Page 4 of Your Pace or Mine (Running for the Romance #1)
“Check this out,” Reggie waved his phone at him. “A weekly clinic with professional runners, exclusively for athletes on charity bibs, it’s perfect. Probably loads of nice people there,” he said with a challenge in his eyes.
“I’m not actually looking for a date, Reg,” Jamie rolled his eyes.
“It’s free and the training will be top-notch.”
Jamie let out a long-suffering sigh, despite the fact that he’d really only suffered through about twenty minutes of Reggie’s overwhelming optimism. “Fine.”
By the end of breakfast, Jamie was registered for the ridiculous clinic Reggie had found, which, quite frankly, sounded like a way for a bunch of sports execs and overpaid athletes to try to gain some social clout on the backs of the people actually doing the fundraising, but free was free.
He’d run again tomorrow, and definitely wouldn’t spend any more time thinking about meeting the love of his life at a running club.
Thanks for that, Reggie.
Jamie didn’t need to meet the love of his life. Sure, it’d be nice, but that kind of domestic bliss was for people like Reg, serious, committed. Jamie didn’t need that, no matter what anyone thought. He just needed to get laid, preferably with someone not connected to musical theatre.
As always seemed to happen in Jamie’s life, he had fuck all to do until the day of the run club when he got sent a last-minute audition from Jonathan. He felt a bit smug when he noted the producer was the one he’d targeted with his charity selection and marathon marketing.
See, Jonathan, I do know how this game works, he thought to himself as he prepared. At least it was serving some purpose—though he couldn’t help but think sucking the guy’s dick would have been easier than running 26.2 miles.
Dance calls were usually his favourite, but this one had not been going his way.
All the remaining hopefuls stood shoulder to shoulder on the stage as the casting director, producer, and choreographer scrutinised them one by one, their eyes passing with indifference over each dancer.
The theatre itself was old and ornate, the type of venue that would be beautiful to work in—though the dressing rooms were probably crap.
With no audience, though, the grandness made it echo in a way that felt hollow and dejected.
Much like how Jamie was feeling about this audition.
He’d stumbled during the initial choreography, and it had set the tone for the rest of the session.
“So, what’ve you been up to lately?” the producer asked disinterestedly, never once looking up from his phone.
Jamie was trying to hide his frustration; this arsehole had called him in specifically but was completely ignoring him.
He wasn’t used to not getting at least a little bit of attention from the panel.
“I’ve just come off a run of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang , where I…”
Jamie was cut off by another panel member. “Oh, children’s theatre.” The woman sneered. “And what about since then?”
That wasn’t fair. The revival of Chitty had been incredibly well received, and it only just bloody ended.
Jamie took a deep breath. It would not help him to get his hackles up now.
He knew he needed to impress them with his personality if he was going to have a shot.
This time, though, he had something prepared that he knew would make at least one of the people on the selection panel happy—Marathon training.
Tamping down his accent as best he could, because no matter how much the theatre world pretended to want regional voices in their self-aggrandising interviews in the Guardian, when it really came down to it—they didn’t.
“I’m training for the London marathon,” he said, in his nearly neutral accent.
The producer looked up from his phone. “Of course! Jamie, right? You’re running for Haven. I get your newsletter. How’s training going?”
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.