"One more, Carter! Don't die on me now!"
Coach Dormer's voice cut through the haze of fatigue as Miles rounded the final curve of the indoor track. His legs burned with lactic acid, lungs heaving as he tried to maintain his form for the last fifty meters of the repeat. This was it—the final hard workout before states, and Coach was extracting every ounce of effort from them.
The Velocity System flashed metrics across his vision: Heart rate: 186 BPM. Form: 89%. Effort: Maximum.
Miles drove his arms harder, focusing on powering through the finish line rather than just reaching it. His spikes bit into the track surface as he crossed the line, immediately bending over with hands on his knees, gasping for air.
"Twenty-three one," Coach announced, checking his watch. "Personal best for that workout."
Andre finished two seconds later, followed by Trey and the others in quick succession. The entire sprint group collapsed in various states of exhaustion around the track.
"That's how you finish a training cycle," Coach said, looking around at his depleted athletes with something approaching satisfaction—the closest thing to a smile Miles had ever seen from him during practice. "Now gather up when you can breathe again."
Miles made his way to the infield, dropping onto the turf beside Andre. Neither had the breath for conversation yet, just exchanging a tired nod of recognition. After nearly a minute, Trey flopped down beside them.
"I think I saw the light at the end of the tunnel," Trey wheezed. "And it wasn't heaven—it was Coach Dormer with another stopwatch."
Miles managed a weak laugh. "At least it's over."
"Until states," Andre reminded them, sitting up and taking a long drink from his water bottle.
"Thanks for that uplifting thought," Trey groaned.
When the entire group had recovered enough to function, they gathered around Coach Dormer, who stood with his clipboard at the center of the infield.
"That concludes the work phase of our preparation," Coach began, his tone serious. "The next five days are about recovery, fine-tuning, and mental preparation. Your bodies are ready—we've done the work. Now it's about getting your minds right."
Miles felt a flutter of nerves at the mention of states. Despite his success at counties, the state championship was different—bigger venue, tougher competition, higher stakes.
"Visualization is going to be your best friend this week," Coach continued. "I want each of you to spend ten minutes every night before bed imagining your races. Not just running them, but feeling them. The starter's commands, the pressure in your blocks, the rhythm of your stride, the burn in your lungs—all of it."
Coach Dormer paced as he spoke, making eye contact with each athlete.
"When you step on that track Saturday, nothing should feel foreign. You've already run those races a dozen times in your mind. Unexpected things will happen—someone false starts, lanes get changed, a competitor you didn't account for shows up—that's track. But your response to those situations shouldn't be emotional. It should be automatic."
Miles found himself nodding along. It made sense. The physical preparation was done—now they needed their minds to be as ready as their bodies.
"For those of you competing in multiple events," Coach looked directly at Miles, "recovery between races is critical. Nobody cares if you won your first event if you bomb the second because you were too busy celebrating. Stay in the moment, one race at a time."
The team listened attentively, even Trey uncharacteristically serious. This wasn't just another meet. For seniors like Andre, it might be their last high school indoor championship. For freshmen like Miles, it was their first time on the big stage.
"Last thing," Coach said, his voice softening slightly. "Believe you belong there. Every one of you qualified. You earned your spot. Don't waste energy on doubt."
He dismissed them with instructions for the tapering workouts ahead—shorter, less intense sessions focused on sharpening rather than building. As they walked toward the locker room, Miles felt a complex mix of exhaustion, anticipation, and uncertainty.
"You good?" Andre asked, noticing Miles's thoughtful expression.
"Yeah," Miles nodded. "Just... processing, I guess."
"First states is always weird," Andre acknowledged. "But Coach is right—you belong there. Your times prove it."
Coming from Andre, the validation meant something. He wasn't one for empty encouragement.
"Thanks," Miles said simply.
"Just don't choke," Andre added with a hint of a smile, immediately undercutting the sentimental moment. "I'm not dragging your sorry ass around the track if you crash and burn in the four-by-two."
Miles laughed. "Such a supportive teammate."
"That's me," Andre agreed dryly. "Mr. Supportive."
By Wednesday afternoon, Miles's body had begun to recover from Monday's brutal workout. The tapering sessions felt almost easy by comparison—focused on technique and speed rather than endurance or strength. His muscles had that unique combination of well-trained power and restless energy that came with a proper taper.
After a short practice consisting of block starts and baton passes, Trey approached Miles and Andre in the locker room.
"My place tonight," he announced without preamble. "Seven o'clock. Gaming session."
"Can't," Andre replied immediately. "Got a calc test tomorrow."
"That's exactly why you need this," Trey insisted. "Scientific fact: excessive studying damages brain cells. Gaming restores them. Ask anyone."
"Anyone with a functioning brain would disagree," Andre countered, but Miles could see his resolve weakening.
"Come on," Trey pressed. "One night of Madden and pizza won't kill your GPA. Miles is in, right?"
Miles, caught off guard, glanced between them. "I didn't agree to anything."
"But you're coming," Trey stated as fact rather than question. "Devin and Mike are already confirmed. Team bonding before states. It's basically a required practice."
Miles considered it. His history paper was done, and the rest of his homework was manageable. His mom would probably be fine with it on a Wednesday if he was home at a reasonable hour.
"Yeah, alright," he conceded. "But I need to be home by ten."
"Nine-thirty," Andre corrected, finally giving in as well. "Some of us actually study for tests."
"Whatever, grandpa," Trey rolled his eyes. "Nine-thirty it is. I'll order pizzas at six-thirty. Bring your own controllers if you have them. Devin's are all sticky from some mysterious substance he claims is soda."
"That's disgusting," Andre commented, shouldering his bag.
"That's Devin," Trey shrugged, already texting furiously, presumably to update the others.
As they left practice, Miles pulled out his phone to text his mom about the change in plans. He noticed a message from Kayla.
survived our last hard workout before states. pretty sure my legs are now legally classified as jello
He smiled and typed back: same. coach tried to kill us monday. how's your taper going?
Her response came quickly: boring. so much technique work. coach keeps saying "trust the process" like she's some kind of life guru
dormer's big on visualization. wants us imagining our races every night before bed
torres too! she made us all lie down on the track today and "feel the surface" while imagining our races. so weird
Miles laughed out loud, earning curious looks from Andre and Trey as they walked to the parking lot.
"Let me guess," Trey said, peering over Miles's shoulder. "Central girl?"
"Her name is Kayla," Miles reminded him, angling the phone away.
"Right, right. Kaaaayla," Trey drew out the name teasingly. "When's the wedding?"
"Shut up," Miles muttered, feeling his face warm slightly.
"They're just talking," Andre said, then added with uncharacteristic mischief, "For now."
"Et tu, Andre?" Miles looked at him with mock betrayal.
"Just stating facts," Andre shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.
Miles shook his head and returned to his phone to continue the conversation with Kayla, asking about her events and schedule for states. They'd figured out they'd be at the venue at the same times, though their events were scattered throughout the day.
still on for ice cream after? she texted. assuming we both medal ofc
100%. better start picking your flavor
already decided. mint chip. the superior ice cream
that's a weird way to spell cookie dough
Their back-and-forth continued as Miles walked home, making the journey pass quicker than usual. There was something easy about talking with Kayla that he hadn't experienced with anyone else before—a natural rhythm to their conversations, whether in person or through texts.
That evening, Miles found himself on Trey's basement couch, controller in hand, surrounded by his teammates. Trey's basement was finished but cluttered, with gaming posters covering most walls and a large TV dominating one end of the room.
"Carter, you're embarrassing yourself," Devin commented as Miles's Madden character fumbled for the third time. "Have you ever actually played this game before?"
"Not really," Miles admitted. Video games had never been his thing. "More of a 2K player when I do play."
"That tracks," Mike nodded. "Let me guess—you just pick the fastest players and run the break every possession?"
"Is there another way to play?" Miles asked with a grin.
"Basketball casual," Trey scoffed, though his expression was good-natured. "After we humiliate you in Madden, we're switching to Apex. See if your track reflexes translate to gaming."
They rotated through games for the next couple of hours, Miles gradually improving but never quite matching the others' skill levels. The trash talk flowed freely, punctuated by occasional serious conversations about states.
"Seedings were posted online today," Mike mentioned during a pizza break. "Miles, you're top seed in the 300 and fourth in the 60."
"Fourth?" Miles frowned. "Thought my time would be higher."
"Guy from Section II ran a 6.68 last weekend," Andre explained. "Pushed everyone down."
"You've got this though," Devin said with surprising confidence. "Counties wasn't a fluke—you're just getting started."
Miles nodded, appreciating the vote of confidence. "What about the relay?"
"Fifth seed," Andre replied. "But less than half a second separates seeds two through six. It'll come down to handoffs and who wants it more."
"Speaking of wanting it," Trey cut in, "anyone else notice Coach actually smiled yesterday? Like, with his actual face? I thought he was having a stroke."
"He's excited," Andre said. "This is the strongest team he's had in years."
"No pressure though," Mike added with a laugh.
As nine-thirty approached, Miles and Andre prepared to leave, true to their agreement.
"This was good," Andre said unexpectedly as they gathered their things. "We needed this."
Miles agreed. The evening had relaxed him in a way that simply resting at home wouldn't have. The casual competition, the jokes, the team camaraderie—it had taken his mind off the pressure of states while simultaneously reinforcing that they were in it together.
"One team, one dream," Trey called out as they headed up the stairs, clearly mocking some motivational poster he'd seen. "Don't forget: pasta party at Devin's Friday night after school. Coach's orders."
"Since when does Coach order pasta parties?" Andre asked skeptically.
"He didn't," Trey admitted. "But he didn't say no when I suggested it, which is basically the same thing."
Miles smiled as they walked out to Andre's car. "You really just make this stuff up as you go, don't you?"
"Life's more fun that way," Trey replied with a grin. "But the pasta party is real. Carb loading is science, bro."
"See you tomorrow," Miles said, climbing into Andre's car.
As Andre drove him home, Miles found himself thinking about how much had changed in the past months. From reluctantly joining the team to now—preparing for states, part of a group that genuinely seemed to care about each other's success. It wasn't something he had expected to find in track.
"You ready for Saturday?" Andre asked, breaking the silence.
Miles considered the question. "I think so," he said slowly. "Still nervous, but... good nervous, you know?"
Andre nodded. "That's the right kind of nervous. Means you care."
"What about you? Last indoor states."
"Been thinking about that," Andre admitted, his eyes on the road. "Want to end on a high note, obviously. But mainly I just want to know I gave everything. No regrets."
It was perhaps the most introspective thing Miles had ever heard Andre say. "You will," he assured him. "I've seen you train."
"Yeah," Andre said, some of his usual confidence returning. "We've got this."
When Andre dropped him off, Miles thanked him for the ride and headed inside. The house was quiet, his mom likely already in bed after her shift, but a light was still on in the kitchen. He found Zoe at the table, surrounded by art supplies.
"Little late for arts and crafts, isn't it?" he asked, dropping his backpack by the door.
Zoe looked up, bits of glitter stuck to her fingers. "I'm making you a sign for states," she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Mom's idea, but I'm implementing it."
"A sign?" Miles moved closer, trying to see what she was working on, but she quickly covered it with her arms.
"No peeking! It's not done yet."
"Alright, alright," Miles backed off, oddly touched by the gesture. "Thanks, Zo."
"Duh," she replied, but her expression softened. "Mom took off Saturday, by the way. Full day. She swapped shifts with Linda."
The information hit Miles with unexpected force. His mom rarely took full days off, especially weekends, when hospital pay was higher. The fact that she had arranged it specifically for his meet meant more than he could easily express.
"That's... cool," he managed, suddenly finding his throat tight.
"She's really excited," Zoe continued, oblivious to his emotion. "Keeps telling everyone at work about you. It's kind of embarrassing, honestly."
Miles smiled, imagining his mom proudly showing his times to her coworkers. "Sorry about that."
"You should be," Zoe sniffed, but there was no real annoyance in her voice. "I have to hear all about how fast my brother is, when clearly I'm the athletic one in the family."
"Clearly," Miles agreed dryly, knowing full well that Zoe's idea of athletics was dance videos on TikTok. "I'm heading up. Don't stay up too late on that masterpiece."
"Genius takes time," she called after him as he headed upstairs.
In his room, Miles went through his evening routine automatically, his mind already drifting toward Saturday. Following Coach's instructions, he lay in bed and closed his eyes, imagining his races one by one.
He visualized the 60m first—the compact power of the start, the explosive drive phase, the stretch for the line. Then the 300m—controlling the first hundred, attacking the curve, emptying the tank in the final straightaway. Finally, the relay—the anticipation as his teammates ran their legs, the smooth exchange, the anchor leg responsibility.
As he drifted toward sleep, his phone buzzed with one last message.
good luck with visualizing. personally i keep getting distracted by thoughts of mint chocolate chip
Miles smiled in the darkness.
cookie dough still superior. see you saturday, kayla
see you at the finish line, miles
His last thought before sleep claimed him was that, for the first time, he was genuinely looking forward to standing on a starting line—not just to prove something to others, but because, somewhere along the way, he had started to love the rush of racing for its own sake.
The Velocity System's status update appeared briefly in his fading consciousness:
ATTRIBUTE UPDATE: Mental Fortitude: C → B (Significant improvement)
MISSION: Prepare for State Championships - COMPLETE
NEW MISSION: Compete at State Championships - ACTIVE
VELOCITY SYSTEM STATUS: OPTIMAL
But Miles was already asleep, dreaming not of times and medals, but of ice cream and finish lines and the people who would be there waiting for him.