Flashback

Miles made his way back to the Westridge team area, his legs feeling surprisingly good despite having just run the fastest 200m of his life. He'd barely had time to process what had happened—21.40 seconds that had apparently rewritten freshman record books.

The path through the fieldhouse felt different now. Eyes followed him everywhere—athletes from other schools nudging each other as he passed, coaches watching him with analytical gazes, parents whispering behind programs. It was as if he'd transformed into someone else in the span of one lap around the track.

"Excuse me, are you Miles Carter?" A middle-school-aged kid approached, holding out a heat sheet and a pen. "Could I get your autograph?"

Miles blinked, caught completely off guard. "I... what?"

"Your race was sick," the kid continued, eyes wide with admiration. "My coach said you might be the next Noah Lyles."

"Um, thanks," Miles managed, awkwardly signing the paper before continuing toward his team's spot.

When he reached the Westridge section, his teammates erupted in cheers and applause. Guys he barely knew were reaching to high-five him, pat his back, bump his shoulder. Coach Dormer stood at the edge of the group, trying and failing to hide his pride behind a mask of professional composure.

"Alright, alright, give the man some space," Andre said, clearing a path for Miles to reach his bag. "He's still got the sixty final and the relay."

Miles nodded gratefully at Andre as he sat down, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the attention. He reached for his phone, curious about something the reporter had mentioned—that his time was the fastest freshman time in the country.

*That can't be right,* he thought. *There's no way.*

He opened his browser and navigated to Athletic.net, the site that tracked high school track performances nationwide. His fingers moved quickly across the screen, pulling up the rankings for freshman boys in the 200 meters.

The page loaded, and there it was—his name at the top of the list.

1. Miles Carter, Westridge HS (NY) – 21.40

The next closest time was a 21.87 from a kid in Houston, followed by several Florida and Texas runners hovering around 22 seconds. Miles stared at the screen, the reality of what he'd done beginning to sink in.

*Damn, that happened quickly.*

He scrolled through the list, noting the geographical pattern. Texas. Florida. California. Texas again. All warm-weather states where outdoor track was practically a year-round sport. Not exactly places where kids had to train through Northeast winters.

"Checking your new celebrity status?"

Miles looked up to see Trey standing over him, a Gatorade in each hand. He offered one to Miles, who accepted it gratefully.

"Just seeing if that announcer was exaggerating," Miles replied.

"And?"

"He wasn't."

Trey peeked at Miles's phone screen and let out a low whistle. "Man, the college scouts are going to be all over you."

Miles hadn't even thought about that. The idea of college scouts watching him, evaluating him, felt surreal. Three weeks ago, he'd been just another freshman trying to stay invisible.

"First call for boys' 60-meter final. Competitors report to the clerk of course."

The announcement cut through Miles's thoughts, pulling him back to the present moment. He looked down at his still-warm legs, suddenly aware of how quickly events were moving.

"Already?" he sighed, not meaning to say it aloud.

"Welcome to indoor track," Trey said with a sympathetic grimace. "No rest for the wicked."

Miles stood, checking that his spikes were still properly tightened. His body felt ready, but his mind was reeling from everything that had happened. As he took a sip of Gatorade, a strange sensation washed over him—the peripheral sounds of the fieldhouse faded, and his vision seemed to tunnel.

And then he wasn't in the fieldhouse anymore.

---

"Mommy, where's Dad?"

Eight-year-old Miles sat at their small kitchen table, legs swinging beneath his chair as he picked at his cereal. Morning sunlight filtered through the worn curtains, casting a warm glow across the room that contradicted the heaviness of his question.

His mother Angela froze at the sink, her shoulders tensing before she turned to face him. She dried her hands slowly on a dishcloth, buying herself a few moments before approaching the table. Her scrubs were wrinkled from her overnight shift at the hospital, dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze was steady as she sat across from him.

"Your father..." she began, then paused, carefully choosing her words. "Your father decided he needed to be somewhere else, baby."

Miles frowned, his small face scrunching in confusion. "But why doesn't he want to be with us anymore? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, Miles," Angela said firmly, reaching across to take his small hand in hers. "Nothing you did caused this. Nothing Zoe did. Nothing I did." Her voice wavered slightly. "Sometimes adults make choices that hurt the people they're supposed to love. That doesn't mean those people deserved to be hurt."

Miles looked down at his cereal, now soggy and unappealing. "Will he come back?"

Angela's expression hardened almost imperceptibly, a flash of something—anger, pain, determination—crossing her face before her features softened again.

"I don't think so, sweetie. He's... he's started a new life." She squeezed his hand. "But that doesn't mean our life can't be wonderful. We have each other. We have Zoe. We have Grandma."

Miles nodded slowly, though his bottom lip trembled slightly. "Tommy from school says a boy needs his dad to teach him stuff. Like how to throw a baseball."

Angela leaned forward, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as she looked her son directly in the eyes. "You listen to me, Miles Carter. You don't need anyone who doesn't want to be in your life. You are strong, you are smart, and you are going to do amazing things."

She brushed a tear from his cheek with her thumb. "And you want to know something? You should work hard. You should become the very best at whatever you choose to do. So good that one day, your father will see what he walked away from." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "So good that he'll regret leaving us every single day for the rest of his life."

Something shifted in Miles's young eyes then—a spark of determination igniting where there had been only confusion and hurt moments before. He straightened his small shoulders and nodded once, firmly.

"I will, Mommy. I promise."

---

"Earth to Miles. You in there?"

Andre's voice snapped Miles back to the present. He blinked, the fieldhouse coming back into focus around him. The memory had been so vivid—his mother's words echoing in his ears as if she'd just spoken them.

"Second call for boys' 60-meter final. Second call."

Miles clenched his fist, his mother's years-old words resonating with unexpected power. *So good that he'll regret leaving us every single day for the rest of his life.*

"You good?" Andre asked, eyebrows raised in concern. "You zoned out hard for a minute there."

"Yeah," Miles said, his voice steadier than he expected. "Just thinking."

He gathered his things, preparing to head back to the clerk's table. The weight of his new status as the fastest freshman in the country settled on his shoulders, but it felt different now—less like a burden and more like armor.

Miles had spent years avoiding anything that connected him to his father. Now, for the first time, he considered the opposite approach. What if, instead of running from the connection, he used it? What if he became so undeniably great that his father couldn't ignore what he'd abandoned?

"Better get moving," Trey said, nodding toward the clerking area where runners were already gathering.

Miles nodded, a new intensity in his expression as he started toward the check-in area. The 60m final awaited—another chance to send a message that would echo far beyond this fieldhouse.

[Velocity System: User motivation shift detected. Performance optimization adjusting to new psychological parameters.]

He barely registered the System's notification. His focus had narrowed to a laser point, past and future converging into a singular purpose that propelled him forward. Each step toward the track was a step toward something he hadn't allowed himself to want before.

Recognition. Validation. Proof.

*Watch me,* he thought, the words directed at a man who wasn't there to hear them. *Watch what you left behind.*