Page 7 of Your Pace or Mine
Jamie nodded, with what he hoped was a modest smile on his face. “Great, thank you. It’s just such an important cause, I’m proud to be able to support them.”
He could practically feel the animosity bleeding off the other dancers as the producer continued to engage him about his training schedule.
“Well, good on you, Jamie, best of luck for the marathon,” the casting director interrupted with a tone of finality as they moved on to the next performer in line.
Jamie had to fight back a laugh at the sour look on the next dancer’s face.C’mon, mate, as if we aren’t all just doing whatever it takes to get the next job,he thought to himself.
He was pretty sure in the end that he’d managed to turn things around. He stepped back into the light of the street with a bounce in his step, until he realised just how late it was.Foregoing his usual post-audition call to Jonathan, Jamie darted towards the station.
He was going to be so bloody late for this clinic. Getting from the theatre to the Queen Elizabeth Park was a nightmare, and Jamie was running on fumes at this point; he made it to the track just in time. Rushing forward to the gate, he pushed it open—hard.
Chapter 3
Darius
15 weeks to the London Marathon
Darius was really regretting agreeing to this. It was a chilly evening as the group of about thirty runners of varying abilities and six coaches gathered on the grass in the centre of the track. People were huddling close to each other or jumping up and down to keep warm as the sun disappeared rapidly, giving way to darkness broken only by the floodlights that flickered on above them.
Anders kicked off the clinic early. He explained the sessions would primarily focus on tempo work, and that they could also request a full training plan be emailed to them if they needed guidance on their individual workouts and nutrition. It was well organised, even Darius could admit that.
After grouping the gathered runners by expected finish times, Anders started assigning coaches to each group. He introduced all the other supporting athletes by sharing a little bit about them and their accolades, but when he got to Darius, he called him theLord Hewitt.The use of his title always made Darius uncomfortable when used in casual settings. Then Anderscarried on with a series of shitty little comments about his legacy, emphasising his grandfather’s Thatcher-eraadvocacy.
Jackson came over, trying to show solidarity, but Darius was too wound up to accept it. He shook off the arm slung around his shoulder. The gesture drew a sigh from Jackson—and sharper glares from the gathered athletes—as though Darius had just proven exactly what Anders had implied about him.
Darius tried to ignore it, tried to shut it out, and focus on leading the group through a warmup. The only two participants who had bothered to speak to him after Anders’s charming introduction had clearly decided that the risk of dealing with a prejudiced aristocrat was outweighed by the potential for him to kick into their struggling fundraisers. He’d humoured them and agreed to a small donation—more than he would have felt socially obligated to do if he hadn’t just been made to look like a complete arsehole in front of the whole group. His patience was hanging by a thread, and they hadn’t even started running yet. At least he’d get to go back to Jackson with a big fatI told you so.
Anders did a final count of the group and decided that was everyone who was going to show tonight. Though checking the register he’d been handed, Darius realised someone was still missing from his assigned group.
“Hewitt, lock the gate,” Anders ordered.
Jackson flashed him what barely passed for a sympathetic smile from where he was standing, chatting with a group of runners, all hanging onto his every word.
Darius dodged another runner who looked like she was gearing up for a speech about her charity. It wasn’t that he didn’t think it was a worthy cause, but he couldn’t cover everyone’s—that would be ridiculous. He might have family money waiting for him one day, but running wasn’t all that lucrative a career choice, as his father loved to remind him, and Darius could never actually say no to someone’s face. He preferred to avoidconfrontation as much as possible, always retreating at the first sign of it.
Darius wandered over to close the gate, stewing over Anders and his nonsense orders and his judgmental words. They didn’t even need to lock it, really. Sure, they’d booked the space, but honestly, who was Anders expecting would sneak in? The bloody Daily Mail? The order was obviously just to show how much he could push Darius around.
Lost in his thoughts, he stood in front of the heavy metal gate for a moment before it was suddenly pushed forward, sending him staggering back, tripping over his own feet. A blur of blonde curls and neon running gear crashed into him. Darius lost his balance, and his arms windmilled in what he was sure was an immensely comic fashion as the two of them collapsed in a heap of limbs on the asphalt.
There was a beat of silence. Then Darius heard the distinctive bark of Jackson’s laugh,dickhead.
Staggering to his feet, he fixed the man with a glare.
Darius expected the new arrival to apologise profusely, but he didn’t.
He figured he’d at least check that he hadn’t caused any serious damage. But he didn’t do that either.
“I amnotlate,“ he stated, dragging the vowels with an unmistakable Scouse edge. There was a sort of petulant look on his face that made Darius want to argue, even though technically he was right. He wasn’t late. Anders had just started early.
Darius was not amused by the state of his favourite hoodie, though. A huge tear split the sleeve from where he’d skidded on the hard ground.
A woman sidled up beside the blonde man, pulling him to his feet. Distantly, Darius thought he probably should have been the one to do that.
“Do you have any idea who that is?” she stage-whispered. “You’d better hope he doesn’t do anything.”
That was mildly insulting, actually. What did this woman imagine he would do to someone for knocking him over? Sue them? Hire a hit?
“Oh no,” the man said flatly, holding up his hands in mock fear. “I’ve always been terrified of toffs in overpriced activewear.”
