First Steps

Miles stood at his locker after the final bell, staring at the white Nike spikes he'd shoved inside. They seemed to glow against his dark backpack, impossible to ignore.

Just walk away. Email Dormer tomorrow with some excuse.

But his fingers closed around the shoes anyway, and he found himself slipping them into his backpack before he could change his mind.

The hallway emptied quickly as usual—everyone rushing to catch buses or make it to after-school activities. Miles took his time, each step toward the back exit feeling like a small betrayal of the promise he'd made to himself years ago. No track. Never track.

He pushed open the double doors and squinted against the afternoon sun. The track circled the football field behind the school, a faded red oval where—if his mom was to be believed—his father had once broken school records.

A small group had already gathered near the starting line. Miles counted about fifteen students, mostly guys with a few girls mixed in. Some were clearly veterans—lean, confident, wearing team gear from previous seasons. Others looked like nervous freshmen, stealing glances at the more experienced runners.

Miles hung back near the bleachers, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look in his jeans and hoodie. He should just leave now, before anyone noticed—

"You came."

Miles turned to find Mr. Dormer approaching, clipboard in hand, dressed in a Westridge Track windbreaker and running shorts.

"Still not sure why," Miles admitted.

"Because you're curious," Mr. Dormer said with a knowing smile. "Go change in the locker room. We've got team shorts and shirts if you need them."

"I'm just watching today," Miles said quickly.

Mr. Dormer raised an eyebrow. "The shoes in your backpack suggest otherwise."

Miles felt heat rise to his face. "Fine. But I'm not promising anything."

The locker room was empty except for a tall Black guy changing near the back. He glanced up as Miles entered, giving him a quick once-over before returning to lacing up his spikes.

Miles found an empty bench and pulled out the Nikes, turning them over in his hands. They looked expensive—the kind of shoes his mom would have to work an extra shift to afford. He felt a twinge of guilt for even considering this.

She'd want you to try, though.

He changed quickly, keeping on his hoodie but swapping his jeans for the basketball shorts he'd had in his gym bag. The spikes felt strange on his feet—lighter than regular shoes, with a completely different balance. He took a few experimental steps and nearly rolled his ankle.

"First time in spikes?" The tall guy was watching him, an amused expression on his face.

"That obvious?" Miles asked.

"Yeah. You're walking like a baby deer." The guy approached, extending his hand. "Andre Wilson, team captain."

Miles shook his hand. "Miles Carter."

"Carter..." Andre repeated, eyes narrowing slightly. "Any relation to Marcus Carter?"

Miles felt his stomach tighten. Of course. Even here, he couldn't escape his father's shadow.

"He's my dad," Miles answered flatly.

Andre's eyes widened. "For real? Your dad was a legend here. Still holds the school record in the 400."

"So I've heard." Miles shouldered his bag, eager to end the conversation.

"Dormer's been talking about you," Andre continued as they walked toward the exit. "Said you might be the real deal."

Miles didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't the "real deal" at anything, as far as he was concerned. He was just a kid who happened to outrun some soccer players. A kid who'd spent years trying not to be his father's son.

Outside, the team had grown to about twenty runners now stretching in a loose circle. Mr. Dormer spotted them and waved them over.

"Everyone, quick announcement," he called. "We've got a potential new teammate joining us today. This is Miles Carter, freshman."

Miles felt all eyes turn to him, sizing him up, making judgments. A few murmurs rippled through the group at his last name.

"Carter, like Marcus Carter?" someone asked.

"Alright, let's get started," Mr. Dormer said, sparing Miles from having to respond. "Standard warm-up—two easy laps, dynamic stretches, then form drills."

The group broke into motion, jogging toward the track. Miles hesitated, then followed, staying toward the back of the pack. His spikes clicked awkwardly against the concrete path before they reached the track surface.

The first few strides on the track felt strange. The spikes gripped differently than regular shoes, and Miles had to adjust his gait. But by the first curve, something started to click. His body seemed to understand what to do even if his mind didn't.

DING

Miles nearly stumbled as the familiar sound echoed in his head. The blue interface flickered at the edge of his vision, but not fully materializing. He blinked hard and kept running, hoping no one had noticed his misstep.

After two laps, the team gathered again for stretches. Miles tried to follow along, copying Andre's movements when he wasn't sure what to do. The drills that followed were completely foreign to him—high knees, butt kicks, something called "A-skips" that had him feeling completely uncoordinated.

"Don't worry about getting it perfect," Mr. Dormer said quietly as he passed. "Just get the blood flowing."

Next came something called block starts. The team lined up at a rack of starting blocks—metal contraptions that Miles had seen on TV during the Olympics but never up close.

"Wilson, show us how it's done," Mr. Dormer called.

Andre stepped forward, adjusting the blocks with practiced ease. He settled into position—hands behind the line, body coiled like a spring. When Mr. Dormer's whistle blew, he exploded forward with a power that made Miles's eyebrows raise.

"That's how it's done," Mr. Dormer said approvingly. "Everyone pair up and run through starts. Newcomers, just watch the first few rounds."

Miles found himself partnered with a sophomore named Trey, who gave him a skeptical look. "You ever done blocks before?"

"Nope," Miles admitted.

"Just watch me first. It's all about the explosion."

Miles nodded, watching as Trey demonstrated. He was good, but nothing like Andre. When it was Miles's turn, he awkwardly positioned himself in the blocks, feeling ridiculous.

"Back foot pressure against the rear block," Mr. Dormer called, coming over to help. "Front knee at about 90 degrees. Hands behind the line, weight forward."

Miles adjusted, feeling completely unnatural.

"On your marks," Mr. Dormer said.

Miles tensed.

"Set."

He raised his hips, heart pounding.

The whistle blew, and Miles pushed off. His first few steps were a disaster—arms flailing, body too upright. But by his fifth stride, something clicked again. His body found its rhythm, and he accelerated past where Trey was waiting at the 30-meter mark.

"Whoa," Trey said as Miles slowed down. "Your start was trash, but once you got going..." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Carter!" Mr. Dormer called from behind them. "Let's see that again, but this time I'll fix your start position."

Miles jogged back, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and something else—something that felt dangerously like excitement.

Mr. Dormer adjusted Miles's position in the blocks, physically moving his legs and arms into proper alignment.

"Keep your head down," he instructed. "First few steps, you're driving, not running. Eyes on the track about five meters ahead. Drive your arms like pistons."

Miles nodded, trying to absorb it all.

"On your marks."

Miles settled into position.

"Set."

He raised his hips, focusing on the track ahead.

DING

The blue interface flickered again, but this time a single line of text appeared in his vision:

*****

FORM ANALYSIS ACTIVATED

*****

The whistle blew, and Miles exploded forward, applying the corrections Mr. Dormer had given him. Everything slowed down for a moment—he could feel where his weight was distributed, could sense the angle of his body, could almost see the invisible line he was supposed to follow.

His form was still far from perfect, but it was dramatically better than his first attempt. By ten meters, he was flying, and by thirty, he was moving at a speed that drew murmurs from the small crowd of onlookers.

He slowed to a stop and turned back to see Mr. Dormer staring at him with a mix of surprise and satisfaction.

"Now that," Mr. Dormer said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "is what natural talent looks like."

Several team members exchanged glances. Andre was watching with newfound interest, arms crossed over his chest.

"Let's move on to some light interval work," Mr. Dormer continued. "We'll split into groups by event focus. Sprinters with Wilson, distance with me, field events with Coach Lin."

Miles hesitated, not knowing where to go.

"Carter, you're with the sprinters today," Mr. Dormer said, making the decision for him.

Andre waved him over to where five other runners were gathering.

"Alright, sprint crew," Andre announced. "Six 60-meter runs at 80 percent. Ninety seconds rest between. New guy, just try to keep up."

Miles nodded, feeling both out of place and weirdly at home at the same time. This whole scene should have felt foreign—the specialized shoes, the technical language, the very sport his father had excelled in. Yet something about it felt right in a way that soccer never had.

As they lined up for the first interval, Miles felt the interface flicker again. This time, he didn't fight it. Instead, he let it settle into the periphery of his vision, a faint blue glow that seemed to analyze every aspect of his form.

The whistle blew, and they were off. Miles held back slightly, trying to match Andre's "80 percent" pace. Even at what felt like reduced effort, he found himself pulling even with runners who clearly had years of experience.

*****

FORM CORRECTION: ARM SWING TOO WIDE

ANKLE MOBILITY RESTRICTED

STRIDE LENGTH OPTIMAL

*****

The interface was analyzing his form in real time. Miles made a subtle adjustment to his arm swing, tucking his elbows in slightly, and immediately felt the difference.

By the fourth 60-meter run, Miles was breathing hard but not struggling. The others were showing more signs of fatigue—except Andre, who maintained the same smooth, powerful stride throughout.

After the sixth and final interval, the group gathered, breathing heavily.

"Not bad, new guy," a junior named Eric said, giving Miles a fist bump. "You've got wheels."

"Thanks," Miles replied, surprised by the camaraderie.

Andre was watching him with a calculating expression. "You sure you've never run track before?"

"Positive," Miles said.

"Huh." Andre took a long drink from his water bottle. "Well, you're a natural then."

The sprinters rejoined the main group, where Mr. Dormer was organizing the final activity.

"We'll finish with a 200-meter time trial," he announced. "Just to get a baseline for everyone. Three heats, ranked by estimated times. Newcomers in the first heat."

Miles lined up with four others, including Trey from earlier and three other freshmen who looked even more nervous than he felt.

"Just run your own race," Mr. Dormer advised as they got into position. "This isn't about winning; it's about establishing where you're starting from."

Miles settled into the blocks, feeling slightly more comfortable this time. The interface brightened slightly in his peripheral vision.

*****

MISSION AVAILABLE:

Break 24 seconds in 200m time trial

Reward: +10 Velocity Points

*****

His heart rate spiked. A mission? With points? This thing really was like a video game.

"Runners, on your marks!"

Miles focused, applying what he'd learned so far.

"Set!"

He raised his hips, eyes fixed on the track ahead.

The whistle blew, and Miles exploded out of the blocks. This time, his start was cleaner, his first few steps more powerful. He hit the curve of the track and leaned into it slightly as he'd seen Andre do.

The interface continued providing real-time feedback, which Miles instinctively incorporated. By the halfway point, he had opened up a substantial lead on the rest of the heat.

As he entered the final straight, fatigue began to set in. His legs burned, his lungs worked overtime. But something within him refused to slow down.

Carter men were born to fly.

The words echoed in his mind as he drove toward the finish line. He crossed it several strides ahead of the second-place runner, then gradually slowed to a jog, then a walk, his chest heaving.

Mr. Dormer was staring at his stopwatch, then looking at Miles, then back at his watch.

"What?" Miles asked, walking over, still trying to catch his breath.

Mr. Dormer showed him the time: 23.47.

"That's... good?" Miles asked.

Andre, who had been watching nearby, let out a low whistle. "That's not just good. That's the fastest freshman time I've ever seen here."

Miles felt a strange mix of pride and unease. The interface flickered in his vision:

*****

MISSION COMPLETED: Break 24 seconds in 200m

+10 Velocity Points Awarded

Current Total: 10 VP

*****

"Alright, second heat, you're up," Mr. Dormer called, but his eyes lingered on Miles with newfound intensity.

As the other heats ran their time trials, Miles stood off to the side, processing what had just happened. He'd expected to feel out of place, awkward, maybe even resentful of being here. Instead, he felt... right. Like he'd found something that made sense in a way little else did.

When Andre ran in the final heat, Miles watched his form closely. The team captain clocked 22.05, still significantly faster than Miles, but not by as much as should have been possible given their experience gap.

After the time trials, the team gathered for a cooldown and brief meeting.

"Good work today, everyone," Mr. Dormer said. "Official team roster will be posted tomorrow, but I think it's safe to say we've got some exciting talent this year." His eyes found Miles briefly before moving on. "Remember, first official practice is Monday. Get plenty of rest this weekend—we hit it hard next week."

As the team dispersed, Andre approached Miles. "You coming back Monday?"

Miles hesitated. He'd told himself this was just a one-time thing, just to get Mr. Dormer off his back. But the feeling he'd had on the track, the pure sensation of speed and power...

"Yeah," he found himself saying. "I think I am."

Andre nodded approvingly. "Good. Team needs some fresh blood." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Your dad would be proud, you know."

Miles felt the familiar tightness in his chest at the mention of his father. "Maybe," he said noncommittally.

As he headed back to the locker room, the interface reappeared fully in his vision:

*****

VELOCITY SYSTEM STATUS UPDATE

User: Miles Carter

Age: 14

Talent Assessment: Grade-A (Elite Untapped Potential)

Velocity Points: 10

ATTRIBUTES:

→ Acceleration: A- (Natural gift)

→ Top Speed: A (Exceptional)

→ Endurance: C+ (Undeveloped)

→ Form/Technique: D+ → D++ (Slight improvement)

→ Race Strategy: F (Nonexistent)

→ Mental Fortitude: C (Untested)

→ Recovery Rate: B+ (Above average)

NEW MISSIONS AVAILABLE:

1. Complete first full week of track practice

2. Improve block start technique

3. Learn proper sprint mechanics

VELOCITY SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE

*****

Miles blinked, and the interface faded. He looked around to make sure no one had noticed him staring at seemingly nothing.

In the locker room, he changed back into his regular clothes, carefully placing the spikes in his backpack. They no longer felt foreign—they already felt like they were becoming a part of him.

As he headed home, his phone buzzed with a text from Zoe:

"where r u? dinner's getting cold"

Miles typed "omw" but his phone instantly autocorrected it to "On my way!" He cringed at the formality but sent it anyway, adding: "got held up at school."

He wasn't ready to tell her—or anyone—about track yet. Not until he figured out what it meant. Not until he understood why, despite everything, it felt so right.

One thing was certain, though: he would be back on Monday. Whatever this system was, whatever strange path he was starting down, Miles couldn't deny the feeling that had surged through him on that track.

For the first time in years, he'd felt something like purpose.