Page 7 of Your Pace or Mine (Running for the Romance #1)

Jamie

“They went another way,” Jonathan said with no preamble or pleasantries.

“Oh.” Jamie let the silence hang between them for a beat. He hadn’t realised just how much of a sure thing he’d considered his last audition until it was gone.

“You haven’t been putting the same kind of dedication in lately, Jamie, and it shows,” Jonathan said.

It may have been the cold or the exhaustion, but Jamie couldn’t handle Jonathan’s shit today.

“I’m as committed as I’ve ever been. If you got somethin’ to say, then say it straight, like.”

His accent, which drama school had nearly erased, had gone about ten times more Northern as his anger grew, but he didn’t give a fuck.

Jamie wanted to hit something. He managed to restrain himself only due to Reggie’s attempt to distract him by making obscene gestures about Jonathan in front of him.

He tried in vain to swat Reggie away as he listened to Jonathan’s dismal assessment of his career and character.

Jonathan let out a long-suffering sigh. “Whatever you say, Jamie. Look, you’ll likely land an invite to the Oliviers this year.

There’s been a lot of nomination buzz around the Chitty revival.

” That was positive at least. Apart from being a brilliant evening, the Oliviers were a prime networking opportunity.

“You need to use the opportunity to show people you’re reliable, Jamie. Or at least worth the fucking risk.”

“How am I meant to do that?”

Jonathan sighed. “I don’t know, but you need to come up with something because if you can’t turn this around…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Sounds good, ta ra!” he said in a faux chirpy voice designed to mask his anger, ending the call without allowing Jonathan any time to respond.

“Another rejection,” Jamie announced.

“It happens, though, right?” Reggie replied tentatively.

“Sure, yeah, it’s the business. You just don’t get everything, blah blah blah,” Jamie replied. “But I really thought it had gone well. I signed up for a fucking marathon to get their attention, I’m raising a shit-ton of money for the producer’s pet charity.”

Reggie cocked his head. “Those are good things to do, though, regardless of why you’re doing them, like.”

“Yeah, I’m a proper fucking saint, me,” Jamie snarled, taking a massive gulp from his water bottle.

Jonathan and his dickish little comments about dedication reignited that deep-seated need in Jamie to prove himself.

“Apparently, it isn’t enough, though. I need to prove I’m reliable and committed because the whole industry thinks I’m a fucking flake. Never mind that Chitty was a huge success, never mind the bloody marathon—nothing I do is ever enough.”

Jamie looked at Reggie and had a thought. “You’re reliable and committed, or at least people seem to think so. How’d you pull it off?”

Reggie shrugged. “I think it’s mostly Kate, cause it’s definitely nothing I’ve done.”

“So I need a relationship.” Jamie rolled his eyes.

“You don’t need a relationship, it just makes people assume you’re settled, like. Let’s them kind of overlook any eccentricities.”

“Like a hundred-mile run through the Dolomites?” Jamie teased.

“Too right.” Reggie laughed.

Reggie’s smile took a mischievous turn. “You seem kind of stuck on this relationship idea?” He tilted his head to one side. “Something you’d like to tell your best mate, your lifelong pal?”

“No,” Jamie replied, too fast. He didn’t even know why, really. He’d just had this little feeling when he’d been bantering with Darius, the hot coach with the deep brown eyes and adorable dimple in his left cheek. It had felt like maybe they’d had a moment.

Obviously not, though. He’d seen the articles, and despite the sensationalist take, it was pretty obvious Darius wasn’t playing for his team.

“Jamie, little Jamie Carter, have you met someone?”

Jamie rolled his eyes, falling into step with Reg.

“I haven’t met anyone, just, you know. One of the coaches at the clinic was proper fit.

” He cursed his pale skin as he felt a flush creeping up his neck.

Hopefully, Reg would just think it was from exertion.

“Total arsehole though, posh twat, thinks he’s better than everyone. ”

“Sounds like exactly your type.”

“Oi, fuck off. I’m pretty sure he’s straight anyway,” Jamie replied.

“Why? Cause he didn’t immediately throw himself at you?” Reg teased.

“Obviously,” Jamie replied with a smirk. “Now eat my dust, loser!” he shouted at Reg in his best American accent as he took off, attempting to sprint the last hundred metres to his flat and collapsing through the door.

Reggie trailed behind him, laughing at his idiocy but helping him up the stairs and over to the kitchen table.

Reg poured him a glass of cold water and tossed him a bag of salt and vinegar Hula Hoops as he made himself at home in Jamie’s space.

Jamie’s flatmates just raised their eyebrows at the pair, barely looking up from the video game they were intently working their way through.

“I know it’s a cliché, mate, but please try to remember it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

Jamie just threw a Hula Hoop at him in response, which Reggie promptly caught and chomped down on.

Reggie leaned back in his chair, still munching on the snack. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said casually.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Rude,” Reggie replied with mock offence. “But seriously, hear me out. You should get another tattoo when you finish the marathon.”

Jamie snorted, grabbing a handful of Hula Hoops. “Not that I’m not always up for more ink, but what’re you thinkin’? Like Marathon Finisher in massive letters across my forehead? Not a chance, Lad.”

“Okay, maybe not your forehead,” Reggie conceded. “But something subtle. Like a little runner icon, or the race date. It’s a monumental achievement, mate. You’ll want to remember it.”

Jamie chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Isn’t it a bit… cliché?”

“So what if it is?” Reggie countered. “Clichés are clichés for a reason. And let’s be real, Jamie, this is one of the coolest things you’ve ever done.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, say I did it. Where would I even put it?”

Reggie leaned forward, grinning. “Hip. Definitely the hip. It’s subtle, sexy, and you can show it off to your posh coach.” He waggled his eyebrows again. “Or keep it private if you don’t want to be a walking marathon advertisement, like.”

Jamie groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Shut up about that, I should never have told you.” He pouted a bit. “I don’t know if I can afford another tattoo right now, but now I want it. Why do I let you talk me into shit?”

“Because I’m well smart,” Reggie replied smugly. “Trust me, you won’t regret it.”

Jamie shook his head and laughed despite himself. “Fine. If I survive the marathon, I’ll consider it.”

“That’s all I ask,” Reggie said, raising his water in a mock toast. “To tattoos and terrible life choices.”

“To terrible friends,” Jamie retorted, clinking his own glass against Reggie’s.