Chapter 12
Elliot
Elliot’s calves and hamstrings were vibrating with pain after the easy run that had turned into an impromptu battle with Jennings.
He’d overcompensated for his weak Achilles, and now every part of his body seemed to be screaming at him.
He had a sports massage booked in, something they were meant to do every few days while they were here.
He hoped flagging all the other aches to the masseur would mean they didn’t notice the genuine injury he was sporting.
When he arrived at the clinic, which was more like a spa than a sports centre, a woman he recognised was sitting in the waiting room. She smiled when she saw him.
“Elliot Owens, yes? Jackson’s friend?”
Elliot couldn’t help the grimace that crossed his face at being called Jennings’s friend.
It took him right back to that kiss in the tent, the feeling of Jackson’s chapped lips and rough stubble against him that had awoken something desperate in him.
He’d wanted so much more, but an untimely reminder from his father had stopped him cold.
A story about Chris Green—a fluff piece that he was sure his father’s office had coordinated—all about the up-and-coming prodigy, with his squeaky clean catholic school background and how exciting it was to see such a good role model in the running for the Olympics.
It was meant to be motivational, but it had just reminded Elliot once more of how fragile the house of cards he’d built his life on was.
“Soon to be teammate, hopefully,” he replied as smoothly as he could. “Ilaria, right?” She was beautiful, with bouncy brown curls and olive skin; he could see why Jackson had been interested in her and her friend that first night, even if it made jealousy burn in his gut.
“Yes.” She smiled. “It sounds like you and I have a similar Olympic journey, then. It’s a nightmare, isn’t it? Watching friends with their selection confirmed already, not having to worry.”
Elliot nodded emphatically. “The worst.”
“When will you know?”
Elliot hummed. “Hopefully late April, maybe early May. They usually announce it after the London Marathon.”
“You’re lucky!” she exclaimed. “I will be waiting until July.”
“July?” That was rough, but the pressure on the London Marathon was something Elliot could have done without.
Almost as if she had read his mind, Ilaria continued. “Though, I suppose that puts a lot of pressure on your London race.” She arched a brow, and he nodded.
“It’s… Yes, it is a lot,” he replied, though the pressure of London didn't even scratch the surface of what was messing up his head.
“Mine is longer because there is a very stupid test that I must appeal against, and the process is long and unpleasant. But women’s sports are like this now.”
Elliot nodded. He wasn’t sure he could say he understood, but he didn’t want to press. Testing, of any kind, was a sensitive subject in the sports world.
“Ilaria Montari,” the receptionist called.
Ilaria rose from her seat. “Looks like it's my turn.” She smiled at him. “Whatever else is on your mind, I hope you can find a solution, Elliot.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Or maybe Jackson can help,” she tossed over her shoulder with a wink as she walked down the corridor, leaving Elliot to glare at her back. Obnoxiously perceptive woman.
He pulled his phone out, alone in the waiting area now. He scrolled aimlessly for a moment, then tapped the search bar, a spark of a memory pushing him forward as he looked up wildlife in the area. They'd be back in the woods tonight, and he didn't trust Jennings's judgement on the topic one bit.
Wolves. His search results told him. The area was known for wolves.
He hadn't been wrong. He couldn't wait to rub it in Jennings's face tonight.
Elliot faltered. Jennings, who he'd kissed.
Who had kissed him back. Who he very much wanted to kiss again, but couldn't, no matter what Ilaria Montari thought.
His spiral was interrupted by a text from his mother.
Mum
Elliot, your father says you haven’t responded to him. Is everything ok?
Elliot swallowed the lump in his throat, his finger hovering over the contact.
Conversations with his mother always left him feeling empty.
It was like she could never quite bring herself to see him.
Everything was superficial—her concern, her love.
She rarely contacted him at all if it wasn’t at his dad’s behest. At least his dad’s overbearing obsession with Elliot’s career proved a sort of interest in his life.
Elliot
It’s fine. Busy.
Mum
And training is going well? You aren’t overdoing it?
Elliot
Nothing I can’t handle
Mum
Of course. Just stay the course, no distractions.
Elliot
I know
His throat tightened. Elliot pressed his thumb hard against the edge of the plastic chair, grounding himself. It was as if she were just typing from a script his dad had handed her. Distractions. Temptations.
Mum
And ring your father
Elliot
I will
The receptionist's voice echoed in the empty room. “Elliot Owens.”
He shoved his phone into his pocket roughly. Nothing she’d said was new or particularly pointed. Somehow, though, it still made his hands shake.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Ilaria leaving the building. She was looking at him as she left, a soft frown on her face.
He rose. The ache in his calves felt like nothing compared to the tight, familiar one in his chest. He walked down the corridor, half of him wondering why this all seemed so much harder now.
Dinner in the hotel was functional, if not particularly exciting.
A buffet was laid out in the breakfast room for the athletes who were on the full board package, which Anders had insisted on because the options were nutritionally balanced and appropriate for athletes in the peak of their training regimes.
Elliot entered the nearly empty dining area, taking a small table for one tucked into the corner so he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.
He’d had more than enough socialising for one day, and another night in the woods with Jennings was looming.
He wasn't sure whether he was more nervous about the wolves or the proximity of the man his body seemed to be constantly aware of, completely against Elliot's will.
The scrape of a chair made him look up. Jennings had walked in, hair still damp from his shower, moving with that loose-limbed confidence that made people look twice without even trying.
Elliot tore his gaze away, focusing on his plate as if the beige chicken and roasted root vegetables required concentration.
It didn’t matter. His eyes still tracked Jackson automatically, traitorously, every time he moved.
A burst of laughter cut across the room.
Ilaria and Alice had appeared from the stairwell, trays in hand.
The two of them headed straight for Jackson, Ilaria’s smile bright enough to draw glances from the handful of other athletes scattered around the room—nothing like the quiet pain he’d seen hidden during their earlier conversation.
He wondered if they all did this, put up a front for the world to see.
She spotted him watching and gave a small, tentative wave.
Arching a brow towards the large table Jennings had occupied.
Elliot’s reaction came fast. His expression hardened into a warning glare sharp enough to slice clean through the space between them.
Ilaria’s lips curled, amused. She bumped her shoulder into Alice’s as if to say told you, then sat down with Jennings as though they were old friends.
Elliot stabbed at a carrot.
He told himself he wasn’t watching.
He pushed back from the table, the divide between him and every other athlete here feeling painfully obvious.
Jennings drew people to him, like moths to a damn flame, and Elliot was embarrassed to be just another of the masses caught in his orbit.
There was too much at stake for him to get sucked into this.
Nothing was worth risking the tentative balance of his career and family.
Ilaria caught him in the corridor; he hadn’t even noticed her leave.
“Montari,” he said.
She shook her long, dark curls free as she smirked. “Elliot. Enjoying dinner?”
“Whatever you think you know,” he said, “you don’t.”
“You are very rude, aren’t you? It’s refreshing.” Her smile was unwavering and infuriating. “I didn’t say I knew anything.”
“You’re implying things,” he hissed. “Stop.”
She studied him for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly, as if she were fitting puzzle pieces together that he didn’t want her touching. “You’re tense,” she said lightly. “Maybe too tense. You could stand to…release some of it.”
“I’m not looking for—”
“Oh lord, not with me.” She laughed. He couldn’t help but be offended, and it must have shown on his face.
“I like to be the prettiest one in the bedroom.” She shrugged, placating him.
“Alice know that?”
“Oh, she is the exception that proves the rule.” Ilaria smirked. “But you should relax. What happens at camp stays at camp.” She shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Unless you want it not to.”
His pulse thudded once, too hard, in his throat.
“You don’t understand,” he muttered.
“No?” she asked quietly. “You think you’re the first athlete who’s ever been afraid of being seen?”
His jaw clenched. “There are journalists everywhere.”
She snorted. “Sure, in the hotel. But not up in the mountains. They don’t bother with the trails. Too cold, too boring.” She tilted her head. “No one’s watching up there.”
Elliot swallowed. Hard.
He shook his head and stepped away from her, but her words burrowed into him anyway, setting something low and dangerous humming in his chest.
Another night in the woods with Jennings was ahead of him, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it.