Opening Day

Miles shrugged his shoulders under his track uniform, still getting used to the lightweight outdoor jersey after a season in indoor gear. Around him, the Hudson Valley Spring Invitational buzzed with activity—javelin throwers warming up in a distant field, high jumpers adjusting their marks, distance runners jogging the perimeter. Unlike the compact, controlled environment of indoor meets, outdoor track transformed into a sprawling circus of simultaneous events.

"You ready?" Andre asked, joining him at the fence as they watched competitors from two dozen schools milling about.

"Yeah. Different vibe though."

"Welcome to outdoor," Andre grinned. "More space, more chaos, more waiting around."

The late April sun beat down on the blue synthetic track, already a stark contrast to the climate-controlled fieldhouses of winter. Miles glanced at the digital thermometer on the scoreboard: 68°F. Perfect conditions.

"Carter!" Coach Dormer approached with his ever-present clipboard. "200 prelims have been moved up. Heat sheet just posted."

Miles nodded, scanning the crowd. "What lane did I draw?"

"Four. First heat." Coach checked his watch. "Forty minutes. Start your warmup in twenty."

As Coach moved on to update other teammates, Miles pulled out his phone to text Kayla.

heat got moved up. running in 40

Her response came quickly: crush it. my 200 isn't until 3. coach says there's college scouts here watching our meet

nervous?

nah. but some guy just asked if you and i are dating 👀

Miles felt heat rise to his face that had nothing to do with the sun. what'd you tell him?

The three dots appeared and disappeared twice before her answer came: told him to mind his business lol

Miles smiled, sliding his phone back into his bag. Whatever was happening between them remained undefined, existing in the space between friendship and something more.

"Stop smiling at your phone and get ready," Trey appeared beside him, startling Miles. "Your fan club's already forming."

"My what?"

Trey nodded toward the bleachers. "Three o'clock. Don't be obvious."

Miles casually glanced in that direction and immediately wished he hadn't. A group of girls he didn't recognize, probably from one of the other schools, were looking his way and clearly discussing him. One of them waved when she caught his eye.

"Oh," Miles said, turning away and pulling his dreads forward slightly.

"National champ status," Trey smirked. "Get used to it."

But Miles knew it wasn't just that. This kind of attention had followed him since middle school, long before any track success. His face—the symmetrical features, the defined jawline, the contrast of his dark eyes against his skin—had always drawn stares. His mother called it a blessing. Miles mostly found it uncomfortable.

"It's not about nationals," he muttered.

"Right," Trey said, clearly not believing him. "Which is why they're all holding their phones up with the MileSplit rankings page open."

As they began their warmup jog, Miles noticed more glances following him around the track. The national title had amplified something that was already there, turning occasional interest into outright attention. A pair of girls actually took pictures as he passed, not even trying to be subtle about it.

"Dude, you're trending," Trey said, checking his phone as they paused for stretching.

"What are you talking about?"

Trey turned his screen to show Miles a local track Instagram account that had posted a picture of him arriving at the meet. The caption read: "National Champ Miles Carter's outdoor debut today 🔥👀 #trackcrush #speedandlooks"

"Delete Instagram," Miles groaned, pulling his dreads back into a tie more tightly than necessary.

"Embrace the fame," Trey laughed. "Or at least use it to get a date to prom next year."

Miles ignored him, focusing instead on his hamstring stretch. He hadn't told anyone about what happened with Kayla at the park—the almost-moment at the bus stop, the quick kiss on the cheek. It felt private, something he wanted to protect from the gossip machine that was high school.

He continued his warmup, forcing himself to tune out the distractions. By the time he reached the clerk's tent to check in for his heat, he'd managed to narrow his focus to the familiar pre-race ritual: spikes double-knotted, jersey properly tucked, breathing controlled.

"Lane four, heat one," the clerk confirmed, checking him off the list. "First outdoor race of the season for you, right? After nationals?"

Miles nodded, surprised the official knew who he was.

"Good luck out there. Lot of eyes on you today."

That much was obvious. As Miles took his lane for the 200m prelim, he was acutely aware of the hush that fell over the spectators nearest the track. The difference from his first high school race—when no one knew or cared who he was—couldn't have been more stark.

He shook his arms out, settling into the blocks. The starter called them to their marks.

"Set."

Miles rose to position, his mind quieting as it always did in this crucial moment. The gun fired, and he exploded forward, the weeks of training with Kayla and Coach Dormer's adjustments translating into a powerful first thirty meters.

Coming out of the curve, Miles felt the rhythm he'd been seeking in practice—the turnover rate Kayla had shown him, the arm drive Marcus Johnson had emphasized. The homestretch opened before him, and he drove through it with the efficiency of perfect mechanics.

He crossed the line well ahead of the field, immediately checking the scoreboard.

20.87

Miles blinked, sure he was reading it wrong. That was nearly half a second faster than his previous best. Around him, a ripple of reaction spread through the crowd as people checked their phones to confirm what they'd just witnessed.

"That's a meet record," one official said to another as Miles caught his breath. "By three-tenths."

Coach Dormer approached with an uncharacteristic look of satisfaction. "Good execution," he said, which from him was equivalent to wild celebration. "How did it feel?"

"Smooth," Miles replied, still processing the time. "Didn't tighten up at the end."

"You'll need to recover quickly. That puts you straight through to the final this afternoon."

As Miles walked back toward the team area, the attention had intensified. Several coaches from other schools watched him pass, talking among themselves. A man with a "Columbia University" polo made a note on his clipboard. And the group of girls from earlier had migrated closer to the track, one of them boldly calling out "Nice race, Miles!" as if they knew each other.

"Ignore it," Andre advised, joining him with a water bottle. "Focus on the final."

"Trying to."

"Your phone's blowing up in your bag," Andre added. "Trey checked."

Miles retrieved it to find notifications from Instagram, texts from Zoe, and one from Kayla:

just saw ur time online. 20.87?? ur actually cracked wtf. king is shaking rn 💀🔥

Before he could reply, an unfamiliar number texted: hey miles, this is jen from northwood high. got your number from a friend. saw your race, you're fast af

Miles stared at the message, baffled, then showed it to Andre.

"The price of fame," Andre shrugged. "And, you know, your face."

"My face?"

Andre gave him a look. "Don't play dumb. You know what you look like."

Miles did know, though he tried not to think about it much. His father's face stared back at him from the mirror each morning—the same features that had graced Olympic broadcast intros years ago. Features that, combined with his freshly minted athletic success, were apparently turning him into some kind of track celebrity.

"It's stupid," Miles muttered, shoving his phone away without responding to the unknown texter.

"It's high school," Andre corrected. "Anyway, your fan club will be disappointed when they find out you're already talking to someone from Central."

Miles shot him a sharp look. "Who says I am?"

"Please," Andre rolled his eyes. "I helped smuggle her birthday gift into your locker, remember? And Trey saw you two at Regpton Park last weekend."

"We were training," Miles protested.

"In the rain? Under the bus shelter?" Andre raised an eyebrow. "Trey's cousin drives the 75 route."

Miles felt his face grow warm again. "It's complicated."

"It always is," Andre said with the wisdom of a senior who had navigated high school relationships. "Just don't let it mess with your focus. King posted 21.05 at his meet yesterday."

That recaptured Miles's attention. "That's fast."

"Not 20.87 fast," Andre pointed out. "You just put everyone on notice."

The Velocity System vibrated in Miles's bag. He pulled it out discreetly.

PERFORMANCE ASSESSMENT: EXCEPTIONAL

NEW PERSONAL RECORD: 200M - 20.87

CURRENT NEW YORK STATE RANKING: #1

NATIONAL FRESHMAN RANKING: #1

VICTORY PROBABILITY VS. KING, DAVION: 68.7%

Miles smiled at the last line. The System had never given him odds that favorable against a hyped competitor before.

For his final race that afternoon, Miles drew lane five. As he took his mark, he caught sight of someone filming from the sidelines—probably for MileSplit or some track social media account. The attention that had once made him want to hide behind his dreads now fueled something different: determination.

The gun fired, and Miles exploded from the blocks even better than in prelims. He attacked the curve with controlled aggression, feeling the technique refinements clicking into place. When he hit the straightaway, he glimpsed his competitors straining to match his pace and felt a surge of confidence.

He crossed the line at 20.91—slightly slower than his prelim but still dominant. The official at the finish extended his hand.

"Impressive opener," he said. "That's the fastest high school 200 I've seen on this track in twenty years."

Miles thanked him, still catching his breath as he watched the other finishers cross the line. The runner-up had managed only 21.76.

As he cooled down with a light jog, Miles's phone buzzed with another text from Kayla:

congrats on the dub! just finished my race too. 24.31 and first place. we're both NY #1 rn 😎

Miles smiled, typing back: we should celebrate. ice cream rematch?

it's a date. an actual date this time js 👀

Miles read the message twice, heart suddenly racing faster than it had during his race. Before he could overthink his response, he typed:

bet

Walking back to join his team, Miles passed the same group of girls who had been watching him earlier. One said something he couldn't hear, causing the others to laugh. Normally, this kind of attention would have made him duck his head and walk faster.

Instead, Miles found himself standing straighter, a new confidence tempering his usual discomfort. The national title, the record-setting performance, Kayla's texts—they were shifting something fundamental in how he carried himself.

"There's our star," Trey called as Miles rejoined the Westridge team. "The face of New York track."

"Shut up," Miles replied, but without his usual annoyance.

"Results are posted online already," Andre said, showing Miles his phone. "You're top of the state leaderboard by almost two-tenths."

"Think King's seen it yet?" Trey wondered.

As if on cue, Miles's phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. @king_davion had commented on the meet results post:

decent time for an opener. meet me at regionals and we'll see what's up 🤷🏾‍♂️

Miles showed his teammates the comment. Andre laughed. "Man's trying to save face. He's shook."

"We'll see," Miles said, but privately he agreed. His 20.87 had changed the equation. He wasn't just a freshman with a lucky indoor win anymore—he was asserting himself as the one to beat in New York.

On the bus ride home, Miles sat alone, watching the landscape blur past his window. His phone buzzed occasionally with notifications he mostly ignored, except for one text from his mother:

Zoe showed me your time online. So proud of you! Dinner's in the oven for when you get home ❤️

For all the new attention—the stares, the whispers, the social media comments—this was what actually mattered: making his mom proud, pushing his own limits, the genuine connection with people like Kayla and his teammates.

The rest was just noise, though he was slowly learning to handle it better. After all, his father had dealt with far more attention during his career. The thought came unbidden, but for once, the comparison didn't sting. Instead, it felt like useful context—something to learn from rather than run from.

As the bus pulled into Westridge's parking lot, Coach Dormer stopped beside Miles's seat.

"Good opener today," he said. "Next week we'll work on maintaining that prelim speed through finals. And Carter—" he paused, lowering his voice. "Don't let the attention go to your head. Your technique is what won today, not your Instagram followers."

"Yes, Coach."

Miles gathered his things, one last text from Kayla lighting up his screen:

sooo when's this ice cream date happening? 😏

He smiled, typing back as he stepped off the bus into the early evening light:

tmrw? i know a spot