15. Chris
Chris
April, Cardiff
The weeks passed in a colourless blur of training and coursework.
It had been two months, but the wound still felt as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Chris was busy. He had to keep busy. If he didn’t, he dwelled and thought stupid thoughts about bridges…
or worse, about jumping on a train to Oxford or creating a fake profile to get back onto Isaiah’s channel, just to see how he was.
He didn’t want to betray him any more than he already had, though.
With the London Marathon just weeks away, running had entered the public consciousness the way it only did around major events, with speculation over the international athletes that would be joining the elite field, whether Darius Hewitt would break the world record this year and, of course, who would win the battle of lovers between Jackson Jennings and Elliot Owens.
Seeing his former teammates in the tabloids was a strange feeling for Chris.
He was happy for them in an abstract way.
But it was a stark reminder of how removed his life was from all of that now.
This time last year, he’d been deep in training for the London Marathon—so deep he’d lost himself, lost control, and let people steer him down a path he’d never thought he would take.
A message from Nick came through; he clicked it only to find a link to an article—no greeting, no context. The brotherly love was real strong. Chris huffed but still clicked the link.
Where is Green now? Amid the excitement of the London Marathon, where is the sport’s disgraced prodigy, and will his teammates reconcile with him now that his ban has been reduced?
Fucking lovely. A tabloid think piece on whether he could ever come back from his public spat with Jackson and Elliot post-Olympics.
It had really felt like the noise around his own scandal had been fading, even in running circles.
The reduction Carl and Isaiah had pushed through for him made him far less interesting.
As far as the Athletics Association was concerned he just needed to serve out his ban, and then he’d be back, clean slate, like it had never happened.
Public opinion, of course, was another matter entirely.
The worst thing about seeing his name in headlines again, other than it drawing even more attention to the worst moment of his entire fucking life, was that he didn’t actually know the answer to the question it posed.
Sure, Carl had been accommodating and helpful.
But would his son be? His nephew sure as hell wanted nothing to do with Chris these days.
Never had, if the words he’d overheard in the office had been how he really felt.
Fuck, if Isaiah had said anything to his family about Chris’s habit…
Would Carl even want him on the books anymore?
He still hadn’t signed with him again. Could he have completely lost that chance?
Isaiah. Isaiah. Isaiah. Chris sighed, allowing his head to fall into his hands. Why did his brain always manage to circle back to Isaiah? Every area of his life seemed to be consumed by the pastel-haired man with the proud face, gorgeous body, and insane intellect.
The last email, which he read over and over without ever replying, the apology he hadn’t deserved, and the secret folder of photos in Chris’s phone were the only reminders of the months he’d spent obsessing over the man on the other side of the screen.
He respected Isaiah’s decision to block him from his channel, so he didn’t reach out, but he was only human.
Those photos were getting a whole lot of use as he gave in to his baser urges in the wee hours of the morning when no amount of exhaustion from school or running could force his body to forget about the cloud hanging over him.
He read through the article again. Eyes catching on phrases like “tight-knit team,” and “queer athletes.” He wondered if he could be part of that again. First, though, he needed to bite the damn bullet and give Carl his answer.
Chris pulled on his running gear, laced his trainers, and quietly crept out of the house for a run.
He hoped it would give him the clarity he so desperately needed right now.
The suburbs blurred into the countryside as he ran.
Well outside the city, he stopped at a farm cafe.
It was buzzing with activity, children running around, families and couples filling the tables as the scent of cakes and coffee filled the air, though he was almost certainly the only person who had arrived on foot.
He ordered a caramel latte and a slice of chocolate banana loaf to refuel before settling into a small table in the back corner of the shop and pulling his phone out of the pocket in the lining of his shorts.
Flicking to Carl’s number, he sent a short message, aiming for a level of casual professionalism that probably wouldn’t fool anyone.
Chris
I’d like to sign with you again. If you’ll still have me.
The phone started to ring in his hand almost immediately. He stared at it. A sweet woman with a gentle smile and a pink apron brought his order over. “You gonna get that?” she asked.
A sharp laugh escaped Chris’s throat, but he nodded at her in thanks and swiped up, answering the call.
“Carl—er, Mr. Owens. Hi.”
Carl laughed. “When have you ever called me Mr. Owens, kid?”
Chris cringed. “Sorry, I…I don’t know how to do this.”
“Talk on a phone?”
“Apologise.”
There was silence on the line, and for a moment, Chris thought Carl might have hung up already.
“You don’t have anything to apologise for, Chris,” Carl said.
Steadying himself, fingers gripping the wooden cafe table, he countered.
“I do. You tried to help me. You did help me. And the way I treated you and…and Isaiah.” The name fell from his mouth like a mumbled prayer.
“You didn’t deserve that. I made a mistake, and I blamed everyone but myself, so I understand if you’ve realised you don’t actually want to work with me anymore. ”
“Chris,” Carl sighed. “Your reaction was understandable. You shouldn’t beat yourself up about it.”
“But I—”
“No, listen to me. Other people in your position have reacted far worse than a few harsh words. Hell, I reacted worse.”
Chris stilled, hand on his mug of sweet coffee.
“It was bad luck the press caught you in the aftermath, but that’s on me.
I should have seen it coming. Should have got you out of there and made sure you were alright.
I got caught up in things, trying to fix things with Elliot, trying to make up for years of shitty parenting in a single day, and I…
I let you slip through the cracks. I’ll never forgive myself for that. ”
“It wasn’t your responsibility,” Chris replied faintly. He took a steadying sip of tea. Carl had never been an open book. He’d been a good agent, very involved, a mentor, but emotionally vulnerable was not his style, and Chris was feeling even more off balance than before.
“Chris,” Carl sighed. “When it happened to me, my agent was a lifeline. He helped me step away quietly and kept everything out of the press. It’s half the reason I became an agent myself; I wanted to be in a position to help athletes the way he helped me.
But the second I had the chance to pay it forward, I—”
Chris’s voice caught in his throat. He stared at the table, at his food in front of him, unseeing. Carl? Pillar of the athletics community, Carl Owens?
“You?”
“Yeah, kid. Me.” Carl paused, then sighed. “I was at the end of my career. I wanted one more shot at glory so much that I risked everything for it.” A self-deprecating laugh echoed down the line.
“You were injured,” Chris insisted. “I looked you up when we first met, and you had a career-ending injury.”
Carl swallowed so hard that Chris heard it.
“That’s what they reported, yes. My whole training group was cycling the stuff, but of course only I was caught.
Bigger name, more scrutiny—the usual. But they let me keep it quiet, disappear.
” He sighed. “I was lucky as hell, but let me tell you, I handled it terribly. I let that one moment define the next twenty years of my life, which is exactly what I don’t want to see you do.
” He muttered under his breath, “It’s a damn miracle Elliot turned out as well as he did with my issues crowding him out his whole life. ”
“I’m sure that’s not—”
“I’m actually surprised he didn’t tell you. He found out last year. I thought he’d be venting about it to all his friends.”
That gave Chris pause. “Oh, Elliot and I, we’re…we’re not in touch. Haven’t been since the Olympics.”
“Oh. I think he’d like to hear from you.”
“Really?” Chris asked, his voice small.
“Yes. Give him a ring. And I’ll send some papers up for you to look at for our new contract, if you’re still interested.”
“I am,” Chris said immediately. He hadn’t processed everything Carl had told him, but if anything, it had cemented the fact that he was the man Chris needed in his corner.
Carl’s voice turned sly. “I assume you’d prefer to deal with me directly than my nephew?”
Chris’s blood ran cold. “Why do you say that?”
Carl laughed. “He had you running scared last time you were in.”
Chris breathed a sigh of relief.
“You know, he’s not usually so judgemental—Isaiah.” Carl sighed. “God knows he’s been through a lot. I’m not sure what it was that got under his skin, but I don’t want you to have a bad impression of him. He’s a good person, wicked smart.”
The tension Chris had been holding floated away. Carl didn’t know what had happened. “Yeah, I…I appreciate everything he did for me, but maybe it’s best we keep some distance.”
“Things do seem to get explosive when the two of you are in the same room.” Carl laughed.
God, you have no idea, Chris thought wryly.
“I’ll send those papers your way, and we’ll keep in touch. It’ll all work out, Green. You’ve got this.”
“Yeah. I think…I think maybe I do.”
As the month drew to a close, Chris had a freshly inked deal with Carl Owens, a pile of coursework he was slowly making his way through, and a steadily rebuilding fitness base.
Things were far from perfect—he still spiralled late at night sometimes, when the world was quiet, uncertain that any of this actually amounted to a life, but it was better than it had been.
He piled onto the sofa with Sam and Mila, mentally preparing himself to watch the BBC coverage of the London Marathon.
“You sure you want to do this?” Mila asked.
Chris nodded. “I’ll be back there in two years, be competing against some of these guys in even less time if things work out. I don’t just want to, I need to.”
His need to feel like part of things again physically ached. This might hurt, but not watching would be worse.
Sam flung an arm over his shoulder, the two of them bracketing him tightly as though they were worried he might collapse.
But Chris didn’t feel unsteady. He didn’t feel envious or disappointed right now.
This was the job. You watched the races you weren’t part of, studied the course, studied the other runners.
It was the first thing in ages that felt normal.
The gun went off, and the race started. Chris watched, eyes trained on the screen as he picked out runners he recognised and newer contenders. Darius Hewitt took an unsurprising early lead, out front with the world’s greats as he settled into an early breakaway group with Mekonnen and Davies.
Chris’s eyes found Elliot and Jackson next, steady in the middle of the pack for now, but if he knew either of them as well as he thought, he expected a significant second-half push.
His eyes remained glued to the TV as the race coverage continued. The same couldn’t be said for his friends, who seemed to be engaging in a game of tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths behind his head. Chris fell into the zone, studying strategies, time lost on corners, and fuel station delays.
Nearly two hours in, Mila and Sam were stretched out on the ground, chatting as he watched the elite runners make their final push for the finish line.
The crowd went wild as Hewitt broke the tape seconds before the clock ticked over to two hours. A Brit taking first at the London Marathon was a rare enough occurrence to elicit a massive celebration, but this was unheard of.
Minutes later, the noise of the crowd swelled again as Jennings and Owens raced forward, battling each other all the way, barely holding off Mekonnen, but he knew neither of them were thinking about the gold-medal-winning Ethiopian in that moment.
Chris held his breath. This never happened—it was fucking historic.
He blinked and couldn’t say which of them had crossed first. The cameras followed the pair, and he watched, hypnotised, as Jackson, then Elliot, fell to their knees.
First, he thought it was exhaustion, then he worried they were injured.
“Oh my god,” he breathed as he realised what was happening in front of him.
Mila looked up. “What is it?”
“I think they’re proposing.” A grin was stretching across Chris’s face now.
Sam joined him on the sofa. “Oh god, that’s fucking adorable.”
“It’s so them,” Chris replied, quietly awed that Elliot, the man who’d had a near panic attack when Chris had walked in on them last summer was doing this in front of the whole world now.
“You gonna text? Congratulate them?” Mila asked.
Chris pulled his phone out without even thinking and added Jackson and Elliot to a group chat.
Chris
Congratulations! Just saw you on the telly. Really really happy for you both <3
He relaxed back into the sofa as the coverage continued to play, other runners crossing the line until most of the elites had finished and it bled into club runners and celebrities.
He watched the ticks on the message he’d sent flip to read and realised with a sinking feeling that this was the first message he’d sent either of them since that fateful day.
He owed them more than a simple congratulations.
He owed them a fucking apology. Isaiah’s words about blame and personal responsibility echoed in his head as he tapped out a far too long message on his phone while Sam and Mila pretended not to be reading over his shoulder.
Chris
I’m sorry for the things I said in August. You both were nothing but welcoming to me and like mentors I never deserved.
I was angry and lost, and I needed someone to blame.
I know you didn’t do anything. It’s on me.
I need to accept that I did this to myself if I’m ever going to move on.
I hope one day to be racing alongside you again. Sorry.
He watched for a minute, but the message sat unread. He forced himself to slide his phone back into his pocket. They’d just run a damn marathon and proposed to each other in front of a crowd of cheering fans and flashing cameras. No reply would come today.