Chapter 20
Elliot
It was over. It was all fucking over. He could feel it in his bones, he could see it on the leaderboards and in the comments online, and in the set of his father’s jaw when they spoke. He’d failed.
The London Marathon had been what Elliot could only refer to as an unmitigated disaster. It had been painful in a way he had never experienced before, and he’d come bloody close to a DNF. Only the thought of what that would do to his Olympic chances had kept him on the road.
But that wouldn’t matter in the end. He could put all his hope in his relationship with Anders, and discretionary selection, but that seemed like wishful thinking. A time so far off his usual would have them questioning his reliability, in any case.
He’d been too slow, and he knew it. It had been nearly a week, and all Elliot had done was mope around his flat, waiting for the inevitable announcement.
Logically, he knew this wasn’t the end of his career.
There was more to life than the Olympics, wasn’t that what Jennings had said?
He’d almost believed it was true back when he’d had Jennings whispering in his ear that he was good enough before falling into bed with him every night.
Now he was alone in his flat, refreshing the BBC Sports page for news of the Olympic marathon selection, knowing he was about to lose the only thing he had left.
His phone buzzed across the counter, Anders’s name flashing on the screen. Elliot already knew. He still swiped to answer.
“Coach.”
“Owens. Listen, I wanted to tell you before the announcement goes up.” His measured tone confirmed the worst in Elliot’s mind before the words came.
“They’re going with Green and Hewitt,” Anders said.
“Times speak for themselves as far as the committee is concerned. I pushed for you. I think they’re making a mistake, but… ”
Elliot leaned against the counter, staring at the blank wall. “But I’m not good enough.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A sigh down the line. “Whatever went off the rails, you need to deal with it. Take a week, then we’ll get back out there. The majors’ll still want you if you put in the work, but you’re better than what we saw last week.”
Elliot swallowed hard, forcing the words out evenly. “Sure. Appreciate the call.”
“Elliot.”
“I get it, Anders. Chris was faster on the day, and Hewitt’s the best we’ve got. It’s fine.”
“Don’t start with that martyr crap,” Anders snapped. “I know you ran injured, and I know you knew better, so whatever’s going on with you right now, sort it out.”
Elliot managed a thin laugh. “Sounds simple.”
“Sort yourself out, Owens,” Anders said again, voice softening. “You’re too good to waste this.”
When the line went dead, Elliot stared at his reflection in the black screen of his phone, jaw tight, eyes hollow, then he hit refresh on the BBC page one more time, as if it might tell him something he didn’t know.
Elliot made an emergency appointment and got himself straight to the physio the next day, because he was a professional and he knew no amount of wallowing would fix the problem with his ankle.
He checked in at reception and settled in the waiting area.
A stack of sports magazines sat on a table, and his eye caught on one with Darius Hewitt on the cover, looking like a moody bastard as always.
His brain couldn’t quite manage to manifest the jealousy that had once been provoked by so much as the mention of Darius’s name, even though he’d taken an Olympic spot.
Now, it just made him think of Jackson and their stupid fight in the taxi.
The moment Elliot had ruined everything.
Darius was Jackson’s best friend, and Elliot…well, he cared about Jackson. He’d hurt him, though, and he didn’t know what Jackson wanted from him anymore—if anything. He didn’t have much to offer anyway.
His name was called, and Elliot hopped up on the table in Seb’s office. Seb gave his leg a cursory examination and then levelled him with one of the most frightening glares he’d ever been on the receiving end of.
“You should not have been running on this.”
“I had to,” Elliot countered. “I drastically reduced my mileage and I’m icing it and wrapping it religiously, but London was my last chance to prove myself for Olympic selection.”
Seb let out a long-suffering sigh, which was a bit offensive, because Elliot really did think he’d done the best he could.
“Owens, this is bad. I’ll take a closer look and get some scans, but you’re lucky it didn’t rupture.
You’ll need to massively de-load. No speedwork, no long runs, none of it.
I’d have expected you, of all people, to know better. ”
Elliot baulked at that. His father’s career-ending injury was something people rarely mentioned to him, as though it was bad luck, like inviting a curse by speaking of it.
But Elliot knew the truth. The injury hadn’t been that bad; it had been the shame that ended his father’s career—the shame he had caused.
“I’ll draw up a programme and we’ll start with de-loading and cross-training, but can add in shockwave therapy if you need it,” Seb explained. “You’ll need to be in here at least four days a week—have Phillipa book in a regular slot on your way out—and I’ll have to notify your coach.”
“He already knows.”
Seb nodded. “Good. And your father?”
Elliot swallowed hard. “I’ll tell him.”
“This is serious, Owens. He needs to know as your agent. You can’t accept any race appearances right now. If you don’t treat this, it could be the end of the line.”
Elliot nodded. He pulled his socks and shoes back on and trudged dejectedly out of the office and back to the tube station.
When he got home, he angrily tossed his shoes into the cupboard and grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer. He was sitting on the couch with his ankle elevated, ice pack long since melted, when his father rang.
“Elliot.”
Elliot paused for a moment to gather himself. “Dad. How are you?”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries. We need to discuss the news.”
Of course. “Yes, it was disappointing.”
“Disappointing? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
He let out a deep sigh. “I picked up an injury. There’s not much I could have done differently.” Whether he believed it or not was irrelevant; Elliot needed to get his dad off the phone so he could wallow in peace.
“I don’t understand how you could have let this happen. Everything we’ve worked for, Elliot.”
Elliot let himself fall backwards onto his bed. “I didn’t let it happen, it just did. And you should be happy. You’ve still got your little prodigy on the team; hope he doesn’t crack under the pressure.”
It may not have been fair to Chris. He liked the kid, but Elliot had been working towards this for years, and to fall at the last hurdle made him want to tear everything down.
His father let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to do with you, son. If you were any other athlete, I’d have dropped you from the books for this.”
“But you won’t, right?”
Silence from the other end said everything.
“I’ll figure something out…a plan….I will,” he said.
His father grunted. “I know you will. I want you to stay close to the team. Watch Chris for me. You’re not wrong about the pressure.”
“I will,” Elliot replied. And he meant it.
Elliot needed to find a way to get his life back on track.
He could support Chris, and maybe that would give him a tiny slice of redemption that he desperately craved.
He doubted it though. Nothing had even come close to giving him that sense of absolution.
Nothing except the quiet undoing that came from kissing Jackson Jennings. But he’d never have that again.
“How’s Mum?” he asked in a too transparent effort to change the subject.
“She’s well. Sends her regards.”
Elliot doubted that. For all of his father’s micromanaging, he had nothing on Elliot’s mother, who simply didn’t bother with him at all.
“Send her mine as well.”
“Of course.”
The line went dead, and Elliot stilled, staring at the ceiling, almost unseeing.
He lay there for a moment, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
Then he picked up his phone and navigated to Jackson’s profile, maybe to make it all hurt more.
There were plenty of new videos. Sponsored posts, as well as the more personal ones.
Jackson with his family, with Darius and his boyfriend, all smiles and surrounded by people.
It was the full gamut of the things that made up Jackson Jennings—the public persona, at least.
He sighed and put his phone away. Because, though he’d never voice it out loud, the worst thing about losing the Olympics was that he knew he wouldn’t be able to be there on the start line next to Jackson, sharing the biggest moment of their lives. And he’d done it all to himself.