Speed

Miles woke early Saturday morning, his body unexpectedly sore. Muscles he didn't even know he had were protesting yesterday's workout. He groaned as he rolled onto his side, checking his phone: 7:23 AM.

He could hear his mom moving around in the kitchen, probably getting ready for her weekend shift. Since Grandma had passed last year, Angela Carter had been picking up extra shifts at Mercy Hospital to cover the bills. As an ER nurse, she worked hours that meant Miles sometimes went days barely seeing her except in passing.

Unlocking his phone, he scrolled to his recent search history: "proper sprint mechanics," "how to use starting blocks," "track workout for beginners." He'd stayed up late watching YouTube videos of Olympic sprinters, studying their form, their starts, their finishes. Something about it felt right in a way that was both exciting and terrifying.

The interface hadn't appeared since yesterday's practice. Miles had tried to summon it last night, focusing on the sensation he'd felt on the track, but nothing happened. Maybe it only worked when he was actually running.

The smell of coffee drifted under his door. Miles pushed himself up with a wince and pulled on a T-shirt before heading to the kitchen.

His mother was leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone with one hand while sipping coffee with the other. Her scrubs were fresh and wrinkle-free, her curly hair pulled back into a neat bun. Despite the early hour and the exhaustion that seemed permanently etched around her eyes, Angela Carter always managed to look put-together.

"Hey, baby," she said without looking up. "You're up early for a Saturday."

"Couldn't sleep," Miles replied, opening the fridge to grab the orange juice.

"Hmm." She set her phone down and studied him as he poured a glass. "You're moving weird. You hurt or something?"

Miles hesitated. He hadn't planned on telling her about track yet, but his mom had an uncanny ability to detect when he was hiding something.

"Just sore from gym class," he lied, taking a long drink of juice to avoid meeting her eyes.

"Uh-huh." She clearly didn't believe him. "And that explains why Coach Mendez called me yesterday about you missing practice?"

Miles nearly choked on his juice. "He called you?"

"Mmhmm. Said you walked out and haven't been back."

"I had to get Zoe the keys," Miles protested. "She was locked out."

"That's what I told him." She took another sip of coffee. "But he also mentioned something else. Said you outran the whole team before you left. Said maybe you should try track."

Miles felt his stomach drop. His mother's expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. Track was a loaded subject in their house.

"I don't want to do track," he said automatically, the same response he'd given for years whenever the sport came up.

Angela sighed. "Miles, honey, at some point you're going to have to stop punishing yourself for being like your father."

"I'm not like him," Miles said, too quickly and too sharply.

"No, you're not," she agreed. "But you have his speed. Always have, since you could walk. Refusing to use a gift because of where it came from doesn't hurt him—it only hurts you."

Miles stared at the floor, unsure how to respond. His mother rarely brought up his father so directly.

"I've got a double shift today," she continued, gathering her keys and bag. "There's money for pizza on the counter. Make sure Zoe does her homework before screen time."

She kissed the top of his head as she passed. "And Miles? It's okay to be good at something, even if he was good at it too."

Before he could respond, she was out the door, leaving him alone with thoughts he'd been trying to avoid for years.

By mid-morning, Zoe was sprawled on the living room couch, alternating between her algebra homework and some show on her iPad. Miles paced the small apartment, restless. His body was sore, but his mind was racing, replaying yesterday's time trial, the feeling of flying down the track, the strangely satisfying grip of the spikes on the surface.

"Will you stop pacing?" Zoe complained, looking up from her tablet. "You're like a caged animal. Go outside or something."

Miles glanced out the window. It was a perfect fall day—clear blue sky, temperatures in the high 60s. Perfect running weather.

"I'm going to the park," he decided suddenly. "You good here for a while?"

Zoe rolled her eyes. "I'm twelve, not five. Just bring back snacks if you go by the store."

Miles grabbed his phone, keys, and the track spikes he'd hidden in his closet. He wasn't exactly sure why he was taking them—the park had no track, just a winding path that circled a small lake—but something compelled him to bring them anyway.

The park was a ten-minute walk from their apartment building. On Saturdays, it was usually busy with families, dog walkers, and pickup basketball games on the weathered courts near the entrance. Miles made his way toward the path that looped around the lake, finding a bench in a quieter area to change into his running shoes.

Miles took out the spikes and examined them, running his thumb along the spike plate. He'd brought them thinking he might try them on, but quickly realized how ridiculous that would be. These were designed specifically for a track surface - running in them on concrete would be a disaster.

"Andre would probably disown me on the spot if he saw me running in spikes on concrete," Miles muttered with a small smile. "Probably get banned from track before I even officially join."

He put them back in his bag and laced up his regular running shoes instead. He stood and did a few experimental strides before starting a light jog around the path, careful not to push too hard on his already sore muscles.

After half a loop, when he'd reached the far side of the lake where fewer people ventured, Miles felt the now-familiar tingle at the edge of his awareness.

DING

The blue interface materialized, floating just at the periphery of his vision.

*****

VELOCITY SYSTEM ONLINE

Current Missions:

1. Complete first full week of track practice [PENDING]

2. Improve block start technique [PENDING]

3. Learn proper sprint mechanics [PENDING]

Would you like to begin Mission 3 now?

[YES] [NO]

*****

Miles slowed to a walk, glancing around to make sure no one was watching him apparently talk to himself. "Yes," he whispered, feeling slightly ridiculous.

The interface expanded, filling more of his field of vision.

*****

MISSION ACTIVE: Learn proper sprint mechanics

Sprint mechanics are the foundation of speed. Today we will focus on three key elements:

1. Arm action

2. Knee drive

3. Foot strike

Complete the following drills to progress:

- 5x10m arm action focus

- 5x10m high knee drives

- 5x10m proper foot strike

Location: Find an open space away from observers

*****

Miles veered off the main path onto a grassy area partially hidden by a stand of trees. It wasn't ideal, but it would work. He set his phone on a nearby stump and started the first drill as instructed by the interface.

For the next hour, the Velocity System guided him through a series of exercises—some familiar from yesterday's practice, others completely new. With each repetition, the interface provided feedback, highlighting areas to improve.

*****

ARM ACTION: Elbows at 90 degrees

ERROR: Left arm crossing midline

CORRECTION: Drive straight back, not across body

*****

Miles adjusted, feeling the difference immediately. Each correction made his form slightly more efficient, slightly more powerful. By the time he finished the third set of drills, sweat was pouring down his face, but his movement felt noticeably smoother.

*****

DRILL SET COMPLETE

Form improvement detected

Mission progress: 35%

Continue? Rest recommended before next phase.

[CONTINUE] [REST]

*****

Miles selected "REST" and dropped onto the grass, breathing hard. As he caught his breath, he stared up at the clouds drifting overhead, thinking about what his mother had said that morning.

It's okay to be good at something, even if he was good at it too.

The problem was, Miles barely remembered his father as anything but a shadow. Marcus Carter had walked out when Miles was ten, Zoe just eight. The memories Miles did have were fragmented—his father's booming laugh, the smell of his cologne, watching from the bleachers as he coached high school runners.

What he remembered most clearly was the day his father left. No warning, no real explanation. Just a suitcase, a tearful goodbye, and a promise to "stay in touch" that had evaporated within months. The last Miles had heard, his father was coaching track at some college in California, starting a new life that apparently didn't have room for his old family.

His mother never spoke ill of Marcus, but Miles had seen her cry enough nights to form his own opinions. He'd sworn then that he would never be like his father—especially when it came to track, the thing Marcus had loved more than his own family.

Yet here he was, lying in the grass, training with supernatural track spikes, feeling more alive than he had in years.

The interface flickered back to full visibility.

*****

Rest period complete.

Begin next phase?

[YES] [NO]

*****

"Yes," Miles said, pushing himself to his feet. For the next phase, the system had him perform a series of more complex drills, including something called "wicket runs" that had him stepping over imaginary hurdles to practice proper stride length.

By the time the mission reached 70% completion, a small crowd had gathered at the nearby basketball courts, and Miles decided it was time to head home. He didn't need people seeing him running strange patterns and talking to himself.

*****

SESSION PAUSED

Current progress saved: 70%

Resume later to complete mission

*****

The interface faded, leaving Miles alone with his thoughts as he changed back into his regular shoes and started the walk home.

"So what's the deal with you and track?" Zoe asked that evening as they sat at the kitchen table eating the pizza Miles had ordered.

Miles nearly choked on his slice. "What?"

"I'm not stupid," Zoe said, giving him a pointed look. "You've been looking up track stuff on YouTube. You came back from the park all sweaty. And those weird shoes in your closet aren't for soccer."

Miles sighed. His sister missed nothing. "It's not a big deal. Just trying something new."

"Because of Dad?" Zoe pressed.

Miles set down his pizza, appetite suddenly gone. "Why would you think that?"

Zoe shrugged, but her eyes were serious. "You've been weird about track forever because of him. And now suddenly you're into it? Something changed."

Sometimes Miles forgot how perceptive his little sister could be. At twelve, she often saw things more clearly than he did.

"I'm just trying it out," he said finally. "Coach at school thinks I might be good."

"You are good," Zoe said matter-of-factly. "Remember the 5K fundraiser for Grandma? You finished like fifteen minutes before anyone else, and you weren't even trying."

Miles did remember. It had been two years ago, shortly after their grandmother's cancer diagnosis. The school had organized a charity run, and Miles had participated reluctantly. He'd run without thinking, without trying to win, just letting his mind wander—and had crossed the finish line so far ahead of everyone else that the volunteers weren't even ready for him.

"That was different," Miles muttered.

"Why? Because you weren't on a track?" Zoe rolled her eyes. "You're so weird about this."

She was right, and Miles knew it. His resistance to track had always been more about his father than about the sport itself.

"Mom wouldn't care, you know," Zoe continued, reaching for another slice. "She'd probably be happy you found something you like."

"I didn't say I liked it," Miles protested.

Zoe just raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Whatever. Just don't make it your whole personality. Nobody likes that guy."

Later that night, Miles sat on his bed, scrolling through his phone. Without really thinking about it, he opened Instagram and typed "Marcus Carter track" into the search bar.

His father's profile appeared immediately: @CoachCarterTC. The profile picture showed a man in his early forties, still fit, with the same sharp jawline and intense eyes that Miles saw every time he looked in the mirror. The bio read: "Head Track Coach, Pacific Coast University. Developing champions on and off the track."

Miles had never followed his father on social media—had deliberately avoided seeing updates about his life. But now, curiosity overrode his usual resistance. He tapped on the profile.

The feed was mostly track-related: athletes in mid-stride, motivational quotes, team celebrations. Miles scrolled quickly, not wanting to linger but unable to stop himself from looking. Then he froze on a post from three months ago.

It was a picture of his father with a woman and a young boy, maybe five years old. They were at the beach, all smiles and sunshine. The caption read: "Family day with my champions."

Miles felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. His father had a new family. A new son. The knowledge shouldn't have hurt—it had been four years, after all—but it did. It burned in a way Miles hadn't expected.

He closed the app and tossed his phone onto the bed beside him, trying to process what he'd seen. Part of him had always hoped, somewhere deep down, that his father had left because of some personal crisis, some midlife breakdown that he might someday recover from and return. But the truth was simpler and harder: Marcus Carter had chosen to start over, to create a new family that didn't include Miles and Zoe.

Miles lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The anger he'd carried for years felt different now—sharper in some ways, duller in others. His father wasn't coming back. He had moved on completely.

Which meant, perhaps, that Miles could move on too. Not by forgetting, but by reclaiming something his father had taken from him: the pure joy of running fast, of pushing his body to its limits, of discovering what he was truly capable of.

Almost on cue, the interface flickered to life above him.

*****

VELOCITY SYSTEM: USER STATUS UPDATE

Miles Carter - Analysis Complete

You have experienced emotional distress related to family history. This may impact performance metrics. Recommended action: Process emotions through physical activity.

Would you like to resume Mission 3 tomorrow?

[YES] [NO]

*****

"Yes," Miles whispered into the darkness of his room. Tomorrow he would run—not because his father had been a runner, but because he, Miles, was one too. And maybe, just maybe, he could be better at it than Marcus Carter ever was.

The system seemed to pulse in acknowledgment before fading away. Miles closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to imagine a future where track wasn't just his father's abandoned legacy, but his own path forward.

As he drifted toward sleep, one thought remained: Monday's practice couldn't come soon enough.