They were callinghim. He still had a shot.
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, determination knotting in his stomach. He texted Jackson, letting him know the, well, he hesitated to call it good news, but that they might be there together at the Olympics. Fuck, he didn't want to jinx it.
There was no one at the track yet when Elliot arrived. He dropped his bag on the stands at the side and shook out his legs. A light summer rain was falling, but he barely noticed himself getting wet as he ran through his pre-race ritual. Nothing fancy—a walk around the track, a quick warm-up, leg swings, strides.
Anders walked up with an official from the Athletics Association holding a clipboard and a stopwatch as he was finishing up his stretches.
No news from Jackson. It was early, though, and they were flying out later today. Maybe Elliot would be flying out with them. Excitement pooled in his gut.
The official went through a briefing on how the trial would work. A ten-mile effort, primarily to test his fitness and ensure he was still within the expected pace for Olympic standards.
Elliot nodded along.
Anders put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Feeling good, Owens?”
“Of course,” Elliot replied. He walked over to his starting position. He could hear Anders and the official chatting about him a few paces away. “It’s a formality,” Anders was saying. “He's been medically cleared, and if Jennings is out, we can’t afford not to send Owens.”
Jennings. Out? As in Jackson Jennings? His Jackson?
“Sorry, did you say Jennings is out?”
“Focus on your own run, Owens,” Anders replied.
Elliot straightened. “No, I…I need to know.”
Anders looked at him like he could see right through him, like for all their sneaking around, they hadn’t actually managed to keep a single thing hidden. “He’s had a family emergency, had to travel back to the Midlands. We don’t have much information at the moment, but he won't make the flight this afternoon.”
Fuck. Fuck. It had to be something with Jackson’s dad. Elliot was such a fucking dick. Here he was about to get everything he wanted while Jackson was probably halfway home getting the worst news of his life. Elliot felt like all the air had been sucked out of him. Jackson had made his dad's illness sound like it was more of a long-term worry, not something that could go sideways at a moment's notice. He paced, trying to control his breathing. He'd finish this—his own dad would kill him if he didn't—but the Olympics was the least of his concerns now.
“Let’s get this over with, yeah?”
Anders gave him a strange look but signalled to the official. The woman clicked her stopwatch, and Elliot took off.
The first few laps felt wooden. His legs did what they always did, but his brain was elsewhere. He wasn’t settling in; he was calculating train times to Leicester, remembering the way Jackson’s voice softened when he talked about his dad, replayingevery stupid wish he'd had about being offered a spot on the team.
Rain slicked the track and soaked through his singlet. He tried to shut everything out and let the rhythm take over. Breathe, lift, fall. The sound of his shoes against the wet surface was the only steady thing left in the world.
Anders shouted splits from the sidelines. They were good. Better than good. Seb would have told him to pull back, but he was desperate to get this done.
By halfway, he’d found a grim sort of focus, not on the numbers but on the need to finish. The last laps hurt. His breathing came ragged, shoulders tightening against the drizzle. He crossed the final line on pure reflex and slowed to a walk, chest heaving. Anders checked his watch and gave him a rare, approving nod.
“That’s plenty. You’re fit,” he said. “Go home. Pack.”
Elliot managed a nod, but he wasn’t really listening. The official was still scribbling down numbers, Anders was already talking about data uploads and travel logistics. None of it mattered.
He grabbed his bag from the stands, his towel not making much of a difference on his soaked skin as he wiped his face. The rain had picked up, fine and cold, sliding down the back of his neck.
Jackson.
His phone rang, but it wasn't who he wanted it to be.
"Can I assume it's done?" his dad asked, impatience clear in his tone.
"It's done. I expect I'll hear about travel arrangements shortly." The weight of it was starting to settle on him. This was everything he'd been working towards, his chance to prove himself on the world stage. It wasn’t about legacy anymore, it was a chance to step out of his father's shadow. But Jackson…
"Excellent. Don't disappoint us, Elliot."
"Never," Elliot replied. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
