“Jackson Jennings? God, of course I support his selection,” Elliot said in response to a question Jackson hadn’t caught. “I know I’ve made some less than flattering comments about him in the past, but he’s a brilliant runner. I was a jealous idiot,” he continued softly, “but that’s kind of my default setting.” Elliot let out a self-deprecating laugh, and the interviewer laughed along with him. Jackson swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Jennings is dedicated and full of integrity. He’s the heart of the team, and I don’t think we’ve come close to seeing his best yet. It would have been an honour to line up beside him in August, but that wasn’t in the cards for me this year. My priority right now is my recovery and supporting the excellent team the Athletics Association have fielded in whatever capacity I can.”
Jackson stared. The video looped, and he watched it again, taking in the resigned look in Elliot’s eyes and drinking in thesound of his voice. He fucking missed him. Jackson realised with a start that this was what he’d asked for back in St Moritz. A retraction. But it was more than that. He’d never expected Owens to actually do it, and the way he had was so bloody classy. His media training was out in full force, but there was a vulnerability there that made Jackson ache for him. He wondered if he should reach out, but nothing felt adequate. The video was perfect, but it didn’t change anything, did it? Jackson still needed something Elliot had said he could never give.
Much to Jackson’s surprise, Darius had allowed himself to be dragged along to a club mid-week. It was so far from his friend’s usual scene that he’d done a double-take when he’d agreed. It had been two weeks since Elliot's video broke the internet, or the portion of it dedicated to elite running, anyway, and Jackson had been a mess the entire time. He needed to shake the tension out.
Jackson dragged Darius into his usual haunt, bypassing the queue as he got the nod from Alfie, one of the bouncers. Alfie was an absolute mountain of a man who he’d met at a somatic sound bath retreat a couple of years before. They’d stayed friends in much the same way Jackson stayed friends with everyone he met. It had always come easily to him—relating to people, connecting. Physically or emotionally, it didn’t matter. He was a people person. He just wasn’t great at keeping them around for the long haul. Elliot had reminded him of that.
He shut that thought down. No more Owens tonight. He’d managed to drag his best friend into a club—it was a night for miracles. Not a night for thinking about a grumpy prick with shiny blonde hair and a marathon PR uncomfortably close to his own, who kissed him like he was trying to claim victory with his lips.
The family group chat pinged with a photo of his eldest sister Katie and her wife Amelie at their home in Berlin, their tabby cat perched on Amelie’s head, fast asleep. A tiny spark of jealousy flared deep in Jackson’s stomach. He wanted that for himself; someone to come home to. For now, though, he had needs, and maybe tonight he could find someone to satisfy them.
Darius handed him a drink. A Negroni, Jackson’s drink of the moment. He shifted through favourite cocktails at roughly the same speed he usually went through crushes—a new flavour every week or so. That was probably why he felt so off; he should have moved on from Elliot by now, but he was stuck. They settled onto some barstools and scanned the crowds. Maybe tonight, Jackson could find someone to get his mind off everything. Alfie would probably be available if he wanted to go there again, but the thought didn’t excite him at all.
He scanned the dance floor, his eyes snagging on a few potential candidates. A tall, lithe woman with blue space buns in a top made of shimmering sequins, dancing out of time with the music held his attention for a moment before it shifted to a burly guy in a black tank top and skinny jeans who was eye-fucking him from a distance. He was about to walk over, almost resigned to it, but then his eyes caught on a shock of white.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
In the middle of the dance floor, eyes closed and arms above his head, swaying dreamily to the beat of whatever generic house track was playing, was Elliot Owens.
Something short-circuited in Jackson’s brain.
He’d never expected to see Elliot here. It made Jackson lose his grip on his empty drink, the ice clinking as the glass hit the bar. His heart fucking hurt watching him, watching other people watch him.
Worst of all? He looked hot as hell.
He wore a skintight white T-shirt that reflected the flashing lights as much as his sweat-drenched hair did, and artfully ripped black jeans that flashed enough skin to show the strong muscles underneath, earned from years of punishing track workouts. Jackson couldn’t look away.
Their eyes met for a moment, and time froze.
“Jax.” Darius waved a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Jackson.”
Jackson snapped himself back into the real world. It was like everything sped up around him, and he realised Darius was waving his empty glass in his face. “Your round.”
“Yeah, of course,” Jackson replied.
He ordered them another round and settled back in, and when he turned back to the dance floor, Elliot had disappeared.
Darius had begged off after two drinks, heading home with the excuse that he had an early workout. Jackson was certain he was leaving to see his boyfriend, though, now that they were back together, and official.
Jackson should go too; he actually did have an early workout, since it wasn’t as though their schedules differed dramatically. But he couldn’t leave yet. Not before he saw whether Elliot was still there, if he ever had been. It felt like some sort of split from reality. Like his brain had conjured him up because Elliot Owens was all Jackson bloody thought about these days.
Jackson crossed the dance floor, trying to maintain his usual joviality by bopping along and chatting with some of the people he recognised. All the while, though, he was scanning the crowd with sharp eyes for even a hint of that shockingly blonde hair. Nothing.
Giving in and calling it a night. He stopped by the toilets before leaving; it was a long way home from here. He was washing his hands, staring into the dirty mirror in front of the sink, when a tall, muscular man pushed the door open, pulling someone along behind him. Jackson’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyes prickled. Elliot.
The two of them stood frozen, staring at each other as the bigger man tried to keep pulling Elliot along. Jackson felt shock collide with something else he couldn’t quite name that rang hollow deep inside him.
“Really, Owens?” he sighed.
Their eyes met briefly in the mirror before Elliot looked down and swallowed.
“Hey. We doing this or not?” the meathead interrupted.
“Not,” Jackson and Elliot snapped in unison.
Elliot waited until the other guy stomped out, muttering under his breath, before he looked up at Jackson from under those pale eyelashes. His pupils were blown wide, whether from drink or nerves, Jackson couldn’t tell.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Jackson said, voice tight.
