19. Chris
Chris
December, Cardiff
This was a fucking terrible idea.
For the twentieth time since he’d left, Chris contemplated turning tail and running back to the safety of his room in his parents’ house. But the train doors were closing, and he could feel the thrum of the engine starting, preparing to pull out of the station. There was no turning back.
When they’d first invited him, it had felt nice.
Like a welcoming back into the fold. Then the email had come.
From Isaiah Owens. It was a personal account, not the work one he was used to seeing, but he’d stared at the name for nearly twenty minutes before gathering the courage to open it.
A wave of disappointment had rushed through him when he saw it was a group message, with an itinerary so packed and detailed it had to be a joke.
He hadn’t replied. Didn’t think he had the right to.
Now the stag weekend was upon them, and Chris wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. He owed Jackson and Elliot, though. He’d fucked things up with them so much after the Olympics, and it wasn’t like showing up for a party was a massive hardship.
The hours on the train were pure torture. He ran through every possible scenario in his head: Isaiah ignoring him, Isaiah shouting at him, Isaiah telling everyone about his pathetic obsession, and them all laughing. He wasn’t sure which option was the worst.
After changing trains in London and another, shorter trip down to Brighton, Chris pulled his duffel off the luggage rack and hiked it over his shoulder as he stepped onto the platform.
Bitter wind hit him as he walked towards the station exit, where he spotted Darius Hewitt leaning against the wall with a blond man he recognised mostly from tabloids as his dancer boyfriend.
“Green.” Darius greeted him, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, mate.”
“You too.” Chris smiled and found he genuinely meant it. He appreciated Darius’s stable stoicism, especially when approaching a weekend that felt like impending doom.
“I’m Jamie,” the blonde said. “Nice to meet you, officially.”
Chris shook his hand. “I’ve heard good things.”
Jamie grinned at him. “Well, don’t make your judgement yet. We’ve got a weekend of debauchery ahead of us, and I have been a good boy for far too long.”
Darius snorted. “You? Good?”
“Hush. I’ve been studying super hard, and you know it.”
Their banter was light, but it made Chris feel decidedly like a third wheel.
“Fair warning, Green,” Jamie said as they started to walk to a parked luxury SUV. “This is the coupliest stag do that has ever occurred.”
Chris groaned, drawing a laugh from Darius.
“Don’t worry, just means we can all wingman you at the club,” Jamie assured him. “Just point us in the direction of your type.”
Chris shrugged. “Don’t really have a type.”
It may have been true once, but the simple statement felt like a lie now, because his type had pastel hair and tattooed ribs and fucking hated him.
Darius climbed into the driver’s seat, Jamie next to him as Chris hauled himself and his bag into the back. The drive was short, and they parked up in the garage of a block of serviced apartments.
“I think we’re still waiting on a few people. Yours was the last train pickup, though.” Jamie said. Chris couldn’t bring himself to respond, just nodding tightly.
He steeled himself as they rode the lift up, preparing to face Isaiah Owens for the first time since he’d made the connection between him and Quick. Cheesy pop music was blasting from the other side of the door as Jamie waved his key card and pushed it open, oblivious to Chris’s spiral.
Jackson bounced over to him, clearly already tipsy and dressed in his Olympic jacket and joggers with no shirt underneath. “You actually made it!” he screeched, pulling Chris into a tight hug.
Elliot approached next, thrusting a drink into his hand. “Catch up.”
Chris took a moment to look around. There were only three others in the room.
He relaxed as he locked eyes with Stefan, whom he was honestly surprised to see here after the way the last interaction he’d seen between the Austrian athlete and the soon-to-be-wedded pair had gone, but there he was, happy as Larry, next to a mountain of a man who looked vaguely familiar.
Leaning against the window, nursing a pink cocktail with a neon orange penis straw, was Malek Demir, who he hadn’t realised was close to Jackson or Elliot. Malek was glaring at him, his dark eyes fixed on Chris as though he could eviscerate him on the spot through the power of his stare alone.
“You know Stefan, obviously,” Elliot said, reminding Chris of his presence. “And that’s Alfie next to him. Then you’ve got Malek over by the window—he’s the newest competition.”
Malek turned away as Elliot gestured to him, not acknowledging the introduction.
Chris sighed. He knew he should get used to this kind of greeting from other runners now.
The way the others had welcomed him back into the fold had given him a false sense of confidence about what his reception would be like post-ban.
There was one notable absence from the group, and it was on the tip of Chris’s tongue to ask when the door buzzed. “Oh, finally,” Elliot muttered, abandoning Chris in the middle of the room as he went to answer it.
Darius’s partner, Jamie, sidled up to him. “You alright, la? Looks like you’re about to face a firing squad.”
Chris busied himself picking at a stray thread from his jumper. “I’m fine. Just, you know, long train ride.”
“Sure.” Jamie seemed wholly unconvinced.
He could still feel Malek’s eyes burning into him as two voices sounded outside the door. He didn’t have time to worry about what he’d done to deserve the other man’s ire though, because then the man whose image was permanently etched into his very being was standing in front of him.
Isaiah Owens.
His hair fell in perfect soft waves of lavender down to his sharp cheekbones.
His ice-blue eyes glittered with mirth as he leaned into the man beside him, and a surge of white-hot jealousy raced through Chris’s body.
He watched as Isaiah hugged Elliot tight, then was handed a drink by Jackson.
Malek approached the door, sweeping the man next to Isaiah into a kiss before muttering something sotto voce to the pair of them.
The jealousy roiling in Chris’s stomach barely had time to cool before Isaiah’s eyes lifted, drifting quickly over the room and landing right on him.
He froze, completely ensnared by that icy blue with no hope of escape.
Isaiah turned away, muttering words Chris could only imagine to his two friends. At least now he had an answer to why Malek had seemed to hate him on sight. It wasn’t the doping ban at all.
He knew.
He knew him as more than Chris Green, disgraced runner. He knew who he was to Isaiah, how he’d destroyed the tentative thing between them just by being who he was. By not being the stranger Isaiah had wanted him to be.
Chris sighed and took a long drag from his straw, only to find his drink long empty. Then he wedged himself down on the sofa, squeezing Stefan in even closer to Alfie, which, he had to say, the man didn’t exactly seem to mind.
The party blurred around him. Jackson brought him a new drink, then another. Chris spoke to Stefan about training and Jamie about coursework, overheard Isaiah ranting to his friends about departmental politics, and quickly quashed the urge to try to speak to him with another drink.
Taxis arrived to take them to a club where a VIP booth had been booked.
Chris followed in a daze. It wasn’t until he found himself in the corner of the booth, alone, that he finally relaxed, laughing as he watched Jamie, in his glittery jacket, try to get Darius to dance with him before giving up and climbing into an abandoned go-go dancer’s cage to dance for his boyfriend instead of with him.
The bass pounded and coloured lights streaked around the room.
He let his gaze drift, and almost didn’t notice when Isaiah appeared in front of him.
Dishevelled, sweaty, and fucking perfect.
Even the unrepentant rage on his face was sexy, though the way he staggered as he climbed into the booth and the slight glaze of his eyes didn’t exactly enhance the effect.
“We need to talk,” Isaiah slurred at Chris, plopping himself down far too close.
Chris shuffled down the bench seat. “I didn’t do anything. I haven’t said anything.”
“That’s the fucking problem, though, isn’t it, Green?” Isaiah leaned closer and poked him in the chest. “You never do anything, you never take responsibility for shit. Just poor little Chris Green, floating along while everyone else fixes his fuck-ups. Didn’t even send me a fucking email, nothing.”
“I’m sorry. Did you want me to?
“Yes. No. Whatever.” Isaiah took another drink, and a drop of the sticky liquid dripped down his chin. Chris tracked its progress as Isaiah slammed the empty glass down on the black mirrored table.
“Do you still want to fuck me, Green?”
“Sorry, what?” The bass was pounding, the lyrics of early 00s pop songs drifting around him like a buzzing fly that wouldn’t go away. His breath stuttered, and he reached for his own drink.
“Stop apologising. It’s a simple question.” Isaiah somehow managed to sound irritatingly intelligent, even through his slightly drunken slur.
“I, err…”
Isaiah moved closer. “We could head to the loo. Or even do it here. Private enough. That’s what you want, right? That’s what you always said.”
“No.” Chris shook his head. It was only half a lie, because Isaiah like this, drunk, angry, still clearly hating him—he didn’t want that at all.
“What? Not good enough for you in real life?”
Chris glared now. “No matter how much of a dick you think I am, Owens. I am not the kind of arsehole who would fuck someone when they are way too drunk to consent. So back off.”