Miles sat on the metal bleachers, rolling a tennis ball under his foot to release the tension in his calves. The 60m prelim had taken more out of him mentally than physically—seven seconds of all-out sprinting wasn't enough to truly fatigue him, but the narrow margin against Harrison had left him with a restless energy he needed to manage before the 300m.
"You going to watch the girls' races?" Andre asked, returning from his own warm-down jog around the facility's perimeter.
"Yeah," Miles nodded, checking the time on his phone. "Kayla's heat is in fifteen minutes."
Andre raised an eyebrow but didn't comment further, just sat beside Miles and began lacing up his trainers.
"Coach says to eat something small now," he said instead. "At least two hours before your three hundred."
Miles nodded again, pulling an energy bar from his bag. He'd been doing this long enough now to know his body's patterns—when to eat, when to hydrate, when to rest. But at a meet like this, with multiple events spread across the day, the timing became even more critical.
The facility hummed with constant activity—officials shepherding athletes to their events, spectators finding seats for upcoming races, coaches conferring in small groups. The atmosphere was charged with a competitive electricity that Miles was still getting used to.
The announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Women's 300 meter dash, preliminary heats. First call for heats one and two."
"Let's go," Miles said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Better view from the curve."
They made their way to a section of the stands with a clear sightline to the whole track, but particularly the crucial second curve of the 300 meter race. Trey spotted them and bounded up the steps, somehow still energetic despite having already raced in the 55-meter hurdles.
"Yo, you watching Central girl crush it?" he asked, dropping into the seat next to Miles. "She's in heat three with Patterson from North Heights."
"How do you know everyone's heat assignments?" Miles asked, genuinely curious.
Trey looked affronted. "You think I don't do my research? Track is like seventy percent gossip, twenty percent running, and ten percent looking good in uniform."
"Your math checks out," Andre said dryly.
They watched as the first heat took the track, the girls settling into their blocks. Miles found himself studying their technique with a runner's eye—the varying block positions, the tension in their shoulders, the focus evident even from a distance.
The race unfolded quickly, with a girl in green from some upstate school Miles didn't recognize pulling away in the final straight. The times flashed on the board: 41.23 for the winner, solid but not exceptional.
"Second heat's better," Trey commented as the next group took the track. "Thompson from Rochester is the top seed overall."
Sure enough, the second heat moved at a noticeably faster pace, with Thompson dominating from the start and posting a 40.17, nearly a full second faster than the previous heat's winner.
Then it was time for heat three, and Miles found himself leaning forward as Kayla appeared on the track in Central's maroon uniform. She looked focused, going through her pre-race routine with methodical precision. Unlike some of the other girls who jogged nervously or made elaborate stretching displays, Kayla's preparation was contained, efficient.
"She's got good pre-race presence," Andre observed, always attentive to the mental aspects of competition.
"Is that your way of saying she looks hot in her uniform?" Trey jabbed.
"It's my way of saying she looks like she knows what she's doing," Andre replied evenly. "Unlike some people I could mention."
Miles ignored their banter, his attention fixed on the track as the heat settled into their blocks. Kayla had lane four, with Patterson from North Heights in five. The starter raised his pistol.
The gun cracked, and Miles found himself involuntarily tensing as if he were running himself. Kayla's start was clean—not explosive like a 60-meter specialist, but powerful and controlled. She settled immediately into her stride rhythm, attacking the first curve with precision.
"She's got good form," Andre commented. "Runs tall."
It was true. Where some sprinters hunched forward or let their shoulders rise with fatigue, Kayla maintained her posture through the first 100 meters. Patterson from North Heights was moving well too, the two of them establishing a lead on the field as they entered the back straight.
"Come on, Kayla," Miles murmured, too low for the others to hear.
The second curve was where the 300 truly became painful—lactic acid flooding the muscles, lungs burning, form threatening to disintegrate. Patterson began to edge ahead slightly, her longer stride giving her an advantage as fatigue set in.
But Kayla responded, adjusting her arm drive to maintain her speed through the curve. They entered the final straight virtually even, both pushing through the invisible wall of pain that made the 300 one of the most brutal events in track.
Miles found himself on his feet without realizing he'd stood, watching as Kayla found another gear in the final thirty meters. She pulled ahead gradually, a half step, then a full step, driving through the line a clear meter ahead of Patterson.
The times flashed on the board:
1. Fisher (Central) - 40.51
2. Patterson (N. Heights) - 40.79
"Damn, your girl can run," Trey said appreciatively. "That's the second fastest qualifier."
"She's not my—" Miles began automatically, then stopped himself. The denial felt increasingly hollow, even to him. "Yeah, she ran well."
"You should go congratulate her," Andre suggested, his tone neutral but his meaning clear.
Miles hesitated. "She'll be cooling down."
"And passing right by this section on her way to do it," Andre pointed out, nodding toward the track exit that led past their seats.
Before Miles could decide, Trey made an exaggerated pointing motion. "There she is! Hey, Kayla!"
Miles shot him a glare, but it was too late. Kayla looked up, still breathing hard from her race, and spotted them. A tired smile spread across her face as she changed direction to approach.
"Subtle," Miles muttered to Trey, who merely grinned in response.
"Hey," Kayla greeted as she reached them, her face flushed from exertion but clearly pleased. "You guys watched?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Miles replied, finding it easier to talk about the race than anything else. "Your form held together really well in the last hundred."
"Thanks," she said, seeming genuinely appreciative of the technical observation. "I've been working on arm drive through fatigue. Makes a difference."
"Clearly," Andre nodded respectfully. "Smart race."
"Second fastest qualifier," Trey added. "Must feel good beating Patterson. She was talking mad trash before the race."
Kayla shrugged, but couldn't hide her satisfaction. "Let the times do the talking."
"When's your three hundred?" she asked Miles, taking a swig from her water bottle.
"Two fifteen," he replied. "Heat four."
"I'll watch after I get some food," she promised. "Same deal as the sixty?"
"Top two and next four, yeah."
"You'll make it easy," she said with a confidence that Miles found both flattering and slightly unnerving. After seeing Harrison edge him earlier, he wasn't taking anything for granted.
"We'll see," he said noncommittally. "You should get your cool-down in. Don't want to tighten up."
Kayla nodded, understanding the athletic priority. "True. Catch you after?" Her eyes held his for a moment longer than necessary.
"Definitely."
As she jogged away, Trey let out a low whistle. "You two are so obvious it's almost painful to watch."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Miles asked, though he knew exactly what Trey meant.
"It means," Andre cut in before Trey could elaborate, "that we should head back to the team area. You need to start your three hundred prep."
Miles was grateful for the redirection. The 300 would require full concentration, and he couldn't afford to be distracted, even by thoughts of Kayla's race or the implied promise of meeting up afterwards.
Back at the team area, Coach Dormer was waiting with his clipboard and the ever-present stopwatch dangling from his neck.
"Carter," he nodded as Miles approached. "Eat yet?"
"Yes, Coach. Energy bar about twenty minutes ago."
"Good. We start your warm-up at one-thirty. That gives you forty-five minutes—standard progression, but save the top-end speed. You'll need it later."
Coach's approach was methodical, treating each race as a unique challenge requiring specific preparation. For the 60, it had been all about activating fast-twitch fibers and mental explosiveness. For the 300, it was about balancing speed reserves with endurance.
"Lane assignments came through," Coach continued, checking his clipboard. "You're in four. Whitman from North Heights in five, Bryant from Rochester in three."
Miles nodded, processing the information. Jason Whitman he knew from counties—strong but not exceptional in the 300. Bryant was an unknown quantity.
"Bryant runs a smart race," Coach said, reading Miles's thoughts. "Conservative first hundred, pushes the back straight, holds form through the finish. Don't let him sucker you into going out too fast."
"Yes, Coach."
"Your strength is the second curve. That's where you create separation. Remember the workouts—rhythm through pain."
It was Coach Dormer's favorite phrase for the 300—rhythm through pain. The idea that when lactic acid flooded the muscles and form threatened to collapse, the key was finding a sustainable rhythm that could be maintained through the discomfort.
As Coach moved on to brief Andre about his upcoming 400m preliminary, Miles found a quiet corner to begin his mental preparation. The Velocity System activated in his peripheral vision:
RACE ANALYSIS: 300m Preliminary Heat
Lane 3: Bryant (Rochester) - Season best: 34.93
Lane 4: Carter (Westridge) - Season best: 34.42
Lane 5: Whitman (N. Heights) - Season best: 35.16
Strategy recommendation: Controlled first 50m, establish position through 100m, press through back straight, hold form on final curve.
The analysis matched Coach's assessment almost exactly, suggesting a race plan based on Miles's strengths and the competition's tendencies. Miles closed his eyes, visualizing the race as he had practiced all week—seeing himself execute each phase, feeling the rhythm of his strides, the burning in his lungs, the final push through the line.
When he opened his eyes, he felt centered, the nervous energy from earlier transformed into focused readiness.
At precisely 1:30, he began his warm-up routine—the same progression he'd followed hundreds of times in practice. Jogging to elevate his heart rate, dynamic stretches to activate muscle groups, drills to reinforce proper mechanics, and finally a few buildups at 80% to prime his nervous system.
The Velocity System provided occasional feedback:
Heart rate: Optimal range
Form mechanics: 94% efficiency
Pre-race status: Competitive readiness achieved
By the time the first call came for the men's 300m preliminary heats, Miles felt physically prepared. The mental game was trickier—finding the balance between confidence and arrogance, between respecting competitors and fearing them.
He checked in with the clerk, going through the now-familiar process. The officials directed heat four to the staging area, where Miles found himself next to Whitman.
"Carter," Whitman acknowledged with a nod. "Heard about your sixty. Harrison's legit."
"Yeah," Miles agreed, appreciating the simple respect in the exchange. "Looking forward to finals tomorrow."
"You'll be there," Whitman said confidently. "And so will I."
There was something reassuring about the brief interaction—a reminder that behind the competition was a community of athletes who understood each other's struggles and ambitions.
As they were led onto the track, Miles spotted his family in the stands. Zoe was still waving that embarrassing glitter sign, but somehow it bothered him less now. His mom sat beside her, looking both proud and slightly anxious.
Miles took his assigned lane, setting up his blocks with precise attention. The 300 required a different block position than the 60—slightly less aggressive angle, accommodating the longer race ahead. He tested the pedals, finding the right pressure, then stood to shake out his arms one final time.
"Heat four, on the track," the announcer's voice echoed through the facility. "In lane three, from Rochester Prep, senior James Bryant. Lane four, from Westridge High School, freshman Miles Carter. Lane five, from North Heights Academy, junior Jason Whitman..."
Again, the announcement of "freshman" drew a few curious glances. The 300 was even less common for ninth graders to qualify in than the 60, requiring a combination of speed and developing endurance that most younger runners hadn't yet built.
"Runners, to your marks."
Miles settled into his blocks, finding his starting position with practiced precision.
"Set."
He raised his hips, weight balanced forward, muscles coiled with potential energy.
The gun fired, and Miles exploded out of the blocks with controlled power. Unlike the 60, where all-out acceleration was the goal, the 300 required a more measured approach. He pushed hard through the first 50 meters, establishing his rhythm as they hit the first curve.
The Velocity System provided real-time feedback:
First 50m: 6.21s - Optimal pace
Lane position: Holding strong
First curve entry: Form stable
Bryant was pushing the pace in lane three, perhaps trying to make Miles and the others work harder on the curve. But Miles held his form, neither chasing nor yielding ground, trusting his race plan as they emerged onto the back straight.
This was where the race truly began—120 meters in, with the first surge of fatigue beginning to register. Miles pressed as Coach had instructed, lengthening his stride without overreaching, using the straight to build momentum before the crucial second curve.
Whitman was still on his shoulder in lane five, matching Miles stride for stride as they approached the 200-meter mark. Bryant had faded slightly in lane three, his early push costing him as fatigue set in.
Current position: 1st/2nd (even with Whitman)
Back straight execution: 93%
Power application: 91%
Second curve approaching - Prepare for decisive phase
The second curve loomed ahead—the make-or-break point of the 300. Miles felt the familiar burn in his quadriceps, the heaviness in his arms, the first real challenge to his breathing pattern. But this was what they had trained for—rhythm through pain.
As they entered the curve, Miles focused on three technical cues: drive the arms, stay tall, attack the bend. Where some runners leaned away from the curve or let their form deteriorate, Miles leaned in slightly, using the banking to maintain his speed.
Halfway through the curve, he sensed rather than saw Whitman beginning to fade. The gap was small at first—inches, then a foot, then a stride as they exited into the final straight.
Now it was simply about holding form through the finish. Every muscle in Miles's body screamed for relief, lactic acid flooding his system as oxygen debt mounted. But there was also a clarity in the pain, a focus that narrowed the world to just the track ahead and the drive to the line.
Final phase engaged
Form holding at 88%
Current position: 1st by 3m
Finish strong
Miles crossed the line with his form intact, gasping for air as he gradually decelerated around the track. The time flashed on the board:
1. Carter (Westridge) - 34.51
2. Whitman (N. Heights) - 35.22
3. Bryant (Rochester) - 35.46
A dominant performance—not quite his personal best, but easily enough to qualify for finals as the fastest time of the preliminary round. Miles bent over, hands on his knees, lungs heaving as the reality set in. He'd not just qualified; he'd sent a message.
As he walked back toward the team area, chest still heaving from exertion, he saw Coach Dormer giving a rare nod of approval.
"Good execution," Coach said simply, which from him was effusive praise. "Split times were on target. You executed the race plan exactly as discussed."
"Felt... good," Miles managed between breaths. "Second curve... worked."
"That's where you're strongest," Coach agreed. "We'll analyze the video before finals tomorrow. For now, recovery protocol—cool down, hydrate, stretch, fuel."
Miles nodded, too oxygen-deprived for further conversation. He began his cool-down jog around the perimeter, gradually bringing his heart rate down while flushing lactic acid from his system.
Halfway through his cool-down lap, he spotted Kayla leaning against the railing by the track exit.
"Told you it would be easy," she said as he approached, holding out a gatorade. "Though I didn't expect you to embarrass everyone quite that badly."
Miles accepted the drink gratefully. "Wasn't... trying to," he gasped, still catching his breath. "Just ran... my race."
"That's what makes it impressive," she said. "You looked smooth. Like you weren't even maxing out."
The compliment warmed him more than he expected. Coming from another sprinter who understood the event, it meant something.
"Thanks," he said, his breathing finally normalizing. "Your race was solid too. Thompson's the only one who went faster."
"For now," Kayla said with a competitive glint in her eye. "Finals are a different story."
"True," Miles agreed, finding her confidence contagious. "You heading home after this?"
"No, we're staying for the whole day. Amara's in the four-by-four later." She hesitated, then added, "You want to grab food at the concession stand once you're done cooling down? I'm starving after racing."
"Yeah, definitely," Miles nodded, perhaps too quickly. "Give me fifteen to finish cooling down and check in with Coach."
"Meet you there," she smiled, then headed back toward the Central team area.
Miles completed his cool-down routine, stretching thoroughly before reporting back to Coach Dormer for the customary post-race debrief.
"Your day is done competition-wise," Coach confirmed, checking his clipboard. "Relay's tomorrow morning, then sixty and three hundred finals in the afternoon if you qualify—which you will," he added, the closest thing to optimism Miles had ever heard from him.
"Yes, Coach."
"Rest, refuel, and stay off your feet as much as possible," Coach instructed. "We've got team dinner at six at the hotel. Be ready in the lobby at five-thirty."
Miles nodded, grateful that the team was staying overnight rather than making the long drive back and forth for the two-day meet. It meant proper recovery, good sleep, and no early morning travel stress.
He found Andre sitting with Trey and a few other teammates, all watching the ongoing races with various levels of interest.
"Nice race," Andre nodded as Miles approached. "Fastest qualifier by half a second."
"Thanks," Miles said, setting his bag down. "How'd your prelims go?"
"Made finals in the four hundred," Andre shrugged, though Miles could tell he was pleased. "Third fastest time."
"Barely broke a sweat," Trey added, earning an eye-roll from Andre. "Meanwhile, I clipped the fifth hurdle and nearly face-planted. Still made finals though."
"Classic Trey," Miles laughed. "I'm heading to get food at the concession stand. Anyone want anything?"
"Meeting your girl?" Trey asked with exaggerated innocence.
"Getting food," Miles repeated, not taking the bait. "Last chance for requests."
After collecting a few orders for sports drinks and protein bars, Miles made his way to the concession area. Kayla was already there, scrolling through her phone while waiting in line.
"Hey," he greeted, joining her. "How's the food selection?"
"Typical meet fare," she grimaced. "Mysterious hot dogs, sketchy nachos, and overpriced everything. But when you've burned a thousand calories racing, even cardboard starts to look good."
Miles laughed. "Accurate."
They ordered—Miles getting a chicken sandwich that looked marginally less terrifying than the other options, Kayla choosing a soft pretzel and fruit cup—and found a relatively quiet table away from the main traffic flow.
"So," Kayla said, tearing off a piece of pretzel, "first state championships. Living up to expectations?"
"Different than I thought," Miles admitted. "More intense, but also more... I don't know, professional? Everyone knows what they're doing."
"Right?" Kayla nodded enthusiastically. "No one's here by accident. Makes counties feel like a school talent show."
The observation made Miles smile. It was exactly right—the atmosphere at states had a seriousness, a purpose that smaller meets lacked.
"You here tomorrow for finals?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Obviously," she replied, her competitiveness showing through. "Got a score to settle with Thompson."
"You'll get her," Miles said, surprised by how certain he felt. "Your finish is stronger."
"Hope so," Kayla said, then she hesitated briefly before adding, "My dad's coming tomorrow. He couldn't get today off work, but he swapped shifts for finals."
"That's cool," Miles said, understanding the significance. Parent support meant something, especially at big meets. "My mom and Zoe are coming back too. Sorry in advance for whatever embarrassing sign my sister makes next."
"Are you kidding? I love the sign," Kayla laughed. "The glitter alone probably violated several fire safety codes."
"It'll probably be worse tomorrow," Miles groaned. "She texted earlier saying she's 'enhancing' it tonight."
"Can't wait," Kayla grinned. Their eyes met across the table, and Miles felt that now-familiar flutter in his chest. It was still new, this feeling, but becoming more comfortable each time.
The moment was interrupted by Mile's phone buzzing. He checked it to find a text from his mom:
*We're heading home now. You were amazing! Zoe recorded your race. See you tomorrow at the hotel lobby, 8:30am. Love you.*
"My mom," he explained, showing Kayla the text. "They're heading out."
"Mine too," Kayla said, checking her own phone. "Coach wants us back at the team area for a meeting anyway."
They gathered their trash, a comfortable silence falling between them as they prepared to return to their respective teams.
"Good luck tomorrow," Miles said as they reached the point where they needed to head in different directions. "Not that you need it."
"You too," Kayla replied. "See you at the finish line."
"Or the ice cream shop after," Miles added, referencing their ongoing bet.
"Definitely the ice cream shop," Kayla confirmed with a smile. "I've been thinking about mint chip all week."
"Cookie dough still superior," Miles maintained, earning a playful eye roll from Kayla before they parted ways.
Back at the team area, most of the Westridge athletes were gathering their things, preparing for the bus ride to the hotel. Those still competing in later events sat with Coach Dormer, reviewing strategies and heat assignments.
"You look less catatonic than usual after a three hundred," Andre observed as Miles rejoined them.
"Food helps," Miles replied, dropping into a seat beside him.
"And certain company?" Trey suggested with a grin.
Miles ignored him, focusing instead on checking his phone and gear. But he couldn't deny the underlying truth of Trey's teasing. Something about talking with Kayla—even about ordinary things like bad concession food or embarrassing siblings—left him feeling lighter, more centered.
As the team began boarding the bus for the hotel, Miles took one last look around the facility. Tomorrow would bring finals—higher stakes, tougher competition, bigger crowds. But for the first time, the thought didn't intimidate him.
He belonged here. His times proved it, his performances confirmed it, and the respect in his competitors' eyes validated it.
The Velocity System offered a final assessment before deactivating for recovery mode:
Day One Performance: Exceptional
60m: Qualified for Finals (2nd in heat, 5th overall)
300m: Qualified for Finals (1st in heat, 1st overall)
Recovery Priority: Maximum
Next Mission: Day Two - Championship Finals
Miles boarded the bus, finding a seat near the window. As they pulled away from the complex, he allowed himself to relax, knowing that the hardest work was still ahead but confident in his preparation for it.
Tomorrow would be about finding that perfect balance—between confidence and hunger, between technique and heart, between running his own race and responding to competitors.
And maybe, just maybe, about mint chip versus cookie dough.