Chapter 9
Elliot
Elliot was shaking with nerves as he walked out to the outdoor track, a crisp March breeze off the frozen lake tugging at his jacket.
Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the track, and the low morning sun glinted off the surrounding peaks, making the scene almost painfully beautiful.
The conversation with his father had been bad enough, but adding what he’d done the night before, who he’d been thinking about to that, it all ramped up his anxieties.
He needed to get Jackson Jennings out of his damn head.
Today had to be about the Olympics, about showing Anders he had what it took to represent Great Britain on the world stage, and showing his father that he was worthy of the sacrifices he’d made for him.
Jennings caught up to him as he exited the lobby and shoved a croissant in his face. “You missed breakfast.”
He had skipped breakfast, nerves churning his stomach.
He liked working with Anders and he had a lot of respect for him, but the thought of disappointing him sent him into a spiral, too aware of how much influence he could have on the selection committee.
They listened to him, to his opinions, in a way that gave him more sway than any one person should have.
He could feel Jennings’s curious gaze on him as they walked.
“What?” Elliot asked, possibly more sharply than intended.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it, though.”
Jennings jolted like he wanted to reach out and touch Elliot’s arm, but held himself back. “Just you seem a bit on edge, is all.”
“I’m fine,” Elliot replied, well aware of how unconvincing that was.
The walk to the centre of the track where Anders stood waiting took less than two minutes, the cold air brushing against his face and making his heart beat faster, and did nothing to calm Elliot’s nerves.
“Ready to work like real Olympians?” Anders asked as they came to stand in front of him.
Elliot was hyperconscious of Jennings’s every move beside him.
Normally, he’d have managed some sort of snarky remark about the other man being late or his lack of commitment by now, but after what he’d done last night, he didn’t know how to act.
Jennings broke through the tension like the bull in a China shop he always was. “I am the height of professionalism at all times, Coach,” he said with a grin. “Now, what have you got for me today?”
Anders tossed a small bag of gummy worms at him with an eye-roll.
Elliot wasn’t entirely sure when or how the ritual had begun, but Anders seemed to have a new type of sweet for Jennings at the start of each day that he’d ostensibly use as fuel on his runs.
It was yet another little thing that reminded Elliot he was an outsider.
Whether Anders referred to them both as Olympians or not, he hadn’t been selected yet. Nothing was guaranteed.
“Be careful, there’s plenty of athletes back in the UK who would be thrilled to be in your places,” Anders said offhandedly before he launched into the plan for the morning’s workout.
The comment stung, perhaps more than it should have.
He knew there were a couple of runners who could be called up if the selection committee decided to go a different way.
Green, as his father had suggested, and Hewitt, who everyone knew was the best in the country, were the most obvious possibilities.
Elliot tried to shake that thought off and focus on the workout.
Anders would cycle beside them as they looped through the town, then over the gentler, cleared trails, and finished back on the track.
Elliot knew he’d be monitoring their heart rates and pace closely.
This close to race day, there was no room for overcooking.
Even a minor injury at this stage could devastate their chances on the day.
As they ran, the March wind bit at Elliot’s cheeks and made his breath mist in little clouds.
He looked over at Jennings. He looked relaxed, loose, and completely at ease as he ran, as always.
Elliot, on the other hand, could not settle into a rhythm.
The crisp mountain air felt almost electric, heightening every spike of anxiety.
Anders had dredged up the worst of his fears with one simple comment.
He had to be perfect; there was no margin for error.
“Ease up, Owens,” Anders shouted from the sideline, frowning down at the monitor that would show him all their data. “Don’t force it.”
Elliot made a conscious effort to drop his pace, but the tightening in his chest made him wonder if it had had any impact at all on his heart rate.
Less than ten minutes later, Anders was calling him out again. “Owens, I want you to call it. This isn’t looking right.”
“I’m fine,” Elliot grunted. He didn’t feel it, but there was no way he was stopping. He didn’t want to be a disappointment here, he was certain that would be the first step towards the end of his running career. The nail in the coffin of his Olympic bid.
“Owens, your numbers are spiking like crazy. You need to stop,” Anders said firmly. “Cool down, hit the pool, and get a short run in later if you’re feeling up to it.”
He knew there was no use in arguing, but he couldn’t help himself. “It’s only stress. I can finish the run.”
“Elliot,” Anders sighed. “The best thing you can do for yourself is to stop now and make sure you’re in the best possible health for London.”
Tears burned in the corners of Elliot’s eyes. He may have meant well, but it felt like Anders was driving home the point that Elliot needed to do well in London. That it would define his Olympic chances, and possibly the rest of his life.
Still, he knew he was done for today. He slowed to a stop, the cold air biting at his damp skin as he nodded and began the long walk back to the hotel, the crunch of melting snow underfoot echoing in the quiet morning.
Anders took off on his bike again to catch up to Jennings, whose run was progressing exactly as planned, because everything always seemed to work out for Jackson Jennings, didn’t it?
Elliot tossed his room key, phone, and towel onto one of the loungers near the edge of the pool.
As much as he was convinced Anders was wrong, and that he was just stressing about Olympic selection and all the other shit in his life, a swim did sound nice.
The low-impact workout would be the perfect addition to his training.
He pushed off the edge and did four laps of rapid freestyle.
Nobody would ever mistake him for an Olympic-calibre swimmer, but he knew what he was doing, and he always liked to push his body to its limits.
It was more fun when there was someone to compete against, though.
That was what he loved most about running—the competition.
Even with all the other shit that surrounded it, he lived for it.
The way all those hours he put in on his own amounted to real gains against other competitors.
There was something immensely satisfying about passing another runner in the last couple hundred metres of a marathon.
Especially when that runner was Jackson Jennings.
His brain had betrayed him yet again, latching on to the thought of Jennings and refusing to relinquish him.
It was like he was in a constant loop of Jennings, picturing him in his ridiculous plaid pyjamas, thinking of how to beat him, how to get a rise out of him, cataloguing his every move.
When Jennings had said he didn’t think of him enough to consider him an enemy, Elliot had wanted to call him out for the blatant lie.
Because there was no way. There was no way someone who occupied so many of his own thoughts wasn’t spending at least as much time thinking about him.
Elliot swam for another half hour, pushing his body as hard as he would in any other training session. Satisfied and having let the burn in his muscles chase away at least some of the worries plaguing him, he pulled himself out of the pool.
A low whistle echoed in the cavernous space, and Elliot startled. He’d thought he was alone.
But there he was: Jackson Jennings, strolling across the pool deck in tiny green swim trunks that left exactly nothing to the imagination, ridiculous thigh tattoo on display.
“That’s a sight I could get used to,” Jennings said as he slid down next to Elliot, submerging his feet in the pool. “You doing ok?”
“I’m fine,” Elliot replied, perhaps more sharply than he’d intended.
“Relax, Owens. It’s not a come-on.”
Elliot ignored him. “Anders shouldn’t have called my run.”
“If you’re coming down with something though—” Jennings started.
“I’m not,” Elliot snapped. “It’s stress. Because some of us still have to work for our place on the Olympic start line.”
The grin fell away. “Right. Whereas I got handed it.”
Elliot nodded. “Exactly.”
“You think I don’t deserve the place? Join the fucking club,” Jennings said with a glare. “But I’ve got it, and you know we’ll be lining up together in August, so maybe try being less of a dick and treating me like a teammate.”
“We aren’t, though,” Elliot replied. “Not yet.”
Jennings rolled his eyes. “You finishing up, or do you have time for a race?”
Elliot smirked. “I always have time to wipe the floor with you.”
“Perfect,” the arsehole replied right before executing a perfect racing dive into the pool. “Did I mention I swam competitively for ten years?” He laughed.
“You fucking didn’t,” Elliot replied.
Elliot knew everything about Jackson Jennings’s history in athletics; there was no way he’d have missed something like that. He was almost certain.
Jennings splashed him and shrugged. “One way to find out. Hundred metre freestyle. Loser buys breakfast tomorrow.”
“You’re on,” Elliot replied, sinking into competition mode.
They took off from the wall, hands slicing through the water. It was obvious the line about swimming competitively had been nonsense, but he was good. Faster than Elliot, anyway.