Miles's lungs burned as he pushed through the final stretch of the 400-meter repeat. Coach Dormer had ramped up their workouts since counties, adding more volume and intensity to their training cycles. Two weeks ago, this would have been torture. Today, Miles leaned into the discomfort, almost welcoming it.
"Twenty-three five!" Coach called out as Miles crossed the line, gasping for air. "Ninety seconds rest, then one more."
Trey groaned dramatically from where he'd collapsed onto the indoor track. "You're trying to kill us before states, Coach. That's your evil plan."
Coach Dormer's expression didn't change, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. "If you've got enough breath to complain, Washington, you're not running hard enough."
Miles bent over, hands on his knees, watching the condensation from his breath form small clouds in the chilly fieldhouse air. Andre jogged past, giving Miles's shoulder a light tap.
"You good?" Andre asked.
Miles nodded, still catching his breath. "Never better."
Two weeks after counties, and something had shifted within him. The workouts that once seemed like punishment had transformed into challenges he actively wanted to overcome. His body still protested—Coach was genuinely pushing them harder—but his mind no longer fought against the effort.
"Thirty seconds!" Coach called out.
Miles straightened up, shaking out his legs and rolling his shoulders. He caught sight of Devin and Malik watching him from the sidelines, their eyes tracking his movements with a new kind of attention.
"Carter, you're hitting these too even," Coach said as Miles positioned himself at the start line. "I want to see a negative split on this last one. First 200 on pace, then bring it home faster."
"Got it, Coach."
The whistle blew, and Miles was off again, settling into a rhythm that felt both punishing and controlled. As he hit the 200-meter mark, Coach's voice cut through.
"Now, Carter! Pick it up!"
Miles dug deeper, pushing his turnover higher as he rounded the final curve. His form held together even as fatigue clawed at him, and he crossed the line with lungs screaming.
"Twenty-two eight," Coach announced with a satisfied nod. "All right, cool down, everybody. Two easy laps and stretch."
As Miles jogged his cooldown, he noticed more of his teammates falling in around him—not just Andre and Trey, but guys from other event groups who normally kept to themselves. Mike Chen, a junior hurdler, matched his pace.
"Yo, Miles," Mike said between breaths. "What are you doing for your block starts? My coach at my old school had a different technique, but whatever you're doing is working."
Miles glanced over, still not entirely used to being sought out for advice. "Just focusing on exploding up and out, not just forward," he said, demonstrating the arm motion as they jogged. "Coach has me doing a lot of weighted wall drills too."
"Mind if I join you for those tomorrow?"
"Yeah, sure."
Throughout the cooldown, more conversations like this happened—small moments where Miles realized his position on the team had changed. Not dramatically, not overnight, but steadily since counties. It wasn't just his times that had earned respect; it was the work they all saw him putting in daily.
In the locker room after practice, Miles checked his phone to find it buzzing with notifications. Another twenty Instagram followers since that morning, and a DM from a running account called @TrackTalent_Official asking if he'd be interested in a feature.
"Bruh, your phone about to explode?" Trey peered over Miles's shoulder, still toweling off his hair. "What's that, some college recruiter already?"
"Nah, just some track page," Miles replied, though the idea of college interest sent a small thrill through him. He was only a freshman—that kind of attention typically came junior year, sometimes sophomore for the truly exceptional.
Andre approached, already changed into street clothes. "You know Coach got a call about you, right?"
Miles looked up. "What? From who?"
"Don't know, but I overheard him talking to Harrison. Something about your times getting attention upstate." Andre shrugged. "Just letting you know. People are watching now."
The thought lingered as Miles showered and changed. His phone buzzed again—this time a text from Kayla.
survived practice? coach still trying to end u?
He smiled and typed back: barely breathing. coach is literally trying to murder us before states
same at central. coach torres made us do 10x150 today. im still dead
walking dead vibes. at least you look better as a zombie than most 💀
Miles hit send and immediately wondered if that was lame, but her response came quickly.
aww you think i'd be a cute zombie? thats the sweetest thing anyone's said to me today lol
the bar must be low at central
SO low. btw did you see milesplit posted you again? your pic from counties
Miles hadn't seen it yet. He opened Instagram to find a photo of himself leaning into the finish line of the 300m, face intense with effort, legs driving through the line. The caption read: "Freshman Miles Carter (Westridge) continues to turn heads with US #1 freshman times in both 300m (34.42) and 60m (6.71) at Suffolk Counties. Who's watching for this name at States?"
The comments section was filled with a mix of impressed observations, skepticism about his age, and inevitably, comparisons to his father. Miles scrolled past those without reading them.
yeah just saw it, he texted Kayla. weird seeing my face everywhere
get used to it track star ⭐
The exchange continued as he gathered his things and headed out. Trey caught up with him at the door.
"You coming to Dev's thing Friday?" Trey asked, referring to the small get-together Devin had mentioned earlier in the week.
"Maybe," Miles said. "Depends on what my mom says."
"Bring your girl," Trey wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"She's not my girl," Miles said automatically, though the denial felt less certain than it would have two weeks ago.
"Yet," Trey grinned. "She's not your girl yet."
Miles rolled his eyes but couldn't entirely suppress his smile.
The house was quiet when Miles got home, which wasn't surprising. His mom was working a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, and Zoe was at her after-school program until five. He made himself a protein shake and a sandwich before settling down to tackle his history paper.
His phone buzzed with another text from Kayla.
what are you wearing to dev's thing?
Miles paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth. you know about that?
amara knows jen who knows devin. small track world. so...you going?
The invisible lines between their schools seemed to be blurring more each day.
thinking about it. you?
if you're going, i might
He smiled at that, warmth spreading through his chest.
guess i'm going then
The next hour passed with Miles alternating between his paper and texting Kayla. The casual conversation flowed easily now, no longer carrying the weight of uncertainty that had marked their early exchanges. He found himself sharing little details about his day that he'd normally keep to himself, and she did the same.
His concentration broke when he heard the front door open, followed by the sound of Zoe dropping her backpack in the entryway.
"Miles?" she called out.
"In the kitchen."
She appeared in the doorway, middle-school energy radiating off her as she launched into a story about her day before even saying hello. Miles half-listened, nodding at the right moments while continuing to type.
"—and then Ms. Phillips said my science project was the best in class, so it's going to the district fair next month," she finished, opening the refrigerator to grab a juice box.
"That's cool, Zo," Miles said, looking up from his laptop. "The one with the battery thing?"
"Solar panels," she corrected, rolling her eyes. "You weren't listening."
"I was," he protested. "You built a solar panel system that powers a fan."
She seemed satisfied with that. "Mom texted. She's bringing home pizza after her shift."
"Nice."
Zoe hopped onto the counter, swinging her legs while she sipped her juice. "So," she said with the particular inflection that told Miles she was about to be nosy, "how's your girlfriend?"
"Not my girlfriend."
"Then why are you smiling at your phone every five seconds?"
Miles hadn't realized he was being so obvious. "Just a friend from Central."
"A girl friend or a girlfriend?" Zoe pressed, clearly enjoying his discomfort.
"A friend who happens to be a girl."
"Mom says you've been different since you started track," Zoe said, abruptly changing tactics. "Happier."
The observation caught Miles off guard. "Mom said that?"
Zoe nodded, suddenly serious. "Last night while you were in the shower. She said it's nice to see you excited about something."
Miles wasn't sure how to respond. Had he been that obviously unhappy before? He knew he'd been reserved, maybe standoffish at times, but he hadn't thought his general mood had been bad enough for his mom to notice a clear difference.
"Track's cool," he said finally, downplaying it. "The team's alright."
"She meant since you started winning," Zoe clarified. "You're like, all confident and stuff now."
Miles thought about that as he closed his laptop. The changes had been so gradual he hadn't fully registered them himself. Sure, he walked a little taller at school now. He spoke up more in class and in team conversations. He texted a girl he liked without agonizing over every word. But those shifts had felt natural, not like a transformation.
"I guess," he admitted. "It feels good to be good at something."
Zoe's expression softened. "You were always good at things, dummy. You just never cared about being good at them before."
The simple observation from his twelve-year-old sister hit with unexpected weight. Maybe that was the real difference—not just finding something he excelled at, but finding something worth caring about excelling at.
His phone buzzed again, and Zoe dramatically rolled her eyes.
"Not your girlfriend, sure," she teased, hopping off the counter. "I'm going to start my homework before pizza gets here."
Miles picked up his phone to find another text from Kayla.
btw if we both medal at states we should get ice cream instead of smoothies to celebrate. upgrade the tradition
He smiled, typing back: pretty confident about those medals
for you? definitely. me? working on it
ice cream it is then
Miles leaned back in his chair, a sense of contentment washing over him. Two months ago, the idea of looking forward to a track meet would have been laughable. Now he found himself not just anticipating it but planning celebrations for afterward. The path ahead suddenly seemed clearer, brighter.
His father's shadow, always present in the back of his mind, seemed to recede just a little further with each passing day.