"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back to New York our national champion, Miles Carter!"
The Westridge High School gymnasium erupted in applause that echoed off the walls as Miles stood awkwardly beside Principal Harmon at the hastily arranged Monday morning assembly. He wore the gold medal around his neck at the principal's insistence, though he'd have preferred to keep it in his room with his other medals.
Three days after the race, Miles still hadn't fully processed the reality of being a national champion. The team bus ride home from Boston had been a blur of congratulations, Andre's quiet pride, and Trey's increasingly exaggerated retellings of the finish. Coach Dormer had even upgraded their traditional post-meet fast food stop to a proper sit-down restaurant—the closest thing to a celebration the stoic coach would permit.
"Miles's performance at the New Balance Indoor Nationals represents the highest athletic achievement in Westridge history," Principal Harmon continued, beaming. "His time of 33.57 in the 300 meters set a new national freshman record and brought home our school's first-ever national gold medal."
More applause followed, with scattered cheers from the track team section. Miles caught sight of Shelly and Dami in the crowd, both giving him exaggerated thumbs-up that made him smile despite his discomfort with the attention.
"Would you like to say a few words?" the principal asked, gesturing toward the microphone.
Miles hesitated, then stepped forward. "Um, thanks everyone. It was... a team effort. Coach Dormer's training program and my teammates pushing me every day made this possible." He glanced at the track team, finding Andre's steady gaze. "Appreciate all the support."
Brief, awkward, but sincere. Miles stepped back, relieved when Principal Harmon resumed speaking about the "tradition of excellence" the achievement established.
When the assembly finally ended, Miles escaped to his first-period class, where normalcy gradually returned—albeit with more congratulatory nods and unexpected dap ups than he was used to. By lunchtime, he'd settled back into the rhythm of school, the medal safely tucked away in his backpack.
"There he is," Trey announced as Miles joined them at their usual table. "The man who's single-handedly increased Westridge's clout by about a thousand percent."
"You're exaggerating," Miles said, sliding into his seat.
"Am I though?" Trey pulled out his phone. "You've got three different track accounts doing breakdowns of your race. The MileSplit post has like sixty thousand views. Even DyeStat called you 'the future of American sprinting.'"
Miles focused on unwrapping his sandwich, uncomfortable with the analysis. "It was one race."
"A national championship race," Trey corrected. "Against seniors with D1 scholarships already locked up."
"It's just indoor season," Miles shrugged. "Outdoor is where it really matters."
Andre, who had been quietly eating, finally spoke. "True. But what you did still counts." His tone held a simple certainty that somehow meant more than Trey's enthusiastic praise.
Miles nodded, accepting this assessment from the teammate whose opinion he valued most. "Thanks."
"So," Trey changed subjects with his usual lack of subtlety, "ice cream plans with Central girl still happening?"
Miles felt his face warm slightly. "She has a name. And yeah, after school."
"Romantic," Trey waggled his eyebrows.
"It's just ice cream," Miles insisted, though the flutter in his stomach suggested otherwise.
"Sure it is," Trey grinned. "National champion and bronze medalist sharing celebratory dessert. Totally casual."
Miles ignored him, checking his phone to find a text from Kayla: still on for today? jimmys ice cream at 4?
He replied: def. see you there
The rest of the school day passed in a blur of classes, congratulations, and a surprisingly thoughtful speech from Coach Dormer during track practice about how champions are defined by what they do after winning, not just the victory itself. By the final bell, Miles found himself simultaneously exhausted by the attention and oddly energized by the prospect of seeing Kayla.
When he arrived at Jimmy's Ice Cream—a local shop halfway between Westridge and Central—she was already waiting outside, scrolling through her phone. She wore jeans and a Central track hoodie, her bronze medal nowhere in sight. Miles had similarly left his gold at home, wanting normalcy more than recognition.
She looked up as he approached, a smile spreading across her face. "There he is. The national champ."
"And there she is. Bronze medalist." Miles returned her smile, suddenly feeling both nervous and at ease in that strange contradiction he was beginning to associate with Kayla's presence.
"No medal today?" she asked as they headed inside.
"Felt weird wearing it around. You?"
"Same. It's in my room next to my participation medal from cross country in seventh grade." Her self-deprecating tone made him laugh.
Jimmy's was busy but not crowded, the after-school rush having mostly subsided. They found a small table by the window after ordering—cookie dough for Miles, mint chip for Kayla, both in waffle cones as a celebratory upgrade.
"So," Kayla said once they were seated, "how many times have you watched the race video?"
Miles almost choked on his ice cream. "How did you—"
"Because I've watched mine like twenty times already," she admitted. "Analyzing, second-guessing, wondering if I should have pushed earlier."
"Twelve," Miles confessed. "The official video plus three different angles people posted online."
"Only twelve? Amateur." She grinned, taking another bite of her mint chip. "So what's it like being famous now? Has Nike called yet?"
"As if," Miles rolled his eyes. "Seriously though, it's weird. People at school who never talked to me before suddenly know my name."
"Same at Central. Rachel Winters—she's our 'unofficial social chair' or whatever—asked if I could get your autograph for her cousin."
"You're kidding."
"Wish I was." Kayla laughed. "I told her your autograph costs fifty bucks now that you're national champion."
Miles groaned. "Please tell me you didn't."
"Of course not," she assured him. "I said hundred minimum."
Their laughter filled the small space between them, easy and comfortable in a way that still surprised Miles. This was what had drawn him to her initially—the way conversation flowed without effort, how they could transition from joking to serious topics without awkwardness.
"For real though," Kayla's expression turned more thoughtful, "is it weird having everyone suddenly paying attention? Central's been covering our lockers with 'Go Kayla' signs, and my inbox is full of congratulation emails from teachers I've never even had."
Miles considered the question. "It is weird. But I think what's weirder is how quickly it becomes normal. Three months ago, I was just a freshman who didn't even want to be on the team."
"And now?"
"Now I'm national champion who still sometimes doesn't want to be at practice at 6 AM," he smiled. "But mostly I do want to be there."
Kayla nodded, understanding. "It gets under your skin, doesn't it? Like, I used to run because my dad thought it would be good for me after my soccer injury. Now I run because... I don't know. Because it feels like who I am."
"Exactly," Miles agreed, surprised by how perfectly she'd articulated his own feelings. "It's stopped being something I do and become part of who I am."
Their eyes met briefly before both looked down at their ice cream, suddenly self-conscious about the unexpected depth of conversation.
"So," Miles changed the subject, "how was the bus ride back with your team?"
"Loud," Kayla laughed. "Amara made a playlist called 'Bronze Queens' that was just female pop stars and wouldn't let anyone skip tracks. Coach Torres pretended to hate it but we caught her lip-syncing to Doja Cat when she thought no one was looking."
Miles smiled, trying to imagine Coach Dormer doing anything similar. "Sounds better than our trip. Coach upgraded us from McDonald's to Applebee's, which was apparently his version of popping champagne."
"The height of luxury," Kayla teased. "Did he actually smile? Like, with his face?"
"Almost. There was a moment when I thought it might happen, but he caught himself." Miles demonstrated Coach's almost-smile, which made Kayla laugh again.
They continued trading stories about their teams, coaches, and the various characters they'd encountered at Nationals. Miles found himself sharing details he normally wouldn't—how nervous he'd been before the final, how he'd doubted himself after placing fourth in the 60m.
"I saw that race," Kayla said. "You were right there. One more meter and you'd have been on the podium."
"Maybe," Miles shrugged. "Thompson and those guys are just built different. Seniors with years more training."
"Which makes what you did in the three hundred even more impressive," Kayla pointed out. "Coleman's going to Texas A&M next year, you know. Full ride."
"He mentioned that," Miles nodded. "Said he's hoping to train with Marcus Johnson there."
"Wait, Marcus Johnson? The Olympic sprinter?" Kayla's eyes widened. "You know him?"
Miles hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. "Kind of? Coach arranged a training session with him before Nationals. He's a Westridge alum."
"That's insane," Kayla shook her head in disbelief. "No wonder your arm drive looked so clean in the final straight. You literally trained with an Olympic medalist."
"It was just one session," Miles downplayed, though he couldn't keep the hint of pride from his voice. "But yeah, it helped a lot."
Kayla leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "So what's next? After becoming national champion as a freshman, I mean. Seems like the bar's set pretty high now."
The question had been circling Miles's mind since the medal ceremony. "Outdoor season," he said simply. "New races, new challenges. The two hundred's supposedly my best event, but I haven't raced it much yet."
"So modest," Kayla rolled her eyes. "You're not even a little bit thinking about records you might break? Colleges that might be watching?"
Miles found himself smiling at her directness. "Okay, maybe a little. Coach mentioned something about Junior Nationals this summer if outdoor goes well. And yeah, there are some records I've looked at."
"There we go," Kayla nodded approvingly. "Ambition looks good on you, Carter."
Something about the way she said it sent a warmth through Miles that had nothing to do with competition or track. He searched for a response, but was saved by a drip of ice cream threatening to fall from his cone.
"So what about you?" he asked after reclaiming control of his dessert. "What's next for Kayla Fisher, national bronze medalist?"
"Immediate goal? Beating you in our next ice cream bet," she grinned. "Longer term, I want to break forty in the three hundred. Coach thinks I can do it by the end of outdoor season."
"You definitely can," Miles said with complete certainty. "Your form in the final was textbook. Just need a little more strength in the last fifty."
"Look at you, all technical analysis now," she teased, but her expression showed she appreciated the assessment. "Those Johnson sessions paying off already."
They fell silent for a moment, both working on their ice cream cones that were beginning to melt in the warm shop. Miles found himself studying Kayla when she wasn't looking—the focused way she addressed her ice cream, the gold earrings catching light when she moved, how she alternated between confidence and moments of surprising vulnerability in their conversation.
"Can I ask you something?" she said suddenly.
"Sure."
"Why track? I mean, I know you said you didn't want to join at first, but what changed? When did it stop being something you had to do and start being something you wanted to do?"
Miles considered the question, appreciating that she'd asked something deeper than most people did. "Honestly? I'm not sure there was one moment. It was gradual." He paused, organizing his thoughts. "But I guess counties was important. Not just winning, but feeling like I belonged there. Like I'd earned my spot."
Kayla nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"And maybe..." Miles hesitated, uncertain whether to share something he rarely discussed. "Maybe part of it was realizing I could be good at it for my own reasons, not because of my dad."
Kayla nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Because of Marcus Carter."
"Yeah," Miles confirmed, appreciating that she remembered from their conversation at Devin's party. "It's easier now, separating myself from his legacy."
"And now?"
"Now I'm just Miles," he said, echoing their earlier conversation. "Running my races, setting my records. Somewhere along the way it stopped being about him."
Kayla reached across the table and briefly squeezed his hand—a gesture so quick he might have imagined it if not for the lingering warmth where her fingers had been.
"Well, for what it's worth, I think just-Miles is pretty impressive on his own," she said, her tone light but her eyes sincere.
Miles felt something shift between them in that moment—something subtle but significant. Before he could respond, a notification sound from his phone broke the spell.
"Sorry," he checked the screen quickly. "Just my mom asking when I'll be home."
"We should probably head out anyway," Kayla said, gathering her things. "I've got calc homework waiting for me, and my mom's shift ends at six."
They walked outside together, lingering awkwardly at the point where they'd need to head in opposite directions. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sidewalk, the early spring air carrying just enough chill to justify standing a little closer than strictly necessary.
"So," Kayla said, "verdict on the ice cream?"
"Cookie dough remains superior," Miles stated firmly. "Though I'll admit your mint chip looked less mediocre than usual."
"Wow, high praise," she laughed. "Maybe next time I'll convert you."
"Next time?"
"Well, yeah," she shrugged with feigned casualness. "We'll need something to celebrate after outdoor season, right?"
"Right," Miles nodded, trying to match her nonchalance while fighting a smile. "Though maybe we should expand beyond ice cream. There's this burger place near Westridge that—"
"Are you asking me on a real date, Carter?" Kayla interrupted, her directness catching him off guard.
Miles felt his face warm but held her gaze. "Maybe I am, Fisher."
A smile spread across her face. "Good. Because I might say yes."
Before Miles could process this development, she leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "See you at the first outdoor meet," she said, already backing away. "Congrats again, national champ."
"You too, bronze medalist," Miles called after her, his hand unconsciously rising to touch the spot where her lips had been.
As he turned to head home, Miles found himself smiling uncontrollably. The Velocity System chose that moment to activate:
Personal status assessment:
Athletic achievement: Elite level attained
National Champion status confirmed
Social integration: Optimal Neurochemical balance: Elevated dopamine and oxytocin detected
System recommendation: Enjoy this moment
For once, Miles was in complete agreement with the System's assessment. National champion. Bronze medalist friend who maybe wasn't just a friend anymore. Cookie dough ice cream.
Life was pretty good for a freshman who hadn't even wanted to join the team.
As Miles walked home, medal in his backpack and the memory of Kayla's kiss still warming his cheek, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow's practice for the first time since joining the team—not because of records or rankings or even competition, but because of the simple joy of running fast and seeing where it might take him.
The journey from reluctant freshman to national champion had been unexpected, challenging, and transformative. And somehow, Miles knew, it was just the beginning.