Got a contract.
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Miles woke to the smell of pancakes drifting up from the kitchen. He blinked at his phone: 6:45 AM, March 17th. His birthday. Fifteen years old today, though it hardly felt different from fourteen.
He considered staying in bed an extra five minutes, but the continued sounds of activity downstairs suggested his mom and Zoe were up to something. With a sigh that wasn't entirely genuine, he pulled himself out of bed and headed downstairs.
"There he is!" Zoe announced as he entered the kitchen. "The birthday boy emerges!"
Their mom stood at the stove flipping pancakes, still in her scrubs from the night shift but looking surprisingly energetic. The kitchen island had been transformed with a small stack of wrapped presents, a "Happy Birthday" banner clearly made by Zoe, and a ridiculous number of balloons crowding the ceiling.
"Mom, you didn't have to—" Miles began.
"Yes, I did," she cut him off with a smile. "Not every day my son turns fifteen and becomes a national record holder in the same month."
Miles felt his face warm slightly. Two weeks had passed since states, and he still wasn't used to his new status. The congratulations, the attention, the way people looked at him differently—it was simultaneously gratifying and uncomfortable.
"Sit, sit," his mom urged, sliding a plate stacked with pancakes toward him. "I have to leave for my shift in twenty minutes, so presents now."
Miles obediently took a seat at the island. Zoe immediately pushed the largest package toward him.
"This one first," she insisted. "It's from both of us."
Miles unwrapped it to find a sleek black box. Inside was a running watch—not just any running watch, but the high-end model he'd been eyeing online but would never have asked for.
"Mom, this is too—"
"Nope," she interrupted again. "State champion, national record holder, straight-A student. You've earned it."
He ran his thumb over the watch's smooth surface, genuinely touched. "Thanks. Really."
"It does all the fancy tracking stuff you obsess over," Zoe explained proudly, as if she'd personally engineered it. "Heart rate, pace, stride length, whatever. Plus it's waterproof for when you sweat like a monster."
"Charming description, Zo," Miles replied dryly, but he was already securing the watch on his wrist.
The remaining presents were smaller but equally thoughtful—new wireless earbuds for training, a gift card to his favorite running store, and a framed photo of him crossing the finish line at states that his mom had somehow acquired.
"The team moms share photos," she explained when he asked. "Devin's mom had this one."
As Miles finished his pancakes, his mom checked her watch. "I've got to run. Double shift today, so I won't be home until late. But tomorrow night we'll go out for a proper dinner, okay? Anywhere you want."
"You don't have to—"
"I know," she smiled, grabbing her bag. "I want to. Happy birthday, honey." She kissed the top of his head, a rare gesture that he allowed without complaint today. "There's another surprise in the fridge for after school."
After she left, Miles and Zoe fell into their usual morning routine, though Zoe took every opportunity to reference his birthday in increasingly dramatic ways.
"Behold, the cereal of the champion on his day of birth!" she announced, sliding the box across the counter.
"You're so weird," Miles replied, but he was smiling.
As they walked to school, Miles found himself automatically checking his new watch, syncing it with his phone. It picked up his stride length, heart rate, even the slight elevation change on the route to school.
"So, is Central Girl doing anything for your birthday?" Zoe asked suddenly.
"Her name is Kayla," Miles corrected. "And I don't know. We haven't really talked about it."
"You should. Birthdays are important relationship milestones."
Miles raised an eyebrow. "And you know this because of your extensive relationship experience at twelve?"
"I read things," Zoe replied with dignity. "Plus I watch Mom's shows with her sometimes."
"Reality TV is not relationship advice, Zo."
"Better than whatever you're doing," she muttered.
When they reached the middle school, Zoe gave him an unexpected quick hug. "Happy birthday, bro. Try not to be socially awkward today." Before he could respond, she darted off toward her friends.
The atmosphere at Westridge had changed for Miles since states. It wasn't that he was suddenly the most popular kid in school or anything dramatic like that, but there was a noticeable shift. People who had never spoken to him now nodded in recognition. Teachers made casual references to his achievement.
"There he is," Trey called out as Miles approached their usual spot in the hallway. "The birthday boy himself."
Miles groaned. "How did you even know?"
"Please," Trey scoffed. "I know everything. Also, the athletic department calendar has everyone's birthday listed."
Shelly and Dami joined them, both offering birthday greetings that were mercifully less exuberant than Trey's.
"Any big plans?" Dami asked.
Miles shrugged. "Not really. Just another day."
"Except you're officially old enough for a learner's permit now," Shelly pointed out. "Going to start driving soon?"
The thought hadn't even occurred to Miles. With everything focused on track lately, normal teenage milestones like driving had completely slipped his mind.
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "Haven't really thought about it."
Before they could pursue the topic, the first bell rang, sending them all to their respective classes. Throughout the morning, Miles received a scattering of birthday wishes from teammates and classmates who somehow knew. It wasn't unpleasant, just unfamiliar—being noticed enough that people knew or cared about his birthday.
In Global Studies, Mr. Dormer acknowledged it with typical restraint—just a nod and "Happy birthday, Carter" as Miles took his seat. But coming from Coach, even that small recognition felt significant.
At lunch, Miles checked his phone to find a text from Kayla: happy birthday speed demon! 15 looks good on you 🎉
He smiled, typing back: thanks. feels the same as 14 but with more people knowing about it somehow
welcome to fame. btw check your track locker after school
Miles stared at the message, puzzled. my locker?
yeah, just check it
He was still wondering about this when Andre dropped his lunch tray across from him. "Birthday," he stated, nodding once.
"Thanks," Miles replied, used to Andre's economic style of communication.
"Coach wants to talk to you before practice. About nationals."
Miles nodded, a small flutter of nerves materializing at the mention of nationals. The New Balance Indoor Nationals were coming up in ten days, and Coach had entered him in both the 60m and 300m after states. It would be his first national-level competition, against the best high school runners in the country.
"Did he say what about?"
Andre shook his head. "Just to find him before we start."
The afternoon passed quickly, and as Miles headed to the locker room for practice, he remembered Kayla's text. Curious, he went straight to his track locker and opened it.
Inside, sitting on top of his neatly folded training clothes, was a small package wrapped in blue paper with a note attached. Miles opened the note first:
Distance makes gifting hard, but Andre helped me smuggle this in. Nothing fancy, just something that made me think of you. See you at nationals! - KP.S. Thanks to Andre for the birthday intel too. Having friends in high places pays off.
The package contained a keychain with a small metal ice cream cone charm and a fortune cookie. Miles laughed when he saw it—a perfect callback to both their ice cream debate and his embarrassing post-race interview. He cracked open the fortune cookie to find a custom message:
Your future holds many victories and possibly better taste in ice cream flavors.
"Good birthday so far?" Andre's voice startled him.
Miles quickly pocketed the gifts, feeling oddly protective of them. "Yeah, it's alright."
Andre's knowing look suggested he wasn't fooled. "Coach is in his office."
Miles nodded his thanks and headed to find Coach Dormer. The man was at his desk, reviewing what appeared to be heat sheets for an upcoming meet.
"Carter," he acknowledged as Miles appeared in the doorway. "Birthday?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Good. Sit."
Miles took the chair across from the desk, waiting as Coach organized his thoughts.
"Nationals," Coach began. "Ten days away. You're ranked fourth in the sixty and second in the three hundred for your age group."
Miles nodded, already aware of his rankings from obsessively checking the entries online.
"Different level of competition," Coach continued. "Many of these athletes have been to nationals before. They know the routine, the pressure, the facility. You don't."
"I understand," Miles said, though the reminder added to his nerves.
"Which is why," Coach looked up, meeting his eyes directly, "I've arranged for you to train with Marcus Johnson this weekend."
Miles blinked, processing the name. Marcus Johnson was a professional sprinter who had medaled at the last Olympics. He also happened to be a Westridge alum who occasionally came back to work with promising athletes.
"This Saturday," Coach continued, seemingly unaware of Miles's stunned expression. "Nine AM. He's in town visiting family and agreed to spare two hours. Don't waste them."
"I won't," Miles managed. "Thank you, Coach."
Coach Dormer nodded once. "Consider it a birthday present. Now go warm up with the others."
Practice that day had a strange energy. Word of Miles's birthday had somehow spread through the entire team, leading to a chorus of greetings when he joined the warm-up. Trey, naturally, had taken it upon himself to organize an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday" during their stretching circle, which Coach Dormer mercifully cut short with a single withering look.
The workout itself was relatively light—technique-focused rather than intensity-driven, part of their tapering plan heading into nationals. As they finished their cooldown, Trey sidled up to Miles.
"So, birthday dinner at Slice Heaven at six," he announced without preamble. "Don't be late."
Miles frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Pizza. Birthday. Friends. Basic social interaction," Trey explained slowly, as if to a child. "Andre's driving. I'm bringing my charming personality. Devin and a few others are coming too."
"I didn't agree to—"
"You don't have to," Trey cut him off. "That's how surprises work. It's very scientific."
Miles looked to Andre for support, but his usually reliable teammate merely shrugged. "I'm already driving. Might as well show up."
"Fine," Miles conceded, finding he didn't actually mind the idea. "But nothing embarrassing."
"Define embarrassing," Trey replied with a grin that promised exactly that.
Slice Heaven was the team's preferred pizza place—close to school, reasonably priced, and run by a former Westridge track athlete who occasionally gave them discounts. When Miles arrived with Andre and Trey, he was surprised to find not just Devin and a few other teammates, but also Shelly and Dami.
"Happy birthday!" they called out as he entered, mercifully without making a spectacle that would draw attention from other customers.
They had pushed together two tables and already ordered several pizzas. A small cupcake with a single candle sat at what was clearly his designated spot.
"This is... thanks, guys," Miles said, genuinely touched by the gesture.
"Don't thank us yet," Trey warned. "We haven't embarrassed you properly."
The evening turned out to be surprisingly normal—just friends sharing pizza and conversation. Miles found himself relaxing, enjoying the casual banter and team stories. It was nice, he realized, to have people who wanted to celebrate with him, who saw him as more than just the fast kid or the state champion.
As they were finishing, Miles's phone buzzed with a text from his mom: Working late but there's cake in the fridge. Your favorite. Love you birthday boy! 💙
Miles smiled, typing back a quick thanks. When he looked up, he caught Andre watching him with unusual perception.
"Good birthday?" Andre asked quietly, while the others argued over the last slice of pepperoni.
Miles considered the question. "Yeah, actually. Different than I expected."
Andre nodded, understanding more than Miles had said. "Fifteen's a good year. Things start making more sense."
The observation was unexpectedly philosophical coming from Andre, but somehow fitting. Things were indeed starting to make more sense—track, school, friends, even his complicated feelings about his father's legacy.
When they finally wrapped up, everyone wishing him final happy birthdays before dispersing, Miles found himself walking home with a contentment he hadn't anticipated. Fifteen didn't feel dramatically different from fourteen, but the life surrounding those numbers had transformed completely.
At home, he found Zoe asleep on the couch, clearly having tried to wait up for him. The promised cake sat in the fridge—chocolate with buttercream frosting, his childhood favorite. He cut a small slice, leaving the rest for tomorrow when his mom would be home.
In his room, Miles finally checked the birthday messages he'd been ignoring throughout the day. More teammates, a few classmates, Andre's surprisingly thoughtful "Hope 15 brings PRs and whatever else you're looking for," and a final one from Kayla: hope you had a good birthday. still haven't forgotten you owe me another smoothie date btw
He smiled, responding: it was good. and i haven't forgotten. after nationals?
Her reply came quickly: it's a date. bring the ice cream charm for good luck
The Velocity System activated as Miles got ready for bed:
BIRTHDAY ASSESSMENT:
Physical growth continuing at projected rate
Current physical age: 15.0 years
Developmental age (athletic): 16.7 years
Nationals Preparation: 84% complete
New training opportunities detected: Professional mentorship
System recalibrating for age-specific optimizations
Miles set the notification aside, too tired to process the implications. Fifteen. National record holder. Nationals competitor. Potential mentee to an Olympic medalist. It was a lot to take in.
As he drifted toward sleep, he found himself thinking not of records or medals, but of simple moments—Zoe's ridiculous birthday banner, his mom's pancakes, Trey's off-key singing, Andre's quiet wisdom, and a small metal ice cream cone that somehow meant more than any fancy gift could have.
Fifteen, he decided, might be interesting after all.