The Coach

Miles's alarm blared at 6:15 AM, same as every school day. He rolled over, slapping at his phone to silence it before the noise woke Zoe in the next room. The last thing he needed was his sister banging on the wall, complaining about his "obnoxious" alarm.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the events of yesterday flooding back. The race. The strange blue interface. The words "Elite Untapped Potential" floating in front of him. Had he dreamed the whole thing?

Miles reached for his phone, checking his notifications. Nothing from Coach Mendez or the soccer team. No weird emails about track tryouts. Maybe he really had imagined it all.

The apartment was quiet. Mom had probably crashed around 3 AM after her double shift and wouldn't be up until after they left for school. Miles pulled on a faded navy hoodie and the same jeans he'd worn twice this week already, then padded to the kitchen to make breakfast.

By the time Zoe emerged from her room, hair wrapped in a satin bonnet and eyes still half-closed, Miles had two bowls of cereal and a couple of bananas on the table.

"You're weirdly functional this morning," Zoe mumbled, sliding into her chair.

"One of us has to be," Miles replied, pushing her bowl closer to her. "Hurry up, bus comes in twenty."

"You know," Zoe said around a mouthful of cereal, "you could try out for debate team instead of soccer. You're annoying enough."

Miles flicked a drop of milk at her, which she dodged with practiced ease.

Fifteen minutes later, they were walking the three blocks to the bus stop, Zoe now fully awake and chattering about her English project. Miles half-listened, his mind drifting back to that strange blue glow, the sensation of flying past Jason like he was standing still.

"...and Ms. Patterson said mine was the best in the class, but you're not even listening, are you?" Zoe was staring at him, eyebrows raised.

"Sorry," Miles said. "Just thinking."

"About how you bailed on soccer practice yesterday? Mom's gonna flip when Coach Mendez calls her."

Miles froze. "How did you—"

"Please," Zoe rolled her eyes. "Jason's little brother is in my grade. Everyone's talking about how you embarrassed the team captain and then dipped. Even if it was to bring me the keys."

Before Miles could respond, the bus rounded the corner, and the conversation was pushed aside in the rush to board.

Westridge High School was a sprawling brick building that had seen better days. The west wing was newer, built after a fire in the 90s, but the rest dated back to the 60s—all narrow hallways, flickering fluorescent lights, and lockers that required the perfect combination of jiggling and shoulder-checking to open.

Miles's locker was on the second floor, sandwiched between the chemistry labs and the faculty lounge, which meant the hall always smelled like a mix of chemicals and burnt coffee. He was working his lock when someone slammed into him from behind, nearly knocking him into the metal door.

"Carter!" Sheldon Gray wrapped a long arm around Miles's shoulders. At six-foot-two, Shelly towered over most of their freshman class, a fact that had earned him an immediate spot on the JV basketball team. "Heard you dusted Jason Healy yesterday. That true?"

Miles shrugged out from under Shelly's arm. "It wasn't that big a deal."

"Not what I heard," Shelly grinned, leaning against the neighboring locker. "Everyone's saying you made him look like he was standing still."

"Since when do you listen to soccer drama?"

"Since my boy becomes the talk of the school." Shelly's grin widened. "Jason's been saying you cheated or whatever."

"How do you cheat at running?" Another voice joined the conversation as Damilola Adeyemi approached, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "Like, it's literally just legs."

"Facts," Shelly nodded. "Which is why everyone knows Jason's just salty."

Dami, shorter and stockier than both Miles and Shelly, had been Miles's friend since sixth grade when they were paired for a science project. Unlike Shelly, who lived and breathed basketball, Dami avoided organized sports entirely, preferring to spend his time building computers, arguing with people online about anime, or—more often than not—charming his way into upperclassmen parties. For someone who avoided athletic competition, Dami had no problem with social competition, always seeming to know where the action was happening on weekends.

"Whatever," Miles said, finally getting his locker open. "I'm probably off the team anyway after walking out."

"Good," Dami said flatly. "Coach Mendez is trash. You should've quit ages ago."

The first bell rang, signaling five minutes until homeroom.

"You guys go ahead," Miles told them, pulling books from his locker. "I've gotta stop by the office about my schedule."

As his friends headed off down the hall, Miles found himself staring at his reflection in the small magnetic mirror inside his locker door. He reached up and loosened the hair tie holding his dreads back, letting them fall forward to frame his face. His mom was always telling him to pull them back, that he had "too nice a face to hide," but sometimes he preferred the curtain they created between him and the world.

He pushed them aside just enough to see his reflection—those pitch-black eyes and sharp jawline staring back at him. His face had always attracted attention, with its almost too-perfect symmetry that made him uncomfortable when girls stared a beat too long. But what he saw most was what his mom always said: that he was the spitting image of his father.

That was the problem, wasn't it? Every time Miles looked in the mirror, his father looked back. And now this—this speed, this strange system, another thing connecting him to the man who walked out.

Miles slammed his locker shut harder than necessary, earning a stern look from Mr. Rivera, the chemistry teacher passing by. He mumbled an apology and headed for homeroom, pushing thoughts of his father, the system, and yesterday's race firmly from his mind.

By lunchtime, Miles had successfully avoided thinking about any of it. He'd even managed to dodge Jason in the hallway between second and third period, ducking into the bathroom when he spotted the soccer captain's distinctive red backpack coming his way.

The cafeteria was packed, as usual, a cacophony of voices and clattering trays. Miles spotted Shelly's head above the crowd, making his way to their usual table in the corner by the windows.

"Yo," Shelly greeted him as Miles set his tray down. "You hear about the chem test next week? Rivera's making it worth like twenty percent of our grade."

"Seriously?" Miles groaned. Chemistry was his worst subject. "I'm barely pulling a C as it is."

"Well, maybe if you actually studied instead of playing FIFA all night," Dami said, sliding in across from them with his packed lunch. His mom was Nigerian and insisted that cafeteria food was "poison." Looking at the questionable pizza on Miles's tray, Miles couldn't entirely disagree.

"Says the guy who was out until 2 AM at Kira Johnson's party," Miles shot back. "How'd you even get invited to a junior's party anyway?"

Dami shrugged, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "I know people who know people. Plus, I fixed her brother's gaming PC last month. Anyway, you should've come. There were actual girls there, not just your FIFA teammates."

"Speaking of actual teams," Shelly said, leaning in conspiratorially, "coach wants me to start working out with the varsity squad on Thursdays. Said I might even dress for the game against Madison next month."

"No way. That's huge," Miles said, genuinely happy for his friend. Shelly had been playing basketball since he could walk, and even Miles, who knew next to nothing about the sport, could tell he was good.

"Yeah, well," Shelly shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. "It's just Thursdays for now."

"Still," Dami pointed out, "freshman on varsity? That's cold."

The conversation shifted to classes, weekend plans, and the latest school drama, with no mention of soccer or yesterday's incident. Miles felt himself finally relaxing, the knot of tension in his shoulders loosening slightly.

Until seventh period.

Global Studies was Miles's last class of the day, a subject he usually enjoyed. Mr. Dormer was one of the few teachers who actually made history interesting, peppering his lectures with random facts and occasionally veering off on tangents about obscure historical figures that somehow still connected back to the main topic.

Today, Mr. Dormer was in the middle of a lesson on ancient Greece when he paused, a gleam in his eye that Miles had come to recognize as the prelude to one of his famous tangents.

"You know," Mr. Dormer said, setting down his chalk (he was one of the only teachers who still insisted on using a chalkboard instead of the SmartBoards), "the ancient Olympics weren't just about honoring the gods. They were about showcasing human excellence. The Greeks believed physical perfection was a reflection of spiritual and intellectual perfection."

He paced in front of the board, his enthusiasm evident in every movement. Mr. Dormer was in his early thirties, with the lean build of a distance runner and the energetic demeanor of someone who drank too much coffee.

"The sprinters—the stadion runners—were particularly celebrated," he continued. "They ran naked, you know. Can you imagine? The 200-meter dash in your birthday suit?"

The class erupted in giggles, exactly as Mr. Dormer had planned. He had a knack for keeping them engaged.

"But in all seriousness," he said once the laughter died down, "track and field is perhaps our most direct connection to those ancient games. The pursuit of pure speed, the testing of human limits."

His eyes scanned the classroom, landing on Miles. "Speaking of which, I heard an interesting story from Coach Mendez today. About a certain freshman outrunning the varsity soccer captain."

Miles felt his face grow hot as twenty-four pairs of eyes turned to stare at him.

"I also happen to coach the track team," Mr. Dormer said casually, as if this were just another historical tangent and not a direct address to Miles. "And we're holding tryouts today after school."

Miles slunk lower in his seat, wishing for the power of invisibility. This couldn't be happening.

"Carter," Mr. Dormer said, using Miles's last name the way coaches do, "see me after class, would you?"

The bell couldn't ring fast enough. When it finally did, Miles considered making a break for it, but Mr. Dormer was already at his desk, watching him expectantly.

"I'm not interested in track," Miles said bluntly as he approached the desk, cutting straight to what he knew was coming.

Mr. Dormer raised an eyebrow. "You haven't even heard my pitch yet."

"I don't need to. I'm not a runner."

"Coach Mendez says differently. Said you ran the hundred in what would've been about 11.2 without even trying. That's collegiate level speed for someone your age."

Miles shifted uncomfortably. "He's exaggerating."

"Maybe," Mr. Dormer conceded, "but I'd like to see for myself." He stood up and walked to a closet at the back of the classroom. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"What?"

"Shoe size," Mr. Dormer repeated patiently, opening the closet to reveal a rack of track spikes in various sizes.

"Uh, 10," Miles said, confused.

Mr. Dormer pulled out a pair of white Nike spikes with blue accents. "These should fit. They're barely used—belonged to a senior who graduated last year."

He held them out to Miles, who made no move to take them.

"Look," Mr. Dormer said, his tone shifting to something more serious. "I'm not going to pressure you. If you're not interested, you're not interested. But talent like yours doesn't come along often, and..." he hesitated, "let's just say I've seen too many kids with potential never give themselves a chance to see what they could become."

Something in his voice resonated with Miles. The sincerity, maybe. Or the lack of the usual coach bravado.

"Just come to tryouts today," Mr. Dormer pressed gently. "See what it's like. If you hate it, I'll never bring it up again."

Miles looked at the spikes, then back at Mr. Dormer. Against his better judgment, he reached out and took them.

"Tryouts are at 3:30 on the track," Mr. Dormer said, clearly trying to contain his excitement. "Don't be late."

As Miles left the classroom, shoes in hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just stepped onto a path he'd spent his entire life avoiding.