Miles checked his phone for the third time in five minutes. 9:47 AM. He'd arrived at Regpton Park thirteen minutes early, which now felt like a tactical error. Being early to meet Coach Dormer was expected; being early to meet Kayla felt like he was trying too hard.
He leaned against the chain-link fence surrounding the community track, trying to look casual in case she showed up early too. The morning was cool but clear, typical for mid-April in New York. Perfect training weather.
The Velocity System vibrated in his pocket. Miles pulled it out, glancing around to make sure no one was watching.
TRAINING OBJECTIVES TODAY:
1. SPEED ENDURANCE WORK - MINIMUM 3x150m REPEATS
2. START MECHANICS REFINEMENT - 8x30m BLOCK STARTS
3. COLLECT COMPARATIVE DATA
Miles frowned at the last item. The System had been increasingly interested in gathering data since the outdoor update—not just on his performance, but on competitors. Was it now considering Kayla competition?
Before he could think on it further, a familiar voice called out.
"Early as usual, track star?"
Miles looked up to see Kayla walking through the park entrance, navy Central team backpack slung over one shoulder. She wore black leggings and a light blue quarter-zip that matched her running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in the same practical ponytail she wore for races.
"Just got here," Miles lied, sliding the System back into his pocket.
Kayla raised an eyebrow. "Your hair's different than it was on your story twenty minutes ago."
Miles unconsciously touched his hair. He'd spent more time than he cared to admit trying to get it right this morning. "Wind," he offered lamely.
"Mmhmm." Her smile took any sting out of the skepticism. "You scoped out the track yet?"
"Not bad for a public park," Miles replied as they walked toward the entrance. "Looks recently resurfaced."
"That's why I picked it," Kayla said. "Plus it's almost exactly halfway between our schools."
The track was empty except for an older man walking the outer lane. It was a standard 400 meters with faded lane markings and no-frills aluminum bleachers on one side. No high-tech timing systems or fancy starting blocks like at school, but the surface was smooth and springy underfoot.
"So," Kayla set her bag down on the first bleacher row. "What's your warmup routine?"
For the next fifteen minutes, they jogged side by side around the track, moving through dynamic stretches with the comfortable familiarity of two people who had performed these motions thousands of times. There was something strangely intimate about it—like sharing a language only they understood.
"Coach Torres has us doing these backward skip things now," Kayla demonstrated, moving sideways down the straightaway with exaggerated arm swings. "Says it activates the posterior chain better."
Miles tried it, feeling slightly uncoordinated. "Dormer would call this hipster training."
"Torres calls Dormer's methods prehistoric," Kayla laughed. "But they both get results."
As they finished their warmup, Miles pulled out his spikes. "What are we hitting first?"
"Speed work?" Kayla suggested. "My 200 opener is in two weeks."
Miles nodded, remembering the System's recommendations. "I need to work on my endurance for the last fifty."
"Because of King?" Kayla asked, lacing up her own spikes.
"You checked him out?"
"Had to see what all the fuss was about." She shrugged. "His 21.3 is legit fast, but Florida competition is different. Those guys run year-round."
Miles nodded. "The System says he fades in the last fifty."
"The what?"
Miles froze for a half-second, realizing his slip. "Uh, analysis system. Coach has us review race footage."
Kayla seemed to accept this. "Smart. I watched some of his races too. He goes out hard but definitely tightens up late."
They moved to the track, setting up at the 150-meter mark to run three-quarter curve repeats.
"Five reps, two minutes rest?" Miles suggested.
"Make it six," Kayla countered with a competitive glint in her eye.
They took turns counting down the start for each other. On Miles's first rep, he took off too aggressively, feeling the familiar burn in his quads as he rounded the curve. By the time he hit the homestretch, his form was deteriorating.
"You're dropping your right arm," Kayla called as he crossed their makeshift finish line. "And your head came back on the last twenty."
Miles bent over, hands on knees, catching his breath. "I felt it," he admitted.
When it was Kayla's turn, Miles watched her technique with a runner's eye. Her arm carriage was more compact than his, her knees driving with machine-like consistency even as fatigue set in.
"Your turnover is insane," he said as she finished, referring to how quickly her feet contacted the ground.
She grinned through heavy breaths. "Small person advantage."
As they continued through the repeats, Miles found himself implementing her feedback, focusing on keeping his arms driving straight rather than across his body when tired. By his third rep, the improvement was noticeable.
"Better," Kayla nodded. "Way more balanced."
Between their fifth and sixth reps, they both collapsed onto the infield grass, staring up at the sky and letting their heart rates recover.
"So what's your real beef with King?" Kayla asked, turning her head to look at him. "Besides the trash talk."
Miles considered the question. "I don't have beef with him. I don't even know him."
"But?"
"But..." Miles hesitated. "I guess I don't want to be a one-hit wonder. Nationals feels like it happened to someone else sometimes."
Kayla nodded slowly. "The post-championship blues. I get that."
"You do?"
"After I won state in middle school, I spent the whole next season afraid of losing. Ran tight, cautious." She plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between her fingers. "Finished fourth that year."
"What changed?"
"I stopped racing against my own reputation." She tossed the grass aside. "Started racing for myself again."
They lapsed into comfortable silence. Miles found himself studying her profile against the blue sky, the determined set of her jawline, the light freckles across her nose that only showed up close.
"What?" she asked, catching his gaze.
"Nothing," Miles replied quickly. "Just... that's good advice."
After completing their sixth repeat—both noticeably slower than their first—they moved on to start practice. Without blocks, they used a three-point stance, focusing on the first thirty meters.
"Johnson had me working on my arm drive," Miles explained, demonstrating the aggressive forward motion Marcus had emphasized. "Said I was leaving power on the table."
"You're actually using his advice," Kayla observed, watching Miles's technique with interest. "How many of those thirty start repetitions did you end up doing at home?"
Miles laughed, remembering how he'd told her about the grueling training session. "Pretty much every day since. Can't waste Olympic-level coaching, right?"
For the next half hour, they took turns analyzing each other's starts, offering feedback and making small adjustments. There was something different about learning from a peer rather than a coach—less pressure, more collaborative.
"Your first two steps are too long," Miles noted after one of Kayla's starts. "Johnson said shorter, quicker steps out of the blocks generate more power."
Kayla nodded, absorbing the feedback without defensiveness. On her next attempt, her acceleration was visibly improved.
"That felt faster," she admitted, jogging back to the starting point.
After eight reps each, they were both feeling the cumulative fatigue of the session. Miles checked his watch—they'd been training for nearly two hours.
"Water break?" he suggested.
They sat on the bottom bleacher, drinking from their water bottles and watching a few more people filter onto the track for weekend workouts.
"So," Kayla said after a moment, "you ready for outdoor?"
"Getting there," Miles replied. "It's different, though. The 200 feels short after focusing on the 300 all winter."
"But you're faster in the 200, right? Your 200 split from that 300 national record was crazy."
Miles shrugged. "Maybe. I haven't opened in it outdoors yet."
"You'll crush it," she said with such certainty that Miles felt a flush of confidence. "King's going to be the one posting excuses after racing you."
A comfortable silence fell between them. Miles watched a pair of runners circle the track, their strides mismatched but somehow in harmony.
"Can I ask you something?" Kayla said suddenly. "Do you ever think about college yet?"
The question caught Miles off guard. "College? I'm still a freshman."
"I know, but with your times..." She trailed off. "Scouts were talking about you at nationals."
"They were?"
Kayla nudged his shoulder. "Don't act surprised, national champ. Your 300 broke a record."
Miles considered this. The idea of college recruiting had seemed so distant, something for juniors and seniors. "Honestly, I haven't thought about it much."
"You should," Kayla said. "By junior year it gets intense. My cousin runs for Syracuse, said the recruiting process was more stressful than freshman year itself."
"What about you?" Miles asked. "You thinking about colleges already?"
"Top three are Oregon, USC, and Florida State," she answered without hesitation. "All have elite women's sprint programs."
"All far from New York," Miles observed, feeling an unexpected twinge at the thought.
Kayla met his eyes. "Track takes you where it takes you."
The moment stretched between them, weighted with something neither was ready to name.
"One more workout?" Miles asked, breaking the tension. "I want to try something."
They moved to the homestretch, where Miles explained a drill Marcus Johnson had shown him—falling starts designed to teach proper forward body lean.
"You basically stand with your feet together, then fall forward," he demonstrated, tipping forward until he had to catch himself with a step. "Then transition straight into a sprint."
Kayla tried it, laughing as she nearly fell on her first attempt. "This feels ridiculous."
"That's what I said," Miles grinned. "Try again, but don't fight the fall."
On her third attempt, she got it right, the fall transitioning smoothly into acceleration. "Oh!" Her eyes widened in understanding. "That's what it's supposed to feel like."
They practiced the drill several more times, each attempt getting smoother. During Kayla's last repetition, her ankle rolled slightly as she transitioned.
"You okay?" Miles asked as she hobbled a few steps.
"Fine," she winced. "Just twisted it a bit."
Without thinking, Miles offered his shoulder for support. She hesitated for just a moment before leaning against him, her arm sliding around his waist for balance.
"Thanks," she said, her face suddenly much closer to his.
Miles became intensely aware of everything at once—the light scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her side pressed against his, the fact that his hand had naturally found its place at her waist.
"No problem," he managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
They walked slowly toward the bleachers, maintaining their contact even though her limp had already improved. Neither acknowledged this fact.
As they reached their bags, a cool breeze swept across the field, bringing with it the first few drops of rain.
"Perfect timing," Kayla said, looking up at the darkening sky. "We've covered pretty much everything anyway."
Miles nodded, reluctantly dropping his arm as she pulled away to pack her spikes. "This was... helpful."
"Yeah," she agreed, zipping her bag. "We should do it again sometime."
"Definitely."
The rain began to fall more steadily as they walked toward the park exit. Without discussion, they both quickened their pace, soon breaking into a jog as the drops turned from scattered to constant.
By the time they reached the covered bus stop just outside the park, they were both laughing and half-soaked.
"So much for perfect training weather," Kayla said, wringing water from her ponytail.
"April in New York," Miles shrugged, running a hand through his dripping hair.
They stood close together under the narrow shelter, their shoulders touching as they watched the rain intensify. A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the drumming of raindrops on the plastic roof.
"My bus comes in ten minutes," Kayla said eventually, checking her phone.
Miles nodded, feeling the afternoon slipping away. There was something he wanted to say, but the words felt stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
"This was fun," he finally managed. "The training."
"Yeah," she agreed, turning to face him. "It was."
A raindrop fell from his hair onto his nose, and before he could wipe it away, Kayla reached up and brushed it off with her thumb, the gesture so casual and yet so intimate that Miles forgot to breathe for a moment.
Her hand lingered near his face a moment longer than necessary, then dropped back to her side. Miles found himself leaning forward slightly, uncertain but drawn by something magnetic between them.
The sudden honk of a bus horn shattered the moment. They both jumped, turning to see Kayla's bus approaching.
"That's me," she said, sounding almost surprised.
"Text me when you get home?" Miles asked, the question coming out before he could overthink it.
She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half-smile. "I will."
As the bus slowed to a stop, Kayla shouldered her bag and stepped toward the curb. Then, making what appeared to be a split-second decision, she turned back and quickly pressed her lips to Miles's cheek.
"Thanks for today," she said, and then she was gone, dashing through the rain and onto the bus before Miles could respond.
He stood frozen under the shelter, one hand unconsciously rising to the spot where her lips had been, watching as the bus pulled away. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
TRAINING SESSION DATA ANALYSIS COMPLETE
EFFICIENCY IMPROVEMENTS DETECTED
NEW TECHNIQUE VARIATIONS RECORDED
For once, Miles barely registered the System's update. His mind was replaying the feeling of Kayla's lips against his cheek, the casual way her hand had brushed his face, the weight of her body against his as they'd walked off the track.
The rain continued to fall, but Miles hardly noticed as he began the walk home, a smile fixed firmly on his face despite the weather. Outdoor season, he decided, was looking promising already.