Chapter 6 Elliot
Elliot
Jackson fucking Jennings.
Elliot was trying very hard to maintain the facade of the calm, level-headed athlete he was always careful to portray in public, but this was bollocks.
Anders was his coach, and St Moritz was his altitude base.
Sure, Jennings was on the Olympic team now, having usurped the first call-up through no merit of his own.
But why should that give him unfettered access to Elliot’s training, especially a month before the London Marathon, the race that now had the potential to make or break his Olympic prospects?
His father and Anders had both been clear on what was expected of him.
Stay professional. Don’t provoke Jennings.
The last thing any of them needed was a headline-making spat, not in an Olympic year.
And Elliot would never risk it, not with his own place still unconfirmed.
Elliot bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself lashing out at the excited chatter around him as Jennings entered London City Airport. Late. Surrounded by adoring fans.
Well, ok, two people. They were marathoners, not footballers—even an Olympic call-up didn’t exactly make you recognisable to the general public.
Elliot ignored Jennings and queued for security, stewing all the while.
He glared when Jennings bumped into him from behind.
His head was buried in his phone as he unloaded items into the security trays.
Elliot picked up his bag and stomped toward their gate, leaving Jennings to his additional screening with a smug little smile. It was the little things.
He threw himself into a chair near the gate.
A rack of tabloids directly in front of him seemed to taunt him with photos of Darius Hewitt on the cover.
He’d been surprised when Darius had come out just weeks ago.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t known; he was one of the few people who had.
He just didn’t understand the need to splash your business across the papers.
Elliot had been sure Darius understood things the way he did.
He’d certainly behaved as though he had before.
Though Elliot supposed being labelled a bigot by the press the way he had in the wake of the first-round selection might have changed the equation.
The man had always been discreet before.
Nobody knew Hewitt had been shagging Jennings for years.
Nobody except Elliot. Because despite what Jennings thought, Elliot knew where the line was, and he’d never have crossed it.
He’d never have outed someone. Not when he was all too aware of what it could do to people, and the ramifications it could have.
Elliot hated flying at the best of times, and if Jennings elbowed him one more time, he was tossing him out the emergency exit.
No matter how fit he’d looked in his Team GB tracksuit, or how unfailingly kind he’d been to the kid who had asked for his autograph as they’d been waiting to board, this was unacceptable.
His bony shoulder bumped against Elliot’s as he barked out a laugh at whatever stupid film he had on his tablet, and Elliot turned away from him in his seat, trying to ignore the presence beside him and get to sleep.
A wayward elbow struck the middle of his back, right between his shoulder blades, and Elliot whipped off his eye mask, turning to glare at Jennings.
“Sorry,” the arsehole said. There was a sheepish smile on his face, and Elliot was halfway to believing he was genuine when he whipped out his phone. “Now that you’re awake, though…what do you think of this caption? Too on the nose? My agent’s really riding me about content creation right now.”
Elliot’s anger dulled as he took in the looping video that had been thrust in front of him.
Jackson must have shot it this morning—a slow-motion number of him putting his Team GB kit on in front of a mirror, miles of soft freckled skin being covered slowly and then reappearing as the loop restarted.
Elliot felt the breath leaving his body.
“What do you think?” Jennings prompted.
Words caught in Elliot’s throat. “Yeah, s’nice,” he eventually managed.
“Nice.” Jennings arched a brow.
“You trying to rub my face in the selection results? Really?” Elliot asked. “You know Anders wants us to behave like professionals on this trip.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. It’s a fucking olive branch, Owens. Besides, I thought this was your area of expertise. Isn’t your dad meant to be hot shit at marketing?”
The mention of his dad made Elliot’s slowly growing tolerance for Jennings disappear. As if he couldn’t be good at this on his own merit. It had to be because of his dad. Everything was always about him. Jennings must have noticed because he backtracked pretty damn fast.
“I just meant, your content’s great. I’d appreciate your opinion.”
Internally, Elliot felt a little bit smug at the acknowledgement that Jennings was watching his content.
He tamped down the curiosity over whether he ever watched it the way Elliot watched his: in the privacy of his bedroom, with the lights off and his hand around his cock.
The first time he'd done it, he'd felt gross.
And guilty. Then angry, because why the fuck was he letting Jennings get in his head like this?
He'd rationalised it as a response to his annoyance at Jennings successfully avoiding him after Copenhagen. Oh, he could tell, and he didn’t blame him.
It was smart to quash the rumours Elliot had stoked in a fit of pique.
His father had encouraged him to retaliate at first, but hated that Elliot had gone for doping of all things.
Apparently that was too far. Stopping any talk of rivalry was best, but Jennings had forgotten one thing.
Even if he avoided Elliot to the best of his ability, he'd be there in every race, ready to pass him in the final stretch. Elliot closed off his stupid thoughts and watched the clip again, trying in vain to pull on his professionalism. Because Jennings was right, he was good at this kind of thing. Elliot treated his personal brand like a business, and he’d done well because of it. Though not well enough, evidently.
“What on earth gave you the impression I’d help you out?” He sneered.
Jennings seemed completely unaffected. He shrugged. “You like being the best at things, and besides, I figure you still fucking owe me. You did cost me my biggest sponsor.”
Elliot turned. “Are you ever going to get over that?”
“Would you?”
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.