18. Isaiah
Isaiah
December, Oxford
Two full months into his DPhil, Isaiah was starting to realise what people meant when they said there was no such thing as being prepared for it.
He’d been thrown in the deep end from day one.
The BPhil had made him cocky, but a doctorate was a whole other ballgame.
From their frequent messages, he knew Amara was having a similar experience back in Beirut.
Her research into the intersections and perceptions of Western and Middle Eastern philosophy in modern academia was drawing a lot of attention, and the girl didn’t sleep.
Isaiah didn’t have the time or energy to bother with Matt, Ollie, or their drama.
He was trying to manage the explosion in interest his channel had gained since he unmasked himself, plan an insane stag weekend in Brighton, and keep up with his cross-country training schedule, all on top of his research.
Isaiah knew he was teetering on the knife-edge of burnout, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Once he got through this term, it would all be easier.
Once the stag and the wedding were behind him, which was a terrible way to think about the most exciting event of his cousin’s life, but once they were done, he’d be able to focus, and maybe then he would deal with the internal politics he unfortunately was well aware would impact his career in the long run.
He stretched, cat-like, as he placed the notes from the most recent interview he’d conducted with a famous camboy, alias NightKing, to the side.
He had a stack of notebooks piling up in the corner now, with handwritten notes that he absolutely dreaded analysing, but that was a problem for future-Isaiah. His phone buzzed on his desk.
Jackson
Final final final RSVP count
Isaiah
Absolutely not, you can’t change it again
He’d had to be strict with Jackson—they’d set a rule that only people who were friends with both he and Elliot could attend, because otherwise they’d have been traipsing around Brighton with the entirety of about six different countries’ Olympic teams.
Jackson
Just one more, Alfie’s cool. You’ll like him, Ell does.
Isaiah
Jennings, I swear to God. I don’t have time.
He’d already booked everything, sent out the itinerary to the guests, and planned just enough stupidity to keep Jackson entertained for the weekend.
Jackson
Don’t stress, I’ll ring the spa myself. Go do your genius stuff, or your sexy stuff or whatever stuff you’ve got on.
Isaiah
Are you absolutely sure you can do it?
Jackson
Of course. I’m a grown-up.
Isaiah scoffed at his phone.
Jackson
I’m getting married. He’s actually going to marry me.
With a grin, Isaiah sent a series of emojis back to indicate exactly how insane it was that his cousin was marrying this adorably impossible man.
Jackson
Oh, hey, Ell wanted me to check you were alright, what with the article in Runner’s Life?
Isaiah narrowed his eyes. Article?
Isaiah
I don’t read Runner’s Life—I’m not obsessed like you lot.
Jackson
Right, right…well
A link appeared on his phone to an article from Runner’s Life magazine. The tabloids of the elite running world. Ice filled his veins.
Jackson
Just read it. It’s about you
Of course it was, and there was only one thing they could possibly be talking about.
He tapped.
The page loaded too fast. A headshot from his faculty profile filled the page, with a pull quote from his panel last month beneath.
But they didn’t talk about his work the way the academic circulars did, there was nothing about groundbreaking doctoral research for modern academia.
No, innovative scholar examining labour autonomy in online sexual economies.
“Cross-country star ‘studies’ porn.”
His mouth went dry, though calling him a cross-country star was a pretty big stretch in his opinion. The piece had a cruel smirk to it. It was full of careful, respectable language that still managed to sound like a raised eyebrow.
His thumb hovered, then he scrolled. His vision tunnelled.
Isaiah Owens, researcher and adult entertainer, is also cousin to Olympic medallist Elliot Owens and nephew of celebrated agent and marathon legend Carl Owens.
No no no. A buzzing started in his ears, the kind that meant his body had decided to shut things down before his brain could catch up.
The phone rang. He stared at it until the screen dimmed, then forced his thumb to move.
“Hi,” Elliot said, already careful. He could hear Jackson in the background, asking if he was alright.
Isaiah swallowed. His throat felt lined with paper. “It says I’m your cousin.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, too loud, clearly leaning into the phone from wherever he was standing. “Which you are.”
“Jax,” Elliot muttered.
“I didn’t want you connected to it. I didn’t want them to infer anything about you.” It came out flat. Almost toneless.
On the other end, Elliot exhaled. “I know.”
Jackson’s voice went softer, for once. “Hey, it’s not like they outed some secret. You’re a researcher. You’re talking about your field. That’s…normal.”
“They made it sound like—” Isaiah stopped. He didn’t have the energy to untangle it. “Shameful, like you should be embarrassed by me.”
“It’s not, we’re not,” Elliot said instantly.
Isaiah pressed his thumb into the edge of his phone case until it hurt. Anchoring.
“I don’t want sponsors asking you questions. Or your coach. Or, I don’t know, parents of kids at meets googling your name and getting…” He gestured uselessly at the screen, even though they couldn’t see him.
“Isaiah.” Elliot’s voice had dropped into that steady register he used before races. “I came out dramatically in the most publicised event in international athletics. You think this is the thing that’s going to shake them?”
“It’s different.”
“Yeah,” Elliot said, “it is. And it’s still not your job to protect me from it.”
Before Isaiah could answer, another voice cut in.
“Put him on speaker properly, you idiots.”
Isaiah closed his eyes. “Hi, Uncle Carl.”
“Evening,” Carl said. The noise was louder; it was clear they were in a restaurant. Fuck, now Isaiah was ruining their family meal as well. “I’ve read the piece.”
“I’m sorry,” Isaiah said automatically.
There was a short silence. Then: “For what?”
“For…” He looked at the headline again. “Dragging the name into it.”
Carl made a dismissive sound. “Please. They’ve been dragging my name into messes my whole career. Runner’s Life have been a particular thorn for us all of late, though.”
A faint laugh from someone in the background felt like it echoed in Isaiah’s ears.
“Listen to me,” Carl went on, voice firming. “This article makes them look small, not you. It’s obvious you’re a researcher writing about your own field. That’s called expertise. Journalists get twitchy when the person with the most authority isn’t them.”
Isaiah said nothing.
“There’s no scandal here. They’re reaching for dirt on Elliot and Jackson and dragging you into it.”
Jackson stage-whispered, “Arseholes.”
“If you were on my roster,” Carl continued, “I’d spin it into a groundbreaking athlete-welfare initiative and have two governing bodies pretending they thought of it first.”
Despite everything, a breathy almost-laugh left Isaiah’s nose.
“Seriously,” Carl said, softer now. “This is all going to blow over. Trust me, I handle actual scandals. This is just people being prurient.” A glass clinked in the background, and Isaiah heard Jackson laugh and Elliot groan in despair.
“Remember when Green had that headline calling him a disgrace to the sport? He thought he was finished. Well, a year later and brands are beating down my door to be first in line when he’s back in the race,” Carl added absently. “Perspective.”
The name hit like cold water. Of course Carl would bring him up like that.
Just another case. Another client. Another narrative turned around.
He didn’t know who Green was to Isaiah, none of them did.
They didn’t know the man who’d looked at him through a screen, soft and unguarded, voice low in the dark.
Not the man he’d eviscerated with his words, or shoved into a box never to be opened again the second he’d removed his mask, soft and apologetic and hopeful like the world hadn’t fallen apart in that moment.
They didn’t know about the weeks of anger and want tangled so tight he couldn’t tell which was which.
“Isaiah?” Elliot said quietly.
“I’m here.” His voice sounded far away, even to him.
He looked back at the article. At his own face.
At the cynical way they’d described the work that paid his rent and held his life together and gave him back the agency he’d lost when his own family had turned him away.
They expected him to be ashamed, just like Matt did, just like his parents.
Isaiah burned with righteous indignation.
“What should I do?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Carl said. “Just let it blow over.”
He could do that. Get his head down, get on with the work, ignore the sinking feeling in his gut that this was just the beginning.
It would get out now, to the rest of the faculty.
Matt would be so fucking smug. His own career felt so far down on the list of issues that he was barely registering it as a risk, letting himself ignore it.
What he couldn’t ignore were his circling thoughts of Chris Green and how Carl had said he was doing better.
Making a comeback. He wasn’t sure if he was happy for the man or angry at the way the world just fell in line for him.
“Okay, well…thanks for letting me know, I guess.”
“Don’t stress about it,” Carl said. “I’m serious. Enjoy the stag do next weekend, blow off some steam with the boys, and don’t let the press get you down. It’s a slippery slope from there, kid.”
Isaiah grunted a response that he hoped sounded affirmative and held his phone in his hand long after the call had ended, the article still open on his screen.
He shot off an email to Schmidt so she wouldn’t be blindsided, and then he set up his ring light and prepared himself to fall into character.
The show must go on, even when everything else was falling apart.
As the tips pinged in, a traitorous part of his brain longed for the feeling of knowing Flash was watching, the anticipation of a private show with him.
Isaiah came suddenly and hard with the thought of Chris Green’s eyes behind that stupid superhero mask at the front of his mind.