Miles had spent Sunday evening trying to process the social media explosion around his performances, answering messages from friends, and avoiding thinking too much about the other notifications still flooding in. By Monday morning, his phone had mercifully stopped buzzing every few minutes, giving him hope that perhaps the storm had passed.
That hope evaporated the moment he walked through Westridge High's front doors.
The first sign that something had changed came when a senior on the basketball team—a guy who had never so much as looked in Miles's direction before—nodded at him in the hallway.
"Carter," he said, with a slight tilt of his chin. "Nice races."
Miles managed a surprised "Thanks" before the guy continued past. Weird, but maybe a fluke.
Except it wasn't. As he made his way to his locker, Miles noticed other subtle shifts—glances that lingered a beat too long, whispered conversations that paused when he passed, and a few outright greetings from people he barely knew. It felt like walking through school as a slightly different person than the one who had left on Friday.
"There he is!" Shelly's familiar voice cut through the awkwardness as she appeared beside his locker, Dami trailing just behind her. "The fastest man in New York!"
"Please don't," Miles groaned, spinning his locker combination. "It's weird enough already."
"What's weird?" Dami asked, his ever-present headphones hanging around his neck. "The fact that you secretly had Olympic-level speed and never told us, or the fact that half the school suddenly knows your name?"
"Both?" Miles opened his locker, using the door as a brief shield from the hallway. "I didn't secretly have anything. I didn't know."
Shelly leaned against the neighboring locker. "So you're telling me you never once thought, 'Hey, I can run really fast' before joining the track team?"
Miles shrugged. "I mean, I knew I was fast, but not... whatever this is."
"Viral Insta-famous track prodigy fast?" Dami suggested.
"That's not a thing," Miles replied, though based on his weekend experience, maybe it was.
"It is now." Shelly held up her phone, showing Miles a post from the school's official Instagram account featuring a screenshot from his relay race with the caption: "Westridge's own Miles Carter breaks multiple records at Central Invite! #WestridgePride #FastestFreshman"
Miles stared at the post. "The school account? Seriously?"
"Principal Wilson reposted it on his personal account too," Dami added. "Apparently having a track star is good PR."
The warning bell rang, saving Miles from having to respond. He grabbed his Algebra textbook and shut his locker.
"This is strange," he said finally. "I'm still the same person I was on Friday."
Shelly and Dami exchanged a look that suggested they weren't so sure about that.
"We've got to get to class," Shelly said. "But this conversation isn't over. Lunch, usual spot?"
Miles nodded, grateful for the familiarity of their routine, even as everything else seemed to be shifting.
First period Algebra passed without incident, though Miles noticed a few classmates glancing his way when they thought he wasn't looking. It was second period Global Studies that really drove home how much had changed.
Mr. Dormer—Coach Dormer in the afternoons—was writing on the whiteboard when Miles walked in. The teacher paused mid-sentence when he noticed Miles.
"Mr. Carter," he said, his classroom voice markedly different from his coaching tone. "Good weekend?"
A few students chuckled. Miles felt heat rising in his cheeks as he slid into his seat. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Dormer nodded, returning to the board. "The relay plaque is displayed in my cabinet, if anyone's interested. Now, back to the economic factors leading to the Cold War..."
Miles slouched in his seat, trying to make himself smaller as several classmates turned to look at him. This was exactly the kind of attention he'd spent years avoiding—the kind that made him stand out, made him visible.
A folded piece of paper landed on his desk. Miles glanced up to see Jessica Chen, who sat in front of him, turning back around. He unfolded the note cautiously.
My brother was at the meet. Said you were insane. Do you have a TikTok?
Miles stared at the note, not sure how to respond. He barely knew Jessica—they'd been in the same classes since middle school but had maybe spoken ten words to each other. And now she wanted his TikTok?
He wrote back: Thanks. And no TikTok. He passed the note forward when Mr. Dormer's back was turned.
A minute later, the note returned: You should make one. You'd get mad followers.
Miles tucked the note into his pocket without responding. The idea of deliberately seeking more attention was the opposite of appealing. He just wanted to run—not become some social media personality.
He tried to focus on Mr. Dormer's lecture about post-WWII economic policies, but his mind kept drifting to the strange new reality he found himself in. On Friday, he'd been effectively invisible at Westridge. Now, people he barely knew were passing him notes about TikTok.
Is this what it was like for my father? The thought rose unbidden, and Miles pushed it away immediately. This wasn't about his father. This was about him—about what he had accomplished.
[Velocity System: Social integration analysis in progress. Host experiencing elevated stress response to increased social visibility.]
Miles blinked at the unexpected System message in his vision. Even the Velocity System was analyzing his social life now? Great.
When the bell rang, Miles gathered his books quickly, hoping to make it to his next class without further interruptions. But as he stepped into the hallway, he found himself face to face with Ms. Pearson, the school's athletic director.
"Mr. Carter," she said with a smile. "Just the person I was hoping to see."
"Hi, Ms. Pearson," Miles replied, trying to remember if he'd ever actually spoken to her before.
"I wanted to personally congratulate you on your performance this weekend," she continued. "It's not often we see those kinds of times from a freshman. Principal Wilson is quite impressed."
"Thank you," Miles said, unsure what else to add.
"We'll be recognizing you at this Friday's assembly," she informed him. "Nothing major, just a brief acknowledgment of your achievements."
Miles nodded, feeling a curious mix of pride and self-consciousness. "That's... nice. Thanks."
"Keep up the good work," Ms. Pearson said with a final nod before continuing down the hallway.
Miles hurried to his next class, realizing that his performance hadn't just changed how his peers saw him—it had put him on the radar of the school administration too. The thought was still processing as he slipped into his seat, just as the bell rang.
By lunchtime, Miles had been congratulated by two teachers, high-fived by a junior he'd never spoken to, and asked about his "training secrets" by a sophomore who apparently ran cross country. The attention was unexpected but not entirely unwelcome—there was something satisfying about being recognized for something he was genuinely good at.
He grabbed his lunch and headed for his usual table in the far corner of the cafeteria, where Shelly and Dami were already waiting. The familiar sight of his friends provided a sense of normalcy amid all the new interactions.
"So," Shelly said as he sat down, "how's life as a Westridge celebrity?"
"Different," Miles replied, unwrapping his sandwich. "Not bad different. Just... different."
"Are you kidding? It's awesome," Dami said around a mouthful of fries. "Do you know how many people asked me about you today? Like I've got insider information or something."
Miles laughed. "What did you tell them?"
"That you've been secretly training with Olympic coaches since you were five," Dami replied with a straight face. "And that you can only reach top speed if you eat exactly seventeen Skittles before a race."
"Perfect," Miles said, shaking his head. "That explains everything."
Shelly leaned forward. "Seriously though, are you going to respond to all those DMs? Zoe said girls from like three different schools were messaging you."
"I might," Miles admitted. "Haven't decided yet."
"Look at you," Shelly teased. "Mr. Options all of a sudden."
Before Miles could respond, a group of students from the basketball team approached their table, trays in hand.
"Mind if we join you guys?" asked Marcus, one of the starters. "Kinda packed today."
Miles glanced at Shelly and Dami before nodding. "Sure, there's room."
As the basketball players squeezed in, Miles realized this was another first. Their usual lunch table had always been just the three of them—not by design necessarily, but because no one else had ever shown interest in joining. Now suddenly their table had become desirable real estate.
"That relay comeback was sick," Marcus said, setting down his tray. "My cousin goes to North Heights. Said their anchor is still having nightmares about you coming up behind him."
Miles smiled slightly. "Just doing my job."
"Your job is apparently breaking records," another player chimed in. "You trying out for basketball next year? We could use that speed."
"Track's keeping me busy enough," Miles said.
The conversation flowed surprisingly easily after that, shifting between sports, classes, and the upcoming school events. Miles found himself relaxing into the interaction, enjoying the casual camaraderie that came with being part of the athletic circle—something he'd always observed from a distance but never experienced firsthand.
The rest of the school day passed in a blur of similar interactions—congratulations, curious questions, and more attention than Miles had received in his entire previous school career combined. By the time the final bell rang, he was mentally exhausted.
But there was still track practice to get through.
Miles entered the locker room to find it already buzzing with activity. Several teammates called out greetings as he made his way to his locker, their friendly acknowledgment a stark contrast to the distant politeness of just a week ago.
"There he is," Trey announced dramatically. "The man, the myth, the overnight sensation."
Miles smiled, shaking his head as he opened his locker. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Can't help it," Trey replied cheerfully. "Do you know how much cooler I am by association now? Two girls asked me about you today, which is two more than have ever talked to me voluntarily."
"Glad I could help your social life," Miles said, genuinely amused by Trey's enthusiasm.
Andre appeared, already changed into his practice gear. "Don't encourage him," he advised Miles. "His head's big enough already."
"Speaking of big heads," Trey continued, undeterred, "did you see how many new followers you got over the weekend? You're basically famous now."
"I wouldn't go that far," Miles said, though he had to admit there was something satisfying about the recognition. After years of intentionally staying under the radar, being noticed for something positive felt...nice.
As Miles changed, he found himself more at ease with the side glances and comments from teammates than he'd been with similar attention in the hallways earlier. Here, at least, the interest felt earned—these were guys who understood what his times meant, who had seen the work that went into track even if they didn't know about the Velocity System.
"Carter," Coach called. "Warm-up circle. Let's go."
As Miles jogged to the center of the track, the entire team forming a circle around him, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Just two weeks ago, he'd been the reluctant newcomer, dragged into joining by Mr. Dormer's persistence. Now he was leading the warm-up, his weekend performances having catapulted him into a leadership role he'd never sought.
Andre jogged over to stand beside him. "Just follow my lead," he said quietly. "Nothing complicated."
Miles nodded gratefully as Andre called out the first stretch. As they moved through the routine, Miles found his anxiety gradually fading. Here, on the track, the expectations were clear. Run fast. Work hard. Improve. It was simpler than navigating the social complexities that had suddenly become part of his life.
When the warm-up ended and Coach began dividing them into workout groups, Miles felt something settle within him. The attention, the social media, the whispers in the hallway—all of that was new and uncomfortable. But this—the track, the workouts, the simple pursuit of speed—this was becoming familiar. Maybe even comfortable.
[Velocity System: Social integration stabilizing. Physical training environment provides optimal stress reduction. Recommendation: Focus on athletic development as primary identity anchor during social transition.]
For once, Miles found himself agreeing with the System's assessment. Whatever was happening with his sudden notoriety, the track itself remained constant—400 meters around, the same for everyone. And there was something reassuring about that simplicity.
"Sprinters, lane one!" Coach called. "Today we're working on block starts. Carter, I want to see if Saturday was a fluke or if you've actually got something!"
Miles couldn't help smiling at Coach's deliberate challenge. This, at least, hadn't changed. And as he joined his teammates on the starting line, he realized that amid all the changes of the past three days, he'd found something he hadn't expected: a place where he belonged.
Even if it was the last place he'd ever thought to look.