out—and I’ll have to notify your coach.”
“He already knows.”
Seb nodded. “Good. And your father?”
Elliot swallowed hard. “I’ll tell him.”
“This is serious, Owens. He needs to know as your agent. You can’t accept any race appearances right now. If you don’t treat this, it could be the end of the line.”
Elliot nodded. He pulled his socks and shoes back on and trudged dejectedly out of the office and back to the tube station.
When he got home, he angrily tossed his shoes into the cupboard and grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer. He was sitting on the couch with his ankle elevated, ice pack long since melted, when his father rang.
“Elliot.”
Elliot paused for a moment to gather himself. “Dad. How are you?”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries. We need to discuss the news.”
Of course. “Yes, it was disappointing.”
“Disappointing? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
