Page 15 of Your Pace or Mine
“It’s fine, it just would be nice to be able to defend myself.”
“I mean, you could, if you’d just…”
“No,” Darius shut that down. It was hard enough being the only mixed-race man at every event he was forced to represent his family at. He didn’t need to be the intersectionality poster boy for the British aristocracy. And that wasn’t even starting on the problems it could cause him professionally—though not being out wasn’t doing him any favours either.
“Does that mean you aren’t coming back?”
Darius shrugged. “No, I’ll be there. I can’t give Anders the satisfaction of scaring me off. And he’ll have to realise eventually, right? That I can be a team player, that I’d be a good choice?”
Jackson grinned. “Totally. It’ll be great.”
As Jackson let himself out, Darius tipped out the rest of his cold tea into the sink and settled in for an evening on his own, reading on the sofa in his empty townhouse, unable to shakethe feeling that, no, it probably wouldn’t be great. But maybe it would work.
There was nothing quite so humbling as a one-on-one interval session with Ellison. Darius prided himself on being a disciplined athlete. He trained hard on his own, he had his nutrition down to a science, and rested exactly as much as was prescribed—never a minute more. But even after all these years working together, Ellison never failed to push him to his limits. It was a helpful distraction from the media storm his life had become over the past few days. The news had spread. Of course, the story had been further sensationalised and with each new headline, and new accusation printed about him, Darius could see his Olympic dreams slipping further and further away.
With a hard workout behind him, Darius downed a shake and threw on joggers and a hoodie. He was gathering his things to head home and refuel properly when Ellison stopped him.
“Join me for a cuppa?” he asked.
Darius nodded and followed his coach out of the park, crossing the bridge back to Chelsea as the cold air bit at his hands. These days, it was rare for Ellison to stick around after training. When he was younger, he had been more present, almost a father figure to Darius at a time when his own father had been too busy salvaging the family name after Darius’s mother left.
They walked in silence, both focused more on keeping warm and getting to their destination than on whatever conversation Ellison had in mind. Darius was curious, but he was content to let Ellison take things in his own time.
Ellison pushed open the door to a café with a modern industrial feel to it. All reclaimed wood and metal seating. Someone sitting near the window was digging into a full Englishthat made Darius’s mouth water, but it was definitely not in his meal plan.
Ellison caught his gaze. “Go for it, Darius. You earned it this morning, kid.”
Darius hesitated. That wasn’t something he did. He didn’t go off plan for anything. But Ellison was looking at him like somehow, the world depended on him agreeing to that greasy plate of bacon and eggs. The café was hipster central, so there was a bit of avocado and grilled mushroom on the side, which probably made it healthier.
Taking a seat, Darius eyed Ellison. “What’s this about, Coach?”
Ellison lifted the menu. His expression gave nothing away. “Just want to chat, see how you’re holding up,” he said as he scanned the menu. “I’ll pop our orders in, then we can talk.”
Ellison left the table to place their orders at the till. Darius sat in silence, a sort of unease drifting over him.
When Ellison finally returned, carrying two coffees, black with no sugar for Darius. He took his seat, and a contemplative look came over his face. He exhaled, setting his coffee cup down gently on the table.
“How are you, Darius?”
Darius sighed. He didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m fine, I’m focusing on my training, getting ready for London.”
Ellison looked at him, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“What do you love about running, son?”
Darius furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? I’ve always done it. I’ve always loved it.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I…” Darius’s voice faltered. “Home was all pressure and expectation. Running was the one place I felt like myself. It connected me to Gran; everyone used to talk about how much she loved watching Ethiopia dominate in the marathon. So, eventhough I never got to know her, it was like… something, a thread between us. And I was good at it—not because of the money or the title, just because of me.”
Ellison nodded, a soft smile returning to his face. “She’d have been proud of the man you’ve become, Darius.”
Darius grimaced. “Would she?”
“Don’t assume everyone subscribes to the politics of the country they were born in, Darius,” Ellison chided him gently. “Your grandmother would have wanted you to be happy and fully yourself.”
Darius nodded, unsure what more to say. He sipped his coffee slowly as Ellison continued.
