Oh my goodness!

Miles approached the clerk's table, his mind strangely quiet compared to the chaos of the fieldhouse around him. The memory of his mother's words had crystallized something inside him—a purpose that went beyond times and rankings.

"Carter, Miles. Westridge," he said, his voice even.

The clerk checked her list. "Lane four for the 60m final."

Miles nodded, stepping back to join the other finalists gathered near the check-in area. Ryan Higgs from Central stood talking with one of his teammates, his warmups zipped to his chin despite the heated fieldhouse. Trey was there too, bouncing slightly on his toes to keep his muscles warm. Six finalists total—the top two from each of the three preliminary heats.

"You good?" Trey asked as Miles took a place beside him.

Miles gave a short nod. "Yeah."

He wasn't in the mood for conversation. The flashback had shifted something fundamental in his approach. Before, he'd been running for himself, or maybe to prove he belonged on the team. Now, with each passing minute, his motivation was evolving into something more pointed.

[Velocity System: Performance enhancement optimizing for emotional state. Physiological markers indicate heightened adrenaline and cortisol. Recalibrating.]

The clerk addressed the group. "Gentlemen, final for the 60 meters. You'll be escorted to the starting area in two minutes. Make sure your numbers are properly placed."

Miles glanced down at the paper number pinned to his uniform. 218. Just a random number that now carried the weight of expectations after his 200m performance.

Ryan approached, stopping a few feet away. "That was some 200 you ran," he said, his tone neutral but not unfriendly.

"Thanks," Miles replied.

"Just so you know, the 60's different," Ryan continued. "My start's better than yours."

Miles met his eyes, neither hostile nor intimidated. "We'll see."

Ryan seemed taken aback by Miles's calm confidence, so different from the uncertain freshman from the first heat. He nodded once before returning to his teammate.

"That was almost trash talk," Trey whispered, nudging Miles's shoulder. "You feeling okay?"

Miles didn't laugh. His focus was narrowing, the external world beginning to fade as he centered himself for what was coming. There was no room for the usual pre-race jitters or social awareness. There was only the purpose that now drove him forward.

Make him regret leaving us.

"Finalists, follow me," called an official in a bright yellow vest.

The six athletes fell into line, following the official onto the track. The crowd noise swelled as they appeared, and Miles felt the weight of all those eyes—but it no longer mattered. None of it did. Only the 60 meters of track that stretched before him.

He removed his warmups methodically, handing them to the official for the designated basket. The familiar ritual of final preparations—checking his spikes, adjusting his uniform, settling his stance—all took on a mechanical quality, performed with precision but without his usual self-consciousness.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed through the fieldhouse. "We now present the final of the boys' 60-meter dash."

Miles took his position in lane four, eyes fixed on the track ahead.

"In lane one, from Central High, Jason Chen."

He began to block out the announcer's voice, dropping into a squat to stretch his quads one final time.

"In lane two, from Millbrook Academy, Devon Jackson."

Miles rolled his shoulders back, loosening the muscles that had tightened slightly since his 200.

"In lane three, from Central High, Ryan Higgs."

The crowd noise dimmed as Miles's focus intensified. The track, the lights, the starter—everything else fell away.

"In lane four, from Westridge High, Miles Carter."

He heard his name but barely registered it. His mother's voice echoed louder in his memory.

So good that he'll regret leaving us every single day for the rest of his life.

"In lane five, from Westridge High, Trey Washington."

Miles moved to his blocks, positioning them with careful precision. Each motion was deliberate, conserving energy for what mattered.

"In lane six, from Millbrook Academy, Marcus Young."

The announcer finished the introductions as Miles settled into his starting position. His fingers pressed against the blue track surface, muscles coiled tight with anticipation.

"Runners to your marks."

Miles found his position, mind emptying of everything but the singular focus that now consumed him.

[Velocity System: Drive phase optimization ready. Start sequence primed.]

"Set!"

He raised his hips into position, the world around him falling completely silent.

Watch me.

The starter's pistol cracked, and Miles exploded forward.

His first three steps were nothing like his preliminary heat. Where before he had been good but imperfect, now his drive phase launched with mechanical precision. His body angle was textbook perfect, head down, back straight, arms pumping in powerful counterbalance to his driving legs.

Five meters in, he was already ahead.

[Velocity System: Drive phase efficiency 97%. Exceeding previous metrics by 15%.]

This is for mom.

Ten meters, and Miles was creating distance already. Ryan Higgs, known for his fast start, was a half step behind in lane three. The others were already falling further back.

"Carter takes the early lead!" the announcer called out, surprise evident in his voice.

Fifteen meters, and Miles began his transition to upright sprinting, the movement so smooth it seemed choreographed. His legs drove beneath him with metronomic precision, each step landing exactly where it should, generating maximum force against the track surface.

This is for Zoe.

Twenty meters, fully upright now, Miles hit his stride. The Velocity System was feeding him data in real-time, but he wasn't consciously processing it. His body was acting on pure instinct, fueled by something deeper than technique.

"Carter is building a commanding lead already!"

Twenty-five meters, and the gap was undeniable. Ryan was running an excellent race—probably his personal best—but he was still clearly in second place now.

This is for the years we struggled alone.

Thirty meters marked the halfway point. In most 60-meter races, positions were largely established by now, with only minor changes in the second half. But Miles was still accelerating, his top-end speed surpassing even what he'd shown in the 200.

[Velocity System: Maximum velocity achieved. Current pace exceeds all previous records in database.]

Thirty-five meters, and the crowd noise had transformed into a constant roar, spectators realizing they were witnessing something extraordinary.

This is for every time I wondered why I wasn't enough.

Forty meters, and Miles could feel the perfect synthesis of power, technique, and purpose. Nothing existed but the track ahead and the driving force of his legs beneath him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing something special!"

Forty-five meters, and Miles's lead had grown to nearly two meters—an eternity in sprint racing. The nearest competitor, Ryan, was running the race of his life but still falling further behind with each step.

This is for every tear mom tried to hide.

Fifty meters, and Miles had found a gear that shouldn't exist in high school competition. His form remained flawless even as fatigue should have begun to affect his mechanics.

[Velocity System: Performance exceeding all projected capabilities. Recalibrating user potential metrics.]

Fifty-five meters, so close to the finish. The fieldhouse was in a frenzy now, everyone on their feet. Coach Dormer stood at the edge of the track, stopwatch in hand, his usual stoic expression replaced by open astonishment.

This is for ME.

Sixty meters, and Miles drove through the finish line, chest forward, arms still pumping, running through the tape rather than to it. The momentum carried him several steps beyond the finish before he began to decelerate.

The crowd's reaction was immediate and electric—a collective gasp followed by an explosion of cheers that seemed to shake the very foundation of the fieldhouse.

Miles slowed to a stop, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He'd given everything, pushed to limits he hadn't known existed within him. The other finalists crossed the line in his wake, each registering the considerable gap as they finished.

Ryan Higgs jogged up beside him, shaking his head in disbelief. "What the hell are you?" he asked, no hostility in his voice, only genuine amazement.

Miles straightened up, his breathing already steadying. "Just a freshman," he replied.

The announcer's voice cut through the cacophony, an edge of disbelief evident even through the professional veneer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the official time for Miles Carter in the 60-meter final: 6.71 seconds!"

A heartbeat of silence fell over the fieldhouse as the time registered with the crowd.

"Oh my goodness!"