He fucking hated that Jennings had a point. He’d known the comment he’d made in Boston had been bad, but what he’d said in Copenhagen had crossed a line. The implication he’d made was unfair. Well, worse than that. But it had been two fucking years. Surely it was time to move on? The whole thing was exhausting, and Elliot had been lectured long enough about it at the time. He didn't need to spend the next four weeks being made to feel guilty over ancient history.
“Look, if you want to do the whole ‘sexy athlete thirst trap thing,’ you need better lighting. Don’t use selfie mode—it's lower quality—and clean your camera lens…” He trailed off. “The caption is fine, but you need more of a hook.”
Jennings grinned. “All I got from that was that you think I’m a sexy athlete.”
Elliot grunted and lowered his mask again. He could still feel those warm brown eyes on him. The plane lurched, and the telltale ding of the seat belt sign coming back on made Elliot flinch. He pulled his mask off and gripped the armrests. He knew holding on wouldn’t help if anything happened, but he’d never understand how people could sit there, calmly carrying on their films or conversations as if their lives weren’t balancing on a precarious combination of wind, aluminium and a brand of physics he found utterly incomprehensible. Jennings tilted his head, glancing at Elliot askance, but mercifully didn’t comment, returning to his phone as Elliot closed his eyes and counted his breaths until they touched down.
Chapter 7
Jackson
St. Moritz, Switzerland, March 16th, 5 months to the Olympics
St. Moritz was fucking beautiful. Jackson usually spent his altitude sessions in Iten, and last year he’d been to Font Romeu. Not this year though. Anders had insisted on St Moritz, and Jackson was not complaining. He hadn’t known where to look during the short walk to the hotel, between the quaint village, patches of lingering snow melting into emerald grass, and the snow-capped peaks surrounding them. A faint chill hung in the air, though the sun made it deceptively warm for mid-March.
Fuck, this place was so pretty.
But he still wished he were home with his family. He couldn’t have picked a worse time to be away, and despite his sister’s constant text updates, the guilt and anxiety over his dad’s health was a creeping presence in the back of his mind.
Jackson
Are you sure you’re ok?
Beth
I’m fine. Dad’s fine. Go run in circles on your mountain. Explore or something.
Jackson sighed. His youngest sister was a force to be reckoned with, and he knew she would deal with anything that came up. It was just that this had all blindsided him. His dad had always seemed invincible, until now. His family was struggling to cope with the reality of it, and it made Jackson feel like a dickhead for swanning off to Switzerland to train for an Olympic team spot he hadn’t really earned, in a fucking beautiful mountain town, like any of this mattered at all.
Still, Beth was right. He was here now, so he might as well get out and explore before the sun went down. He slid his phone into his pocket, keeping it close in case there were any further updates, and left the room. After hesitating for a moment, he made the decision to knock on Owens’s door and see if he would join him. They were teammates now, and that was the kind of thing a good teammate should do. Brea’s advice to avoid him wasn’t an option anymore, and antagonism wasn’t going to win him any favour with Anders, who had been clear that he was expected to make nice with Owens. They were almost certainly going to be representing their country together at the Olympics; it was the right thing to do. It was what Jackson Jennings, friendly neighbourhood pro-athlete, would do.
The thought made him roll his eyes. Since the fallout from Copenhagen, he’d had to double down on managing his image. He was fun, upbeat, and just risqué enough to be exciting—ask anyone. It wasn’t that Jackson put on a front for the media all the time, but they sure seemed determined to see him as a walking stereotype. The absolute contrast to Owens, whose entire brand centred around being a holier-than-thou dickhead.
He knocked before he could overthink it.
Owens answered the door dressed in red split shorts and a tight-fitting black vest top that made Jackson’s mouth water. The man might be an arsehole, but he was a very pretty one, with his platinum blonde hair that always caught the light exactly right and those stormy blue eyes. He had a pinched expression on his face, though, that kind of killed the effect.
“Jennings,” Owens huffed. “What do you need? I’m in the middle of something.”
A female voice echoed from inside the room.
Jackson stuttered. “Wanted to see if you wanted to go for a walk to the lake?” Did that sound needy? It probably sounded needy. “But it sounds like you’ve got plans, so…”
“No, that’s—” Owens’s shoulders hunched up to his ears. “It’s not… Just give me a minute, ok?” He darted back into the room, and Jackson heard frantic whispering for a moment that sounded suspiciously like Owens saying he was trying. It was followed by a louder goodbye.
Moments later, much to Jackson’s surprise, Owens joined him, covered up now in a heavy jacket and joggers. They walked side by side down the corridor towards the lift. An uncomfortable silence had fallen between them, and for once in his life, Jackson wasn’t sure what to say.
“Was that your girlfriend?” he asked awkwardly.
Owens blinked at him in confusion for a moment before responding. “Assistant at my agency,” he replied eventually. “I’m single.”
Jackson smiled. “Cool, yes. Me too. Single, I mean.”
The uncomfortable silence returned, and Jackson internally berated himself for the fumbled attempt at conversation. He was usually good at connecting with people and making friends, but Elliot Owens had been a mysteriously difficult case for him for years.
“Everything ok?”
“I lost a campaign I was kind of counting on. She wanted to talk it through.”
