The Ocean Breeze Track and Field Complex loomed before them, its modern glass exterior gleaming in the morning sun. Miles stared through the bus window, his stomach tightening with a mix of anticipation and nerves. This was different from counties—different scale, different level, different pressure.
"Stop looking like you're heading to your execution," Andre said from the seat beside him. "It's just another track."
But it wasn't just another track. This was the premier indoor facility in the state—a 200-meter hydraulic track with banked turns, built specifically for elite competition. Olympians had raced here. Future Olympians would be racing here today.
"Right," Miles muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Just another track."
Coach Dormer stood as the bus pulled into the designated team parking area. "Listen up," he called, his voice cutting through the nervous chatter. "When we exit this bus, we're not just representing ourselves. We're representing Westridge. Conduct yourselves accordingly."
The team filed off the bus into the crisp morning air. Miles felt the weight of his spikes bag against his shoulder, the familiar pre-meet rhythm of his heart already establishing itself.
"Registration is first," Coach continued once they had gathered. "Then facility walkthrough. First events begin at ten sharp. If you're in the 60 prelims—" he looked directly at Miles, "—you should be warming up by nine-thirty. Questions?"
There were none. They'd been through the schedule multiple times in preparation.
"Good," Coach nodded. "Remember what we've worked for. One race at a time."
The team moved toward the entrance, Miles falling into step beside Trey and Andre. The closer they got to the building, the more real it became. Other teams streamed toward the same doors—some in matching warmups, others in coordinated team sweats, all with the same purposeful energy.
"Yo, check out North Heights," Trey nudged Miles, nodding toward a group in royal blue tracksuits. "They look like they're about to drop the most serious mixtape of 2025."
The observation broke some of the tension, and Miles cracked a small smile. "Or like they all lost a bet with the same barber."
Inside, the facility opened up into a vast space centered around the track. The ceiling soared overhead, the seating rising around the perimeter ready to accommodate hundreds of spectators. Already, the atmosphere buzzed with officials setting up equipment, coaches checking in teams, and early-arriving athletes beginning their preparation routines.
"Damn," Trey whispered, forgetting his usual bravado for a moment. "This is legit."
Miles nodded silently, taking it all in. The track itself gleamed under the lights, its surface more sophisticated than anything they trained on. Electronic timing boards covered one wall, currently displaying the day's schedule. Officials in red jackets moved purposefully throughout the space.
Coach Dormer guided them through registration, where they collected their heat assignments. Looking at the paper in his hand, Miles felt the weight of what it represented. He was here. He had qualified. Now came the harder part.
"Carter," Coach said, breaking his reverie. "You're in heat three of the 60 prelims, lane five. Top two in each heat plus next four fastest times advance to finals."
Miles nodded, filing away the information. "Who else is in my heat?"
"Harrison from Albany in four, Williams from Syracuse in six," Coach recited from memory. "Both ran 6.7 range this season."
So he wouldn't be the fastest in his heat—at least not on paper. The knowledge settled uncomfortably in Miles's stomach.
"Good," Coach said, surprising him. "You run better when you're chasing."
Before Miles could process that observation, Coach moved on to discuss Andre's heat assignments.
The team completed their walkthrough of the facility, identifying warm-up areas, clerk check-in locations, and bathroom access. Everything was more formal than previous meets—credential checks at multiple points, designated team areas, specific warm-up protocols.
As they made their way to Westridge's assigned section in the bleachers, Miles scanned the growing crowd, wondering if his mom and Zoe had arrived yet. They had planned to come later, closer to his first event, but the knot in his stomach loosened slightly at the thought of seeing them in the stands.
"Ten minutes to drop gear, then start your warm-up progression," Coach instructed. "Sixty-minute routine, just like practice."
Miles set his bag on the bleacher beside Andre's, unzipping it to check his spikes one last time—a ritual more for comfort than necessity. As he straightened up, a familiar voice called his name.
"Miles!"
He turned to see Zoe waving enthusiastically from the spectator entrance, their mom beside her looking slightly overwhelmed by the busy environment. Zoe clutched what appeared to be a rolled-up poster to her chest.
"Go," Andre said, noticing his hesitation. "Family first. Meet them, then warm up."
Miles nodded gratefully and jogged over to where they waited.
"Hey," he greeted them, suddenly awkward. This was his world now, but it felt strange having them step into it.
"We made it!" Zoe announced unnecessarily, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "This place is huge!"
"It is," Miles agreed, turning to his mom. "Thanks for coming."
Angela Carter smiled, reaching out to adjust the collar of his warmup jacket in a gesture so maternal it made Miles both embarrassed and comforted simultaneously.
"Wouldn't miss it," she said simply. "Your first states."
"I made a sign," Zoe thrust the rolled poster forward. "Wanna see?"
"Maybe later," Miles hedged, imagining whatever embarrassing creation she might have concocted. "I need to start warming up soon."
"It's really good," Zoe insisted. "I used that picture from counties that was on Instagram. And glitter. Lots of glitter."
"Sounds... great," Miles managed, already picturing the most mortifying possibilities. "Look, there's a good spot in the stands over there," he pointed to a section with decent visibility. "You can see the finish line clearly from there."
"Perfect," his mom nodded, seeming to sense his pre-race nerves. "We'll head over and get settled. Is there somewhere to get coffee?"
"Concession stand by the main entrance," Miles said, relieved at her understanding. "I should really get going."
"Wait," Zoe said, her eyes suddenly widening as she looked past him. "Is that her?"
Miles turned to follow her gaze, confusion giving way to mild panic as he saw Kayla walking with Amara not twenty feet away. They wore Central's maroon and gold warmups, clearly just arriving.
"Who?" he asked reflexively, knowing it was futile.
"Your not-girlfriend," Zoe said with all the subtlety of a foghorn. "From your phone."
Miles felt heat rising to his face. "Zoe, don't—"
But it was too late. Kayla had spotted him and changed direction, heading their way with a smile that somehow both settled his nerves and amplified them at the same time.
"Hey," she greeted, stopping a few feet away. "You made it."
"Yeah," Miles said eloquently, painfully aware of Zoe's fascinated stare and his mom's curious expression. "Um, these are—"
"Your mom and sister," Kayla finished for him, her smile widening. "I figured. Hi, I'm Kayla."
"From Central," Zoe supplied helpfully, as though providing critical intelligence. "Miles talks about you."
Miles closed his eyes briefly, wishing for either invisibility or a convenient sinkhole to appear beneath him.
"Does he?" Kayla's eyes sparkled with amusement. "All good things, I hope."
"I don't talk about you," Miles corrected, then immediately realized how that sounded. "I mean—not that there's anything—you know what, I should really start warming up."
His mom stepped in, saving him from further self-sabotage. "I'm Angela," she extended her hand to Kayla. "Lovely to meet you. Miles mentioned you two have been studying together."
"Yes, for midterms," Kayla nodded, shaking her hand. "And hanging out at meets."
"And texting constantly," Zoe added.
"Zoe," Miles hissed, but Kayla just laughed.
"Guilty," she admitted. "Track stuff mostly."
Amara, who had been watching this exchange with obvious entertainment, cleared her throat. "We should probably check in, Kay. Coach is looking for us."
"Right," Kayla nodded. "I'm in the 300 later. Just wanted to say good luck," she told Miles. "Maybe I'll see you after the prelims?"
"Yeah, definitely," Miles agreed, relief and disappointment battling as this excruciating introduction neared its end.
"Nice meeting you," Kayla said to his mom and Zoe. "Enjoy the meet!"
As she walked away with Amara, Miles heard her friend's voice drift back: "So that was the famous Miles and his family..."
"I like her," Miles's mom declared once they were out of earshot. "She seems very nice."
"She's pretty," Zoe observed with the blunt assessment only a sister could provide. "Way prettier than her Instagram. You should definitely ask her out for real."
"I need to warm up," Miles said firmly, desperate to escape this conversation. "I'll see you guys after my race, okay?"
His mom nodded understandingly, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder. "We'll be watching. Just do your best—that's all that matters."
The simple statement somehow meant more than any elaborate pep talk. Miles nodded, throat suddenly tight, and headed back to the team area.
Andre looked up as Miles approached, raising an eyebrow. "Was that your girl talking to your family?"
"She's not my girl," Miles replied automatically, though the denial felt increasingly hollow even to his own ears. "And yes, that just happened."
"Rough," Andre said, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "You survived though. Now channel that embarrassment into your start."
"That's not how it works," Miles muttered, but he was already unzipping his warmups, ready to begin his preparation routine.
The next forty-five minutes passed in the familiar ritual of warming up—jogging, dynamic stretches, drills, and finally a few buildups to activate his fast-twitch fibers. The routine settled him, pushing the family encounter to the back of his mind as his body prepared for the task ahead.
The Velocity System provided occasional guidance: Heart rate: Optimal range for warm-up. Form mechanics: 92% efficiency. Pre-race status: Approaching competitive readiness.
By the time the first call came for the 60m prelims, Miles felt physically ready, though the butterflies in his stomach hadn't fully settled. He made his way to the clerk's area, where officials checked his bib number and lane assignment.
The atmosphere among the competitors was different here—less casual conversation, more focused preparation. These weren't just random high school sprinters; they were the fastest in the state, each having earned their spot through qualifying times. And almost all of them were juniors and seniors, with Miles being one of the few freshmen who had qualified. He recognized a few faces from meets or MileSplit photos, including Harrison from Albany, a senior with college scouts already watching him, who stood a few feet away going through his own mental preparation.
"Second call, men's 60 meter dash, heats one and two," came the announcement over the PA system. "Report to clerk of course."
Miles watched as the first group was organized into their heats. Among them was Jason Whitman from North Heights, who had pushed Miles at counties. They exchanged nods of recognition as Jason's heat was led toward the track.
"Third call, men's 60 meter dash, heat three. Report to clerk of course."
Miles stepped forward with the others in his heat. The clerk checked their spikes and directed them to the staging area.
"Lane five, right?" Andre appeared briefly beside him, breaking protocol to offer a final word of encouragement.
Miles nodded. "Lane five."
"Trust your start," Andre said simply before disappearing back to the team area.
As Miles and his heat were led onto the track, the reality of the moment hit him fully. The stands were now filled with spectators, the announcer was reading off the competitors' names and schools, and somewhere in that crowd were his mom, Zoe, and Kayla, all watching.
The Velocity System activated its race mode: MISSION: 60m Preliminary Heat - Qualify for Finals Target: Top 2 in heat or next 4 fastest times Competition analysis: Harrison (lane 4) - Season best: 6.73, Williams (lane 6) - Season best: 6.76 Your season best: 6.71
Miles took his lane, beginning his final preparation as the previous heat finished. He did a few starts from standing, shook out his arms, and adjusted his starting blocks. The track felt responsive under his spikes, the surface more forgiving than Westridge's aging indoor facility.
"Heat three, on the track," the announcer's voice boomed. "In lane four, from Albany High School, senior Deon Harrison. Lane five, from Westridge High School, freshman Miles Carter. Lane six, from Syracuse Central, junior James Williams..."
Miles felt a few curious glances when "freshman" was announced. It wasn't often someone his age made it to states in the 60m, a fact that had been easy to forget at smaller meets.
Miles took a deep breath and approached his blocks as the introductions finished. The familiar routine took over—checking the placement, testing the pedals, finding the right angle for his hands.
"Runners, to your marks."
Miles settled into his blocks, finding his starting position. The nervous energy transformed into focused readiness as he stared down the straightaway.
"Set."
He raised his hips, weight balanced forward, the world narrowing to just the track ahead and the sound of the starter's pistol.
The gun cracked, and Miles exploded from the blocks. His start was good—not perfect, but solid. He felt the power in his drive phase, pushing hard for the first 10 meters.
The Velocity System flashed metrics: Reaction time: 0.142s Drive phase angle: Optimal Acceleration: A-grade
By 20 meters, Miles had a sense of the race developing. Harrison was slightly ahead on his left, Williams keeping pace on his right. This was different from counties, where he had clearly been the class of the field. Here, he was among equals—or at least, others who could match his early speed.
At 30 meters, Miles felt himself hitting his stride rhythm, but Harrison was still a half-step ahead. The realization sent a jolt of competitive fire through him. He wasn't used to chasing anyone at this point in a race.
Current position: 2nd Stride frequency: Increase by 2% Power application: 94%
Miles drove his arms harder, focusing on turnover as they hit the 40-meter mark. Harrison still held his slight lead, but Miles was maintaining his position ahead of Williams and the others.
The final 20 meters approached, and Miles felt the familiar burn in his muscles as lactic acid accumulated. But there was something else too—a determination not to settle for second, even in a preliminary heat.
Final phase engaged Form holding at 91% Maximum effort required
With 10 meters to go, Miles found another gear. He couldn't say where it came from—maybe Coach's training, maybe the Velocity System, maybe just raw competitive instinct—but he surged, pulling even with Harrison as they approached the line.
They hit the finish almost simultaneously, both leaning at the tape, the outcome too close to call with the naked eye. Miles felt the controlled deceleration afterward, his lungs burning as he bent over, hands on his knees.
"Good race," Harrison gasped beside him, extending a fist.
Miles bumped it with his own, still catching his breath. "You too."
They looked up at the scoreboard together, waiting for the official times to appear. After a brief delay, the results flashed:
Harrison (Albany) - 6.69 Carter (Westridge) - 6.70 Williams (Syracuse) - 6.74
Miles had qualified for finals, but the one-hundredth of a second margin reminded him that state competition was a different beast entirely. Harrison was for real, and tomorrow's final would require everything he had.
As he walked back toward the team area, Miles caught sight of his mom and Zoe in the stands. Zoe had unfurled her sign, which indeed featured an action shot of Miles from counties surrounded by a truly excessive amount of silver glitter and the words "MILES AHEAD OF THE COMPETITION" in bold letters.
Despite his fatigue, Miles found himself smiling. It was exactly the kind of terrible pun his sister would think was clever, and somehow, in this moment, he appreciated it more than any professional banner.
His gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, to where the Central team was seated. Kayla gave him a thumbs up and a mime of a close finish, indicating she'd seen how tight the race had been. Miles returned a small nod, oddly comforted by her acknowledgment.
Coach Dormer met him as he returned to the team area, expression neutral as always.
"Drive phase was strong," he said without preamble. "But you waited too long to shift gears. Harrison had you until the last ten meters."
"Yes, Coach," Miles nodded, knowing he was right.
"Finals will be faster," Coach continued. "Everyone brings their best. You'll need to find another tenth."
"I will," Miles promised, both to Coach and himself.
"Good," Coach nodded. "Recovery protocol now. You've got the 300 prelims this afternoon."
As Coach moved away to check on the other athletes, Andre approached, having watched the race from the sidelines.
"Not bad," he offered, which from Andre was high praise. "Harrison's legit."
"Yeah," Miles agreed, taking a swig from his water bottle. "Didn't expect it to be that close."
"Welcome to states," Andre said simply. "Everyone here earned their spot." He paused, then added, "Most of these guys are seniors with three or four years of experience. Being in the mix as a freshman is already impressive."
Miles nodded, understanding the implicit message. Counties had been an impressive debut, but this was different. Here, being exceptional was the baseline. To stand out, he would need to be extraordinary.
As he began his recovery routine, stretching out his muscles and rehydrating, Miles found himself scanning the facility again. The initial intimidation had faded, replaced by a clearer perspective. This wasn't just a bigger stage—it was the right stage, where he belonged.
The Velocity System provided a brief update: Preliminary analysis: Race execution 89% Areas for improvement: Mid-race acceleration, Finishing drive Status: Qualified for Finals Next mission: 300m Preliminaries - 2:15 PM
Miles took another drink of water, mentally preparing for the afternoon's event. One race down, several to go. The 60m final would wait for tomorrow, but the 300m still lay ahead today.
He overheard two officials talking nearby. "The freshman from Westridge almost took down Harrison," one said to the other. "Carter? Isn't that Marcus Carter's kid?" the second asked. "Think so. Looks like talent runs in the family."
Miles pretended not to hear, though the comment about his father stung less than it once would have. At least here, he was making his own name.
As he stretched, his phone buzzed with a text. He pulled it out to find a message from Kayla:
good race! harrison better enjoy that 0.01 lead while it lasts. also your sister's sign is AMAZING
Miles smiled, typing back: tomorrow he won't be so lucky. and yeah, subtle isn't really her thing
subtle is overrated. my race is at 11:30 if you want to watch a REAL sprinter in action
wouldn't miss it. good luck
Miles put his phone away, feeling re-energized despite the fatigue in his muscles. The preliminary round had been a wake-up call—a reminder that at this level, nothing came easily. But somehow, that only made him more determined.
He caught sight of Harrison across the facility, already preparing for his next event. For the first time in his brief track career, Miles had found someone who could truly push him, who might even beat him if he didn't bring his absolute best.
The thought didn't scare him. It excited him.
This was what competition was supposed to feel like.