Chapter 8
Elliot
Elliot needed his brain to shut up. Tension was buzzing under his skin, and he couldn’t settle in the sterile hotel room.
The first session in St Moritz had gone well, and he knew it.
Anders had looked proud of his efforts in the Yasso, but he knew he couldn’t rest on his laurels.
Every moment here, he was under scrutiny, needing to prove that he belonged on the Olympic team, that he could work with Jennings and represent their country.
His phone rang. His dad. Again. He’d ignored three calls so far today and knew he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. He answered.
His dad barely said hello before launching into shop talk. “I spoke to Davies this morning. He’s got an ear in the selection committee. You're still in the running, Son. Just stay focused.”
Elliot sighed. His father was constantly doing this; reaching out to selection committee members he knew from his own days in professional athletics, convinced that Elliot couldn’t achieve anything without his interference.
“I know I am. I’ve more than hit the standard repeatedly, and Anders has assured me—”
“Anders isn’t the only voice on the committee, Elliot. You need to learn how to play the game.” His dad interrupted before he could get a word out. “I’ve reminded them how it would look if they put Hewitt on the team now over you.”
“Like they cared about medals?” Elliot snarked.
His father ignored the quip. “An openly gay head coach and a roster full of queer athletes. Elliot, even you can see potential headlines there.”
Elliot swallowed his words. It shouldn’t matter, but that was naive, and Elliot wasn’t naive. He’d already destroyed one career when he didn’t understand the implications. Now, he knew better.
“Anders hates the Hewitts. He’d never.”
“Still, don’t take your eye off the prize. Chris Green’s been putting in some impressive work lately. I’m expecting a strong showing from him at London.”
“Of course,” Elliot whispered. His father had signed the young prodigy over a year ago, and he was about to make his full marathon debut. His father may not have meant it as a threat, but it certainly read as one.
“The nutritionist he’s been working with has paid dividends.”
“Good for him,” Elliot replied.
"We've signed some great new athletes, too. Ones who really know how to take risks to be the best. Who understand sacrifice."
"I understand sacrifice," Elliot replied, affronted.
"I know you do. That’s why you'll outlast Playboy idiots like Jennings. Keep the risks for the road, not the papers, and you'll build a legacy to be proud of."
"Yes, Dad."
“Get some rest, Son.” His father sighed.
“Night. Give Mum my love.”
Elliot stared at the wall, blank, after they hung up.
His mind kept circling back to what his father had said earlier: “a roster full of queer athletes.” He hated them for it, for the attention they drew.
If he made it, and he bloody needed to, there would be rumours.
Rumours about him, about why he’d been selected.
Because Jennings, Hewitt, and even Anders felt the need to put their personal business out there for public consumption.
It was as if they didn’t understand how dangerous that was, as if they didn’t see how it could destroy everything they’d built.
The last thing Elliot needed was more scrutiny on his personal life.
The silence of the room pressed in. He thought about his family and what he’d once cost them, and he did what he always did.
Pushed it down. Locked it tight. Other people could be honest. He couldn’t.
Not when one truth from him could unravel everything all over again.
Elliot cracked his fingers, the tension building up in every inch of his body.
He grabbed a bottle of juice from the minibar and sat cross-legged on the duvet as he scrolled through the endless options on the hotel’s in-room entertainment system for a loud, distracting action film.
Once he’d drained the bottle, Elliot stretched himself out.
The film was still playing in the background, but it couldn’t hold his interest enough tonight to distract him from his circling thoughts.
He navigated over to his social media and posted the final clip he’d prepped for the day.
With his shot at the Olympics hanging in the balance, he knew he couldn’t afford to let anything slip.
The athletics world demanded perfection in all areas; there was no room for any cracks.
Elliot scrolled absently through his feed, his thumb swiping up and up and up until something caught his eye.
Jackson Jennings.
That bloody clip he’d shown him on the plane.
He still didn’t understand what had possessed Jennings to ask him for advice like that.
Sure, he’d likely been given the same spiel Elliot had about burying the hatchet; one his father’s assistant, Sue, had reminded him of yet again when she’d informed him that the campaign he’d been hoping for had gone to Jennings.
‘Don’t let him get under your skin, show the selection committee you can put the good of the country first. Blah Blah Blah. ’
Elliot watched the clip again, scoffing at the low production value and the overt attempt at a thirst trap. Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to scroll away. The lighting in the clip was all off, and it was grainy, just like he’d told Jennings.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he tapped on Jennings’s profile.
There was a newer post, taken in a hotel room identical to the one Elliot was currently lying in.
His breath caught in his throat. He’d tell himself forever that it was the shock that Jennings appeared to have actually taken his hastily offered advice and cleaned his camera lens.
It had nothing to do with the soft tilt of his head, or the way his hair tumbled loose from the green bobble he’d tied it up in, drawing the eye down the curve of his neck.
God, even Elliot’s own brain wouldn’t let him hold on to that delusion.
Jennings had set his phone up at an angle, catching his upper body as he moved through what looked like a fairly standard series of stretches. Shirtless, hair rumpled, muscles shifting visibly under pale, freckled skin as he went through slow, deliberate movements.
There was something unguarded about it. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the usual infectious grin he turned on everyone he knew.
This was casual, almost intimate. Elliot watched as Jennings yawned midway through a set, his mouth going wide, his abs flexing with the motion before he shook it off and kept going.
The sleepy weight of it, the way his movements lacked their usual precision, made warmth coil low in Elliot’s stomach.
He should scroll past. He really should. He was absolutely going to do that.
Instead, he watched. And then rewatched.
This was worse than the times he’d done this in his own flat, hidden from the world. Jennings was just down the corridor. His room looked exactly like this one. It felt almost intimate.
Elliot swallowed. His mouth felt dry. He went to take another sip of his drink, only to remember it was empty. Shit.
The video looped again. Elliot felt like he noticed something new each time it cycled through.
He watched intently as Jennings rolled his shoulders back, his neck stretching enough for the tendons to stand out.
His skin looked warm, like he’d crawled out of bed and decided to start moving.
The low light made everything softer, more touchable.
Elliot’s fingers tightened around his phone.
He should turn it off. He should go to bed.
Instead, he tapped the video so it filled the full screen.
Elliot was already half hard as he watched the way the plaid pyjama bottoms fell lower on his rival’s hips as the routine progressed, as he catalogued the way stray strands of fiery hair escaped the bun Jennings wore it in as he moved, falling softly to his chin.
Elliot rubbed himself over his tracksuit bottoms. He wasn’t going to do this, was he? It was too far, too pathetic. Too weak.
It had been a while, though. He’d been too…
too something, to bother going out. Melancholic maybe.
And now that his interest had been piqued, his cock was demanding attention.
Elliot let the video keep looping, holding it directly over his face as he gripped his cock with his right hand.
It felt fucking brilliant, and besides, it wasn’t like Jennings would ever know. Nobody would.
He let his imagination run wild. He pictured Jennings there with him, imagined licking down that firm chest and tugging the ridiculous flannel pyjamas down further.
It wasn’t hard to visualise, with the bed identical to the one Elliot was lying on clearly visible in the frame of the video.
This was fucking pathetic. He knew it. He had to work with Jennings now; he shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. But he couldn’t stop himself.
Precum leaked from his tip as he let himself get lost in the fantasy, working himself faster as he watched Jennings drop into an impossibly low lunge. Fuck.
Elliot wanted more. Lust coursed through him stronger than ever before.
It didn’t even matter anymore that this was his biggest rival, the man who had taken the spot he’d been so sure was his, who had bested him over and over.
He turned to the side, propping the phone up against the back of the nightstand, and fumbled for the lube he’d placed there.
He turned up the volume, imagining the soft grunts Jennings made as he lowered himself into a stretch were something else entirely.
He chased his orgasm, his strokes rough and frantic, needing it now more than he’d ever needed anything.
The video looped again, and on-screen Jennings huffed out a little sigh.
Elliot groaned and rolled onto his back as he came, his release coating his hand and pooling in the slight hollow of his abdomen.
The video continued to play as he felt around for something to clean himself up.
Sacrificing his tracksuit bottoms in the end.
The film he’d forgotten about had come to an end, and the screen had turned dark.
The post-orgasm haze was just smoothing the edges of the anxiety he felt over giving in to his urges.
A flash of disgust at himself tried to bubble up inside, but he pushed it down.
He rolled over and made his way to the en suite, where he stared at himself in the mirror for a beat as he tried to convince himself that it was fine, he’d just needed a release.
It wasn't any different this time. It didn’t mean anything.
He returned to the bed, buried himself under the duvet, grabbed his phone, and set an alarm for his morning workout before falling into a restless sleep.