“Ah, so you have a type,” Jackson interjected, pulling Elliot closer still and pressing a kiss to his neck.
“Hilarious,” Elliot deadpanned. He took a steadying breath, then continued. “He kissed me, behind the stands, one afternoon. It was pretty innocent; there wasn’t time for it to be anything else because we were caught. Turned out his mum was the Director of Athletics. My dad had been in a meeting with her, and they walked out to find us there.”
“No!” Jackson slapped a hand over his mouth. Even with the most accepting parents in the world, Jackson would have been horrified by that. It was showing-up-at-school-naked levels of embarrassing. He could only imagine how poor teenage Elliot would have reacted.
“Anyway, my dad dropped out of the Olympics. Retired from the sport, citing an injury that I knew didn’t exist. We left Nottingham almost immediately, and I always believed I was the reason. My dad didn’t do anything to correct that assumption, either, as much as he claims he didn’t know I thought that.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Jackson said.
Elliot nodded. “Because it wasn’t true.” He tapped his fingers against the mug he still gripped in his hands.
“So what happened?” Jackson asked, gently removing the near-empty coffee cup from Elliot's iron grip.
Elliot tilted his head. “He was caught doping. Must be why he was meeting the director that day. They gave him the option to leave quietly, and he took it. Better for everyone’s reputations, and it kept the scrutiny off the rest of the athletes because there’s no way he was the only one. You know what they say it was like back then.”
Jackson nodded.
“So this…this thing I’ve believed for so long, it was never true. It shouldn’t hold me back anymore. Nothing should be holding me back. And the way I’ve been managing my life isn’t working, I know that. But I’m still fucking terrified.”
“I don’t think you need to make a decision now,” Jackson offered. “I doubt years of internalised homophobia can be undone in a single revelation.”
“Is that what this is?”
Jackson hated Carl Owens in that moment. No matter what his intentions had been, seeing Elliot like this because of years of lies was excruciating. “I think that’s what a therapist would call it,” he said. He kept his voice gentle, afraid of spooking Elliot and putting an end to the rare vulnerability he was showing. “Have you…spoken to anyone?”
Elliot shook his head. “I have a sports therapist, obviously, but we mostly talk about the Olympics. And you. Sometimes we talk about you.”
Despite the heavy atmosphere, that small admission made Jackson smile and kiss Elliot’s nose.
“I hate feeling so afraid, but I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can handle having people look at me and think of me as just another gay athlete—and not even the fastest one.” Elliot fell silent, staring at nothing.
“Thought you were bi?”
It was meant to lighten the mood, but Elliot looked like he was seriously contemplating Jackson’s quip before he responded. “That’s not what the press will say, and you know it.”
Elliot was right. Jackson was well aware of how he was perceived in the media—thegay, working-class success story. His actual identity never seemed to matter when it came to sensationalising his life to sell sports drinks. He’d leaned into it, of course, allowing himself to be reduced to the perpetually two-dimensional queer side character, because that was what sold. Not that he wasn’t grateful for his sponsors, just sometimes he thought it might be nice to be seen as more than a label.
“You’re right, Ell.” He sighed. “The press will be intense if we come out. Especially after Darius, and I don’t want to push you into that. I’m happy to keep things quiet until you're ready, even if it’s years down the line.”
“Really?” Elliot asked.
Jackson took a sip of coffee. “Yes, really.” As he said it, he knew it was true. Elliot meant too much to him for him to push this for his own comfort. If he had to keep quiet, he would; he could totally manage that. It would be worth it, no matter how much it made him feel like he was choking on his own emotions.
They finished their coffees in comfortable silence. Jackson collected the mugs on the tray and set them to the side before winding his arms back around Elliot.
“I wish we could stay like this all day,” he murmured into Elliot’s neck.
Elliot groaned. “Training is in, like—” He glanced at the clock. “—forty-five minutes. Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. He shoved his way out of Jackson’s hold and darted to the bathroom.
“Forty-five minutes is more than enough time, Ell,” Jackson shouted over the din of Elliot’s electric toothbrush.
The buzzing sound stopped, and Elliot came to lean in the doorway, toothbrush still in hand. “That, right there, is why you’re always late.”
“I’m notalwayslate,” Jackson groused.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m not. You’re just always early, trying to impress your beloved Coach Anders.”
