Page 2 of Your Pace or Mine
“Keep it down.” Darius’s heart raced as he checked to make sure no one had overheard.
He and Jackson had teetered on that strange edge of best friends with benefits for a while. They’d trained together for years and had easily fallen into an arrangement when Darius had finally worked up the nerve to come out to him. Jackson had put a stop to that aspect of their relationship towards the end of the previous year, though. He had been determined to start the new year fresh and ready to look for love.
It was fine. Darius wasn’t upset about it, really. It had been nice to have a sure thing, obviously, but if Jackson wanted to be delusional and romantic, then that was his prerogative. It was better this way. He’d been living in constant fear that someone would realise what they were up to one day, and the media storm would have been unbearable. Just friends was safer, or at least it would be if Jackson would stop bloody bringing it up.
The track was deserted, and the chance of a rogue reporter popping up out of nowhere was unlikely, but you could never know for sure, not with Darius’s background.
“Oh, my wounded pride. My best mate, ladies and gentlemen.”
Darius threw a clump of grass at Jackson. “Fuck off. You know I don’t like talking about that in public.”
It wasn’t that Darius was in the closet, per se. Everyone in his life, everyone that mattered, knew. Which, fine, amounted to like three people he actually liked, and his father. He just firmly believed that his personal life shouldn’t have any bearing on his professional life, and he knew it would if he came out.
It was different for Darius. He didn’t just have the usual sporting press to deal with like his contemporaries. His title and sliver of Ethiopian heritage made him the aristocracy’s favourite piece of diversity window dressing.
He wasn’t famous in the traditional sense, but he was known—far more approachable than his father, and therefore easier to parade out when appearances demanded it. That made his life easy prey for the tabloids. And British tabloids could be fucking vicious. One minute, they loved you; the next they would tear you apart for clicks.
The pressure to be the perfect representative of not only the Hewitts but also of a culture he’d never truly been allowed to claim—one he wasn’t even sure would accept him if he tried—weighed on him. His father had taught him early that survival meant keeping everything under wraps. Safer to keep his private life, well, private.
Liking dick didn’t make him a better or worse runner, so why the fuck should it matter, anyway?
Jackson didn’t understand what it was like to be under the level of scrutiny Darius was under. To carry the weight of expectations Darius had on his shoulders.
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Oh no, someone might realise you’re not an aristocratic clone and have actual human feelings and desires.”
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m a great friend,” Jackson replied. “Which is why I’m going to drag you kicking and screaming to that training clinic.”
“I don’t need to do it. I have the fastest times of anyone. I’m not going to be the one who gets cut. Anders could never justify it.”
Jackson’s grin fell. “Thanks for the reminder, mate.”
“Fuck. You know I didn’t mean to imply…”
“It is what it is. I know I’m at risk, right? Especially with Elliot Owens in contention,” Jackson shrugged.
Darius grimaced. “Yeah, but Owens is a dick.”
“A dick that’s been training with Anders for nearly three years now and can pretty much match me stride-for-stride,” Jackson replied. “I had that DNF too, in Boston,” Jackson reminded him glumly.
Darius winced. He wasn’t wrong. “A DNF just means you’re a smart runner—you know what they say DNF stands for…”
“Did Nothing Foolish,” Jackson finished the sentence in unison with Darius, reciting a line Ellison had drilled into their heads.
“You’ve never had one, though,” Jackson groused.
“Yes, but I’m a robot, remember?” Darius laughed. “Or sorry, an aristocratic clone.”
Silence fell between them as Darius contemplated how to reassure his friend. The problem was that Jackson was right. British marathoning had seen massive improvements in the past few years, and more and more athletes were hitting the Olympic qualifying times. Jackson was definitely a top contender, but he wasn’t as fast as Darius, and he didn’t have the training—or the relationship with the Head Coach that Owens did.
Jackson interrupted his thoughts. “Enough about me. I know a thing or two about endearing yourself to a selection committee. I’ve been working on it for years. Control the controllables and all that.”
“Ugh, cut the therapy speak, I get enough of that from Selena.”
Jackson rolled his eyes at Darius. “Seriously, I know my stuff, ok? And this coaching thing, this is something you should do.”
“It’ll cut into my training schedule,” Darius complained again.
