First Meet

Miles sat in the back of the team bus, earbuds in, watching the world slide by outside the window. His knee bounced with nervous energy as they approached Central High School. The Velocity System had been quiet all morning, almost as if it knew today wasn't about training but performance.

Andre dropped into the empty seat beside him, nudging Miles with his elbow. "First meet jitters?"

Miles pulled out one earbud. "That obvious?"

"Your leg's about to drill through the floor." Andre grinned. "Everyone's nervous their first time. Just remember what Coach says—it's all practice until Districts."

Miles nodded, not entirely convinced. He'd spent last night researching indoor track meets on YouTube, trying to prepare himself for what to expect. The Velocity System had offered a mission—"Complete your first 60m race under 7.2 seconds"—but he'd brushed it aside. He didn't need the added pressure.

"We're here," Andre announced as the bus rolled to a stop in front of Central's athletic complex.

Miles followed the team off the bus, the January chill cutting through his track warm-ups. He clutched his gym bag, which contained his new uniform—something he'd avoided looking at until this morning.

"Damn," he muttered when he'd finally unfolded it. The shorts were shorter than anything he'd worn since elementary school, and the jersey was basically a tank top. Not much coverage for a winter sport.

Central's fieldhouse loomed ahead—larger and newer than Westridge's aging gym. Inside, the warmth hit him immediately, along with the familiar scent of athletic tape and sweat. The noise level surprised him—dozens of conversations, laughter, shoes squeaking on polished floors, and officials calling out instructions all echoed in the cavernous space.

"Impressive, right?" Coach Dormer appeared beside him. "Central's track program got a major donor five years back. Everything here is state-of-the-art."

Miles took in the six-lane indoor track with its banked curves and bright blue surface. It looked fast. In the center, jumpers were practicing approaches and hurdles were being set up.

"Team, over here!" Coach called, and the Westridge squad gathered around him. "Girls' events start in thirty minutes, boys after that. Warm-up area is over there." He pointed to a corner where athletes were already jogging and stretching. "Everyone should be warmed up at least thirty minutes before your first event. Miles, Andre—you two are in the 60 and 200 today, plus the 4x200 relay."

Coach reviewed the schedule one more time before dismissing them. Miles glanced at the heat sheets posted on the wall nearby. Seeing his name in print made this all feel suddenly real.

"Alright, get changed and stay warm," Coach Dormer said, clapping his hands together. "And remember—"

"It's all practice until Districts," the team finished in unison.

In the locker room, Miles stowed his gear in an empty locker. Everyone kept their warmups on—standard procedure until it was time to race.

"First meet?" Trey asked, adjusting his bag.

"That obvious?"

"You look like you're heading to your own funeral." Trey laughed. "Relax, you'll be fine."

Miles nodded, tucking his dreads back into a tight bun before following his teammates out. His track uniform was safely tucked in his bag—he wouldn't need to change until his event was called.

"Coach says we don't take off our sweats until right before our race," Andre explained, seeing Miles glance at his bag. "Keeps the muscles warm."

"Got it," Miles said, relieved he wouldn't have to be in the uniform any longer than necessary.

At least Shelly and Dami aren't here to see this whole scene, he thought, grateful his friends were busy and couldn't make it.

As they walked through the fieldhouse, Miles noticed several heads turn in his direction. One girl whispered something to her friend, both of them glancing at him before quickly looking away.

"Told you," Trey said, appearing beside him. "That face of yours is like a magnet."

Miles smiled and shook his head. "I'm trying to focus here."

"Nobody said you weren't. But a confidence boost never hurts before racing."

They found a spot in the bleachers where the Westridge team was setting up camp. Miles sat and began to check his spikes, making sure they were ready for later, trying to focus on the task rather than the occasional glances thrown his way. He pushed his dreads aside just enough to see around him, but kept them close enough to provide that familiar shield between him and the stares.

Just focus on the track, he told himself. You're here to run, not to be looked at.

A small vibration from his phone drew his attention.

[Velocity System: Initial scan complete. Host body experiencing elevated heart rate and cortisol levels. Recommendation: Focus on controlled breathing. 4 counts in, 4 counts hold, 4 counts out.]

For once, he appreciated the System's advice. He closed his eyes and followed the breathing pattern, feeling some of the tension release.

[Velocity System: Heart rate stabilizing. Performance metrics indicate optimal functionality despite neurological stress. Status: Race Ready]

Miles opened his eyes and scanned the fieldhouse again. The place was starting to fill up now—parents, students, and coaches from both schools finding seats in the bleachers. He spotted Coach Dormer talking animatedly with a man in a Central High jacket, likely their coach.

"That's Walsh," Andre said, following Miles's gaze. "Central's head coach. He and Dormer go way back—rivals since college."

"Is Central good?" Miles asked.

"Their girls' team is state-ranked. Boys are decent—especially in distance. Their best sprinter graduated last year, though." Andre stretched his arms overhead. "Should be an interesting matchup for us."

The officials began the meet with girls' hurdles, and Miles watched with newfound appreciation for the technical aspects of the event. The System occasionally offered commentary in his vision:

[Note efficient hip position over barriers. Knee drive optimal at 90 degrees. Application to sprint mechanics: similar explosive power required.]

As more events unfolded, Miles found himself growing calmer, absorbed in watching the competitors. The rhythmic pattern of the races, the cheers from the crowd, the officials' voices over the speakers—it all created a strangely comforting atmosphere.

That changed when he heard: "First call for boys' 60-meter dash. Competitors report to clerk of course."

Miles felt his stomach drop. Andre stood, shaking out his legs.

"That's us," he said, extending a hand to pull Miles up. "Time to get ready."

Miles took the offered hand and rose, feeling dozens of eyes turn toward them as they gathered their gear. Andre moved with the confidence of someone who belonged on this track, and Miles, despite his nerves, found himself matching that stride.

"Carter?" called out a voice from the Central team. "Marcus Carter's kid?"

Miles froze momentarily before continuing forward, not acknowledging the question.

Andre looked at him questioningly, but Miles just shook his head slightly. "Later," he mouthed.

They headed toward the clerk's table, ready to check in for their heat.

The clerk checked their names off the list. "Heat two, line up after the first heat races. You'll be in lane four, Carter."

"Got it," Miles replied, turning back toward the team area.

"Time to change," Andre said. "We're up soon."

Miles nodded and grabbed his bag, heading to the bathroom to change. He pulled on his compression shorts and the tank-style top, then put his warmups back on over the uniform—standard procedure to keep muscles warm until the very last moment. His spikes went into his bag for now; he'd put them on just before his race.

As he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he adjusted his Westridge tracksuit. The compression uniform underneath was significantly tighter and shorter than he'd expected, but at least it would remain covered until he was on the track.

Just focus on the race, he reminded himself. This is about performance.

When he emerged, Andre was already dressed in his identical uniform with warmups over it, looking completely at ease.

"Ready?" Andre asked, adjusting his jacket.

Miles nodded, focused on what lay ahead. They headed back to the staging area where athletes from the first heat were lining up, already in their uniforms with warmups still on.

An official with a clipboard directed them. "Second heat, line up here. Stay in order until you're called to the track."

Miles took his place in the line, his warmups still on. A few girls from Central High were watching from nearby, whispering to each other as they looked in his direction. He caught their eyes and smiled briefly, then shook his head as he turned his attention back to the track.

Focus, Miles. Focus.

[Velocity System: Mission active. Complete your first 60m race under 7.2 seconds. Current status: Ready]

Miles closed his eyes, feeling the weight of expectation—from Coach, from Andre, from himself, and apparently from people who knew his father. For a moment, he considered walking away, telling Coach he couldn't do it.

Then he remembered his sister's words from last week: "Don't let him steal this from you too."

This is mine, Miles thought as the starter called the first heat to their marks. Not his.

The gun went off, and the first heat exploded down the track in a blur of color and movement. The crowd cheered as the runners crossed the finish line.

"Second heat, to the track," called an official.

Now was the time. Miles removed his warmup pants and jacket, placing them in the designated basket. The cooler air hit his skin as his compression uniform was finally revealed. He slipped on his spikes, tightening them quickly before he and the other athletes in his heat walked out onto the blue indoor track surface in single file. His heart pounded as they were directed to their respective lanes.

"Lane four," the lane official reminded him, pointing.

Miles nodded, moving to his assigned position. He glanced briefly toward the stands, noticing a few more eyes on him than before. He smiled slightly to himself, then refocused. Now wasn't the time for distractions—it was time to lock in.

He knelt down and began adjusting the starting blocks, positioning them for his stride length. The indoor track felt different under his spikes than the outdoor one they practiced on—more responsive, more alive.

"Runners, take your positions," the starter announced.

Miles settled into his blocks, finding his grip on the track surface. He raised his hips slightly, keeping his head down as he'd practiced so many times with Andre and Coach Dormer. The noise of the crowd faded as he focused entirely on the 60 meters of track ahead of him.

This is where I belong.

"Set," called the starter.

Miles raised his hips into the ready position, muscles coiled like springs, waiting for the sound that would release him down the track.