Chapter 10
Jackson
Jackson was quickly realising there was more to Elliot Owens than he’d seen.
Part of Jackson had wanted to open up, too, to tell Owens about his sisters and his father’s illness, but the weight of what Owens had shared deserved its own space.
He’d never voice it, obvious as it was that he regretted what he’d shared, but that sentence was stuck in Jackson’s head, ‘I don’t get to be like you,’ and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever said it out loud before.
It didn’t excuse what he’d said about Jackson in the past, but it kind of helped him release some of his lingering anger anyway.
In any case, for the next hour or so, Jackson didn’t have time to dwell on his or Owens’s problems. He had a camp to set up.
Because the other thing he’d learned was that Owens really didn’t do camping.
Sure, he’d admitted that he’d never been, but it wasn’t just that he didn’t have any experience at it; he was straight-up useless in the woods.
Jackson sat on a frozen log, absently feeding the last tent pole through its sleeve, his attention flicking between his hands and the dark screen of his phone as he checked again whether Beth had messaged.
Nearby, Owens seemed to be treating the simple act of laying out his tent like a surgical procedure.
Jackson snorted softly and kept pushing the pole, tugging hard on the fabric as the progress stalled.
There was a sudden, sharp tearing sound, so harsh it seemed to echo through the gentle hum of the woods
Certain it was something gone wrong with Owens’s tent, yet another demonstration of his lack of wilderness competence, Jackson looked over only to find an expression of horror staring back at him.
Jackson followed his wide-eyed gaze to see that his own tent had snagged on a low, jagged branch behind him.
Where the fabric had been pulled tight by the advancing pole, a long rip had split the side wall, the nylon stretched and ruined in a single careless second.
Shit. His first horrified thought was the price tag.
That gear wasn’t cheap. But a louder, more pressing panic surged: he needed shelter tonight.
The stars were beautiful, yes, but the alpine chill didn’t care for idealism.
For now, he needed shelter, and his brain, ever the optimist when panic hit, latched on to the idea of a hammock.
String it between two trees, throw a sleeping bag over it, pretend he was some rugged adventurer under the stars…
Sure, it was an improv solution, but better than the chill nibbling at his calves.
The thought made him smirk briefly, even as his fingers numbed from handling the cold nylon.
“Is it salvageable?” Owens’s voice interrupted Jackson’s elaborate hammock construction plans.
“Not as a tent,” he replied, looking over the damage. “But if there’s some rope in the bags, I think I can fashion a hammock from it.”
“And sleep outside?”
The look on Owens’s face was enough to make Jackson laugh out loud again. “Yes, outside, deep in the wilderness. That we are, a twenty-minute stroll from the gondola.”
“Jennings, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s bloody cold out, and who knows what kind of wild animals are around here at night?” Elliot glanced around at the darkening pines, shadows pooling beneath the low moon. “Bears, wolves…or, like…mountain men.”
Jackson’s grin widened. “It’s Switzerland, I think I’ll survive.” He tugged his jacket tighter against the alpine chill, ignoring how the wind bit at his neck.
A sort of painted expression crossed over Owens’s face, like he was having a particularly intense internal debate.
His own tent was nearly up, only needing the stakes to be hammered into the ground.
It was slightly embarrassing that someone as inexperienced with the outdoors as Owens had managed to best him at setting up camp, but alas.
“We could share,” he mumbled.
Jackson smiled. “That was genuinely hard for you to offer, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, actually. These tents are tiny as fuck, and you probably snore. Now help me secure this, or I’ll rescind the offer and leave you to your terrible hammock plan.”
Jackson let out a long sigh and moved to help Owens put the finishing touches on his tent.
The temperature had dropped rapidly as night set in, and Jackson was grateful to have the illusion of shelter from the elements that the tent gave them. He pulled out his phone, waving it around to try to pick up some signal.
“Can’t survive a night without your adoring public?” Owens asked.
Jackson snorted. “Hardly. I’m expecting a call from my sister. Don’t want to miss it.”
Owens pulled out his own phone, the blue light casting an ethereal glow over his pale skin and hair.
“I’ve got signal, if you want to borrow…”
“Really?” Jackson asked. “You don’t mind?”
“Maybe don’t rack up hours of roaming charges, but yeah, you can make a quick call.”
He handed Jackson the phone, then turned around, busying himself with his pack as Jackson dialled Beth.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Just checking in.”
“And whose number is this, then? Special friend?” she asked, a suggestive hint in her tone.
“Bethy,” Jackson warned. “It’s not like that. It’s Owens’s phone. I didn’t have signal.”
“That homophobic dickhead? So, what, you're hanging out, and he’s lending you his phone now? Christ, you take the whole sportsman of the year thing too far sometimes. Do I need to remind you what he accused you of?”
Jackson winced, lowering his voice. “He’s not homophobic, Beth,” he whispered. “And he didn’t accuse me of doping, he…implied it.”
He saw Elliot flinch; it was obvious he’d heard.
“Good as,” she replied.
Jackson let out a deep sigh. “Look, I’m up a fucking mountain right now, and I wanted to check in. Is everything okay there?”
“All fine. Nothing new here, just me trying to convince a grown man to follow his doctor's instructions like he’s a bloody toddler,” she groused. “No, wait, that’s not fair to actual toddlers. Noah is much better at listening.”
Jackson laughed. “Miss you all. Give everyone my love?”
“Of course, Jacksy. And I guess thank the arsehole for lending you his phone. Least he could fucking do, the bloody—”
“Bye, Bethy,” Jackson interrupted.
Jackson ended the call and passed the phone back to Owens. There was a tight expression on his face, like he wasn’t sure if he should acknowledge what had been said.
“I am sorry about that. I should never have spoken to those reporters,” he whispered, not making eye contact with Jackson.
“It was two years ago. You’re right. I should move past it.” Jackson shrugged.
“No,” Owens replied. “I wouldn’t.”
“Lucky I’m not you, then.”
“Yeah,” Owens whispered. “Real lucky.”
“Look, maybe this can be, like, neutral ground for us, right?” Maybe his mum had been on to something. She had always been more…what was the term? Emotionally intelligent than the rest of them.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Switzerland, right?”
Owens arched a brow at him.
“We leave it in the past, everything from before. Start fresh, as teammates.” He held out his hand.
Birds chirped in the trees as silence fell between them. Owens nodded slowly, purposefully. “Okay, we can do that,” he replied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “Switzerland,” Owens whispered, almost as if he was testing the idea on his tongue. A spark of electricity shot through Jackson.
He followed Owens into the tent, sitting cross-legged on top of his sleeping bag as he faced the other man, who had stretched out on the thin camping mat. “Would you want to, if things were different, would you want to be out?”
“None of your business, Jennings,” Owens replied gruffly.
Jackson unfolded himself, stretching out to mirror Owens’s position. “You’ve kind of made it my business.”
Owens rolled over to face Jackson, his nose so close that Jackson could feel his soft breath ghosting over his face.
“How do you figure?”
“You call me your worst enemy, then turn around and spill your deepest secrets like we’re friends or something. I’m getting fucking whiplash here, Owens.”
“I don’t want to be your friend, Jennings.”
“Fine. Not friends, whatever. Could we at least stop the media character assassinations?” Jackson replied, his frustration at odds with the calm sounds of the forest around them. “You’ve been an absolute shit to me. And that fucking comment after Copenhagen nearly cost me my agent.”
Owens winced. “I know.” He sat up, drawing his knees in close in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “I said I’m sorry, okay? I snap sometimes under pressure, and I’ve created this fucking cage for myself. I’m counting on an Olympic call-up fixing things, but…”
“But, what if it doesn’t?” Jackson asked.
“Exactly. I can’t let everyone down, not again.”
“You’re not letting anyone down, Owens.”
The glare Owens levelled at him could have started the campfire that they hadn’t had a chance to get going. “My dad expects success. His legacy is on the line. So if I’m not succeeding…well…”
“You aren’t responsible for your father’s reputation. That’s some stage-parent-level bullshit.”
Owens’s face shuttered. “Not everyone’s families can be progressive hippies like yours.”
Jackson winced. It was meant to be cruel, but it wasn’t actually all that far from the truth.
There was a reason he could live the sort of happy-go-lucky life he had, even with the pressure of professional athletics, even when his finances were precarious, and he was scared to death for his dad.
It had simply been drilled into him from a young age that he had inherent value just for existing, for being himself.
He knew not everyone had that. Hell, his own best friend struggled constantly with the weight of parental expectations.
But Owens was an exceptional talent, and to see so much doubt in him made Jackson question everything he knew about the man.
“I’m… I need the Olympics, Jennings,” he said.