London, June, 8 weeks to the Olympic Marathon
Elliot had no one to blame but himself.
Jackson had kissed him. JacksonfuckingJennings had kissed him and said he had feelings for him, feelings that were more than casual. The whole thing had felt like an out-of-body experience. Surely Elliot hadn’t thrown away the greatest second chance of his life, thrown away the exact thing he wanted, because…what? Because he was scared of people knowing? He’d said he only wanted to be known for his times on the road, but it wasn’t like those were anything to write home about this year. It wasn’t that. It never had been. Elliot was trapped because he was forever trying to make up for the career he’d destroyed nearly twelve years ago. The world had changed though, hadn’t it? He was so fucking tired of being his own worst enemy.
Elliot scanned his reflection in the mirror. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved in three days. He’d been doing better before the club. The impromptu interview he’d given withRunner’s Lifehad been a great opportunity, and when they’d asked about Jackson, well, it had felt like the absolute least he could do to give him the retraction he’d asked for, andhe’d hoped it could be a bridge between them. But then he’d embarrassed himself in that disgusting club bathroom and made the stupid fucking mistake of pushing Jackson away, locking the door behind him, and throwing away the key. In the weeks since then, everything had been a blur. Seeing Jackson at training was physically painful, but it was the only thing in his life that brought forth any kind of emotion. Everything else was just grey, shapeless, pointless nothing.
Today, he’d be back at the track, supporting Anders as his assistant for the final time before the team left for altitude camp. Before Jackson went back to St. Moritz, without him.
He'd taken longer than he should have to get there, dragging his feet. He'd told his father he'd keep an eye on Chris, mentor him or whatever—as if anyone should be taking advice from Elliot these days. Everyone was already there when Elliot arrived, the three runners well into their warm-ups.
“Nice of you to join us, Owens,” Anders said in greeting.
He winced. It wasn’t the best impression to make, but did that even matter anymore? He shifted his weight, drawing Anders’s attention to his taped-up ankle. His coach furrowed his brow but said nothing further to Elliot as he barked out orders at the others. Elliot propped himself against the railing and adjusted the tape, pretending to watch Chris warm up, but he was focused on the lane where Jackson was running.
Jackson didn’t look at him—not directly. Not any more than he had to. Elliot caught the tiniest flicker sometimes, a hesitation in the tilt of his head, the edge of his jaw tightening as if he were trying to stop himself from saying something, from noticing. Jackson was hurting too, that much was obvious. That much, Elliot understood.
“Owens,” Chris said, jogging over, his grin sharp. “You're staring. Let me guess, your daddy told you to report back on me?To make sure I don’t mess anything up.” There was something biting in his words, despite the joking tone.
Elliot bit back a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, fuck-ups are reserved for me,” he muttered, turning back toward the track. He didn’t have time to deal with the fragility of Chris’s ego. Not when he was barely holding himself together in the face of everything he’d screwed up this year. Longing tugged at him, and he was sure that to everyone else his gloomy countenance looked like pain over his position on the team, or lack thereof. But he felt the stabbing loss most acutely every time Jackson’s eyes slid towards him, then darted away.
He was watching Jackson so closely that he couldn’t help but notice that he was, in turn, watching Chris. An inscrutable look on his face gave Elliot pause. Jackson slowed his run near Chris, enough for Elliot to see the set of his shoulders. He wanted to call out to him, to ask what he was thinking. But he didn’t. Hecouldn’t. Jackson Jennings deserved the fucking world, and if Elliot couldn't give him that then he needed to let him go.
Jackson glanced at him, just a flicker, and Elliot froze. Chris laughed at something, breaking the tension like a flare in the night. Elliot adjusted his weight against the railing. He forced himself to focus on Chris, to watch his form and be supportive. He tried his best to play the good little legacy like he'd been trained to—watching out for his father's new protege.
After a long day on his feet, watching and critiquing the other runners with Anders, doing his damn best to ignore the stabbing in his heart every time he looked at Jackson and his growing unease at the inconsistency in Chris’s numbers, it took Elliot longer than it should have to get home. He was no longer in pain, more restricted by the bracing tape job than anything, butit was still a ball-ache navigating the stairs in the tube and the mezzanine ladder up to his bedroom.
His room was a minimalist space, with a plush king-size bed decorated in blues and greys in the middle of the floor, a single nightstand, and a door leading to a spacious en-suite. Simple, orderly—just how he liked it. After a few minutes of rest, he checked his phone and saw he had a missed call from Seb that he quickly returned.
Seb’s smiling face filled the screen. “Owens! How’s the ankle?”
“It’s good,” Elliot replied. “Same as I said this morning.”
Nodding, Seb waved something in front of the screen.
“Your scans are back—they’re looking good. We’ll take another look tomorrow, but I think it’s safe to say you can start training again.”
“Are you serious?” Elliot asked. This was huge. It was too late for the Olympics, but he could run again, and if nothing else, it would give him back the structure he craved and help him get his finances in better shape if he could get into a race with decent appearance fees. So why did it ring so hollow?
Seb grinned. “As a heart attack.” He fixed Elliot with a stern look. “But you take it slow. Keep it taped. I still want you in regularly, and the slightest niggle, you take a breather and ring the clinic.”
“I’ve got it. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Seb hung up, mumbling about idiot athletes thinking they were invincible. Elliot puttered around his flat for a few minutes, waiting for the inevitable check-in from his father. This time at least Elliot had good news to share.
He stretched his back, staring into his fridge, looking for something that seemed celebratory. A can of cherry-flavoured sparkling water and a protein mousse were as indulgent as it got for him, so he settled on his sofa with them. He’d just crackedthe water open when his phone buzzed. He took a sip and steeled himself.
“Dad,” he answered on the fourth ring.
“How did Green look today?”
Of course. He had nearly forgotten his role now as far as his dad was concerned was that of glorified babysitter. “He was fine.” Elliot paused as the words exited his mouth. “He was a bit prickly and his heart rate was all over the place.”
He heard his father swallow. “And did Anders notice?”
Elliot scoffed. “Of course he did. The man notices everything. What’s going on? Because it looks like Chris is… Well, it looks like his London performance had some artificial help, if I’m honest.”
“You can’t say things like that, Elliot.”
