Chapter 4 Elliot
Elliot
Elliot Owens knew with absolute certainty that his villain origin story had started with one specific thing. Or rather, one specific person: Jackson Jennings.
It had been nearly a year since he’d last spoken to Jennings. The man avoided him like the bloody plague. And it grated. He found himself training harder, pushing his limits, all to force Jennings to acknowledge him again, to bring back the fire he’d seen in Copenhagen. But nothing.
Jennings couldn’t avoid him now, though.
They were both helping out at a charity running clinic.
Jennings was obviously here to impress Anders, the newest head coach of the British Olympic team—Elliot’s coach.
As head coach, he was on the selection committee now, but Elliot would have been willing to help out even if he wasn't. He’d been working with Anders for years and respected the hell out of him.
The Olympics were only six months away now, and the first-round selection announcement would be any day; god, any minute.
First round meant something—it was prestige, recognition, security.
The next two athletes on the roster wouldn't be named until after the London Marathon in April.
Anxious energy accumulated in Elliot's body as he plodded around the floodlit track in the freezing February wind, with one of the slowest groups of runners at the clinic.
Team GB could send three athletes for the men’s marathon, and though in the past they’d run selection like the Americans—just one big race to see who finished top three—these days it was a lot more complicated, and political.
Times mattered. The country's goal was for all athletes to finish top eight, and they weren’t quiet about that objective.
But the selection committee, made up of bureaucrats, coaches, and former athletes, could also employ discretionary selection, meaning they looked at the whole picture: reliability, attitude, optics…
all of it. And Elliot had heard enough through the grapevine to expect it this year.
Even with the best times, there were no guarantees.
Elliot expected to be called in the first round.
His times were solid; at least as good as Jennings’s and close enough to the best in the country.
He was a legacy, and his own coach was the head of Team GB athletics.
That should have given him an advantage and made discretionary selection work in his favour.
Plus, he was well aware of how much Anders hated Hewitt and that he'd use the full force of his influence to keep him out.
When his group finally finished their training run. There was pandemonium near the stands.
Anders was red-faced and shouting, Hewitt was storming off, and Jennings…
The look on Jennings’s face was enough to confirm Elliot’s worst fears.
It was as though he wanted to celebrate, but something was restraining him, holding him back.
There was only one thing Elliot could think of that would have caused that look.
The first-round selection must have been announced, and from the look of things, it hadn't gone as expected, for anyone.
He picked up his phone, scrolling over to the news just to double check, but the sinking feeling in his stomach already told him everything.
Jackson Jennings. Of course. It was always Jackson bloody Jennings, wasn’t it?
Elliot hadn’t been late for training in his life, had never missed a banned substances test, never let his personal life intrude on the work, and had the most consistent finish times of any athlete in Britain.
But apparently, the selection committee was easily swayed by pretty-boy media darlings with a Cinderella story and an admittedly strong PB, despite arguably inconsistent performance.
The fucker was everything Elliot wasn’t: effortlessly cool, universally adored, and so damn successful without even trying.
It all fucking pissed him off. But what pissed him off more than any of that was that despite everything that annoyed him about Jackson fucking Jennings, while he acted like Elliot didn’t exist, Elliot couldn’t keep his eyes off him.
With Anders distracted, Elliot took the opportunity to slink out.
He didn’t want to stick around and watch more people congratulate Jennings on the Olympic spot he hardly deserved.
That might not have been entirely fair—Elliot had no reason to doubt that Jennings would have made the team.
But to take the first-round selection spot? Fuck.
Sitting at the dining table in his parents’ house, Elliot dutifully ate the overcooked salmon in front of him as his parents discussed the new addition the neighbours were building.
He was zoning in and out of the conversation, mind still stuck on how Jennings had usurped his rightful place as first-round pick.
“Elliot, I’ve had some interest from PRO Sports electrolyte tablets for their next campaign,” his dad said. “If you make a strong showing at London and ensure that Olympic call-up, they’ll sign.”
“Great,” Elliot mumbled.
“Shame that Jennings boy took the first spot. But everyone knows that was just politics. Though, of course, if you’d been faster in Berlin, they wouldn’t have been able to deny you.”
“No business at the table, Carl,” his mother said lightly. “I’m sure Elliot is working very hard.”
It should have felt kind, like a reprieve.
But she couldn’t look at him when she said it.
She never could. Elliot swallowed hard. The already unappetising meal felt like lead in his stomach.
He let his fork fall from his hand, clattering against the plate.
He couldn’t handle this, not today. Not with the week he’d had.
He pushed his chair back. “I…I have to go. I have early training,” he said.
“Of course, focus on your training, Son. Altitude camp is the perfect chance to impress. Stay steady and show them you’re exactly what the team needs.”
“I will, Dad. You don’t need to worry,” Elliot mumbled, walking out of the house on shaky limbs.