Page 5 of Your Pace or Mine (Running for the Romance #1)

Darius

D arius 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 the Lord Hewitt.

The use of his title always made Darius uncomfortable when used in casual settings.

Then Anders carried on with a series of shitty little comments about his legacy, emphasising his grandfather’s Thatcher-era advocacy .

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 fat I 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 avoid confrontation 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 am not late,“ 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.”

Darius snorted despite himself. The sheer audacity of the man was too much.

The man shot him a cheeky grin, as if daring him to contradict him.

Darius allowed his eyes to roam over the new arrival, taking him in fully for the first time.

He was undeniably attractive with his blonde curls and blue eyes that sparkled with mischief.

“And you, latecomer , what’s your name?”

“Jamie,” he said, offering a small, wry smile.

“Well, Jamie, I’m Darius, your coach for the next few months,” Darius said, still grinning as he recognised him as the missing member of his training group. “You’ve got impeccable timing. We were just about to start a tempo session. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Darius set off with the lead group, those aiming for a sub-3:30.

It wasn’t an especially fast time from his perspective, so he tried to keep his pace easy.

He knew the speed wasn’t what others would consider easy, but it was surprisingly difficult to gauge without constantly staring at his watch.

It had been the smallest group from the start, but people started dropping off quickly.

He tried not to frown as they completed the first few laps and Anders barked at him to be more encouraging, whatever that meant.

As expected, Jamie, the man who’d waged war on his favourite jumper, stuck near him as they continued around the track.

Somehow, he’d known that issuing a challenge to the man would have him fighting to fulfil it.

He seemed reasonably fit. His strong thigh muscles hadn’t escaped Darius’s notice, so it should be fine—he’d keep up.

Less than fifteen minutes in, though, Jamie, along with the majority of Darius’s remaining group, was starting to lag.

“Come on, pick up the pace.”

A groan came from someone in the diminished pack. “What pace even is this?”

“I’m questioning all of my life decisions right now,” groused another.

Jamie didn’t make a peep, but Darius could see the strain on his face when he glanced over. It wasn’t that fast, was it?

“If you have enough energy to complain, then you’re fine,” Darius stated as he continued, not breaking pace for even a second. “We’ll turn around in a minute and go the other way, so you don’t over-train one side.”

By the end of the 45-minute workout, most of his original group had dropped back to Jackson’s or even further.

He noticed Jamie had stuck with him, though he threw himself dramatically onto the grass the second Darius came to a slow stop and announced the workout complete.

“Nope, no way. Up, you need to stretch.”

“Can’t. I’ve died. I’m a ghost, back to haunt you for subjecting me to that absurd torture.”

“Even ghosts need to stretch so they don’t get lactic build-up.”

Jamie glared, but he did push himself into a seated position and fold into a deep hamstring stretch, hands easily reaching well beyond his feet as he folded forward. “I don’t think that’s strictly true. Aren’t they all ectoplasm? So, where would the lactic acid even build up?”

Darius laughed, surprising himself. “Hadn’t realised I was dealing with an expert.”

“I’ve seen Ghostbusters like a million times. You should respect my authority on the subject.”

He found himself momentarily fixated on Jamie as he stretched his lean body, a spark of interest flying through him. “Original or remake?”

“Animated, obviously. Come on mate.” Jamie laughed as he fell into a split like it was nothing.

Darius’s enjoyment faded to disappointment when Jamie pulled out his phone, balancing it precariously against his water bottle to shoot a video. “Sorry, got to feed the content machine if I’m going to hit my fundraising target.”

Darius deflated, just like everyone else; he’d probably be after Darius for a donation any second now. Strangely let down, Darius left him to it, leading the wider group in a more traditional cool-down routine.

“So, how are you feeling about training so far?” he ventured to a friendly-looking older man who stood closest to him in the circle they had formed.

The man seemed startled by the question but recovered quickly. “So far, so good. It’s the bloody fundraising, though.”

Darius sank into a calf stretch and gestured to the group to do the same. He could see what was coming next a mile away. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to chip in, mate?”

And there it was. “Send me the link,” he said with a sigh.

The man didn’t even have the grace to feign embarrassment. He just switched legs and replied. “Great. It’s a good cause. I’ve only got about eight hundred quid left to hit target, pocket change for you, right, mate?”