My bad for the missed day, I just felt really lazy.
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Finals day at Nationals. The words echoed in Miles's mind as he stared at the ceiling of the hotel room, already wide awake despite the early hour. Andre slept soundly in the next bed, his pre-race routine allowing for an extra thirty minutes that Miles's nerves wouldn't permit.
The Velocity System activated unprompted:
Finals Day Protocol Initiated
60m Final: 11:15 AM
300m Final: 3:30 PM
Physical readiness: Optimal
Mental preparation: Calibrating...
Miles closed his eyes, running through his visualization exercises. The 60m first—likely his weakest chance for a medal given yesterday's prelims. Then the 300m, his signature event, where Coleman's 33.85 had qualified fastest, with Miles's 34.12 seeding him fourth.
By the time the team gathered for breakfast, the familiar pre-race tension had settled over the Westridge athletes. Even Trey, normally a constant stream of commentary, ate in focused silence, occasionally checking heat sheets on his phone.
Coach Dormer moved between them, offering quiet, precise instructions tailored to each athlete's events. When he reached Miles, his guidance was characteristically direct.
"Sixty is about execution in chaos," he said. "Your start is solid. Trust it. In the three hundred, Coleman will push early. Williams will respond. Let them battle while you run your race. Find your rhythm through pain. Questions?"
"No, Coach," Miles replied, mentally filing away the strategy.
His phone vibrated with a text from Kayla: finals day. we got this. good luck carter
He smiled despite his nerves, typing back: same to you fisher. see you with hardware later
The New Balance facility hummed with championship energy—stands filling with spectators, officials moving with heightened urgency, athletes carrying the unmistakable intensity of finals day. Miles moved through his warmup with mechanical precision, each element exactly as practiced, as visualized.
First call for the 60m final came all too soon. Miles reported to the clerk area, receiving his lane assignment—lane three, not ideal but workable. As the finalists assembled, the atmosphere was noticeably different from preliminaries. These eight athletes had earned their place among the nation's elite. Now it was about who wanted it most.
"Men's 60 meter final, please take the track," the official announced, leading them through the tunnel and onto the competition surface.
Thompson from Texas looked impossibly relaxed in lane five, joking with Marshall from California. Others performed last minute strides or adjustments, each finding their own way to channel pre-race tension.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the men's 60 meter final," the announcer's voice boomed through the facility. "In lane three, from Westridge High School in New York, freshman Miles Carter..."
A small ripple moved through the crowd at the word "freshman"—an acknowledgment of the rarity of a ninth-grader reaching a national final. Miles ignored it, focusing entirely on his block setup.
"Runners to your marks."
Eight athletes settled into their blocks, the culmination of countless hours of training distilled into seven seconds of all-out effort.
"Set."
Miles raised his hips, weight balanced forward, muscles coiled with potential energy.
The gun cracked, and Miles exploded forward. His drive phase felt strong, pushing hard through the first twenty meters. But the national caliber of this field became immediately apparent—Thompson and Henderson from Georgia establishing a slight lead, with Marshall and Miles battling for third position.
The race unfolded in a blur of maximum effort. Miles maintained his form through the middle section, driving his arms with perfect mechanics. But Thompson's superior power created separation in the final twenty meters, his six-foot-two frame covering ground with devastating efficiency.
Miles leaned at the line, fighting for every hundredth of a second. The scoreboard flashed the results:
Thompson (TX) - 6.61
Henderson (GA) - 6.64
Marshall (CA) - 6.65
Carter (NY) - 6.66
Fourth place—just one hundredth from a medal, but a personal best by a tenth. Against seniors and juniors, at Nationals, Miles had proven he belonged. The time would come when he'd be on the podium for the 60m, but today wasn't that day.
"Solid race, freshman," Thompson acknowledged as they walked off the track together. "You'll be trouble for the next three years."
"Thanks," Miles replied, genuinely appreciative of the recognition. "Congrats on the title."
Coach Dormer waited at the edge of the competition area, his expression neutral as always. "Good execution," he noted. "Personal best. Technical adjustments from yesterday implemented effectively."
From Coach, this was high praise. Miles nodded, already beginning his recovery protocol. With over four hours until the 300m final, he had time to process this result and refocus on his primary event.
The time between finals passed in a carefully managed rhythm of recovery, refueling, and gradually rebuilding activation. Miles watched other events with Andre and Trey, including Kayla's 300m final at 2:45 PM.
She finished third in a tactical race, executing her strategy with impressive composure for a sophomore. Miles sent her a quick congratulatory text before beginning his final warmup for the 300m, receiving a thanks! now go get yours in response.
The Velocity System reactivated as Miles completed his preparations:
300m Final Analysis
Competitors: Coleman (TX) - 33.85 SB, Williams (FL) - 33.95 SB, Henderson (GA) - 34.10 SB
Your season best: 33.99
Race strategy optimized: Control first 100m (13.5 target), press back straight, attack second curve, maximum drive final 50m
Technical focus: Arm mechanics at top speed, stride efficiency under maximum fatigue
As first call came for the 300m final, Miles felt a different kind of readiness. The 60m had relieved some pressure, establishing him at this level. Now, in his signature event, he could focus entirely on execution rather than proving he belonged.
In the clerk area, Coleman, the Texas senior who'd run 33.85 in prelims, studied Miles with analytical interest.
"Carter, right? The freshman record holder?"
Miles nodded. "That's me."
Coleman, a wiry senior with explosive power, gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "Heard about you from Marcus Johnson. He's the real deal."
"He is," Miles agreed, surprised by the mention.
"I'm heading to Texas A&M next year," Coleman continued. "Hoping to train with him there."
The conversation was interrupted by the official calling them to the track. As Miles took his position in lane four, he absorbed the championship atmosphere fully—stands packed with spectators, camera flashes occasionally punctuating the focused hush.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the men's 300 meter final," the announcer introduced each athlete, again emphasizing Miles's freshman status when announcing him.
Miles settled into his blocks, recalling every technical cue Johnson had emphasized. The training with the Olympic medalist, the months of preparation under Coach Dormer, the progression from reluctant team member to national finalist—all of it condensed into this single race.
"Runners to your marks."
Eight of the nation's fastest high school athletes took their positions, the tension almost palpable.
"Set."
Miles raised his hips, finding that perfect balance point, every sense heightened.
The gun fired, and Miles drove forward with controlled power. Coleman in lane five took an aggressive early pace, just as Coach had predicted, with Williams matching his tempo. Miles established solid position through the first curve, focusing on his own race rather than chasing prematurely.
As they hit the back straight, the Velocity System provided real-time feedback:
First 100m: 13.48 (Optimal)
Position: 3rd, -0.4s behind leader
Form efficiency: 96%
Maintain race plan
Miles trusted the assessment, holding his form through the back straight while sensing Coleman and Williams battling for position ahead. The real race would begin at the second curve—the point where the 300m evolved from a sprint into a test of endurance and will.
"Coleman of Texas pushing the pace early," the announcer's voice boomed over the facility speakers. "Williams of Florida responding. Carter of New York running his own race in third position."
The crowd noise swelled as they reached the midpoint of the back straight. Miles could feel the race unfolding exactly as Coach Dormer had predicted. Coleman and Williams were battling each other, pushing a pace that would be difficult to sustain through the most punishing part of the race—that second curve where lactic acid would flood their systems and form would begin to deteriorate.
Miles maintained his mechanics, keeping his arms driving in perfect counterbalance to his stride, breathing controlled, posture upright. He was running his own race, not theirs, just as Johnson had emphasized during their training session.
"Approaching the second curve, Coleman maintaining the lead, Williams half a stride back, Carter closing the gap," the announcer's commentary tracked their progress, adding to the growing tension in the facility.
As they hit the entrance to the second curve—the crucible of the 300m—Miles began his planned acceleration. The Velocity System flashed an update:
Initiate curve attack protocol
Form priority: Arm carriage, core stability, lean angle
Power application: 96% and increasing
This was where champions separated themselves from contenders. Miles attacked the curve with technical precision, maintaining his form while sensing the subtle breakdown beginning in the leaders ahead of him. Coleman was still driving hard, but Williams was showing the first signs of fatigue—his head position rising slightly, shoulders tensing.
"Carter making his move on the curve!" the announcer's voice elevated with the drama unfolding. "The freshman from New York closing on Williams and Coleman!"
Halfway through the curve, Miles pulled even with Williams, the Florida senior unable to respond as lactic acid compromised his mechanics. The crowd's roar intensified, the electricity of a national championship battle palpable in the air. But Coleman still maintained a two-stride lead entering the final straight, his senior experience and power creating a gap that would require something special to overcome.
The Velocity System offered one final tactical update:
Final 100m engaged
Coleman fatigue indicators detected
Optimal finishing drive initiated
Maximum effort protocol: NOW
"Coming off the curve, Coleman leads, but Carter has moved into second and is charging!" The announcer's voice rose with excitement. "The freshman is coming for the senior down the stretch!"
With eighty meters remaining, Miles had moved fully into second position, now focusing entirely on closing the gap to Coleman. Every muscle burned with the unique pain of the 300m—too long for pure sprint anaerobic power, too short for aerobic endurance to help. This was the space where will overcame physiology, where technique fought against mounting fatigue.
The Texas senior sensed the challenge, driving harder as they entered the final straight. Miles could see Coleman's form beginning to show microscopic flaws—the precise technical breakdowns Johnson had trained him to identify and avoid. His own form remained remarkably intact, his arm drive still powerful, his stride length optimal despite the burning in his legs.
The gap between them narrowed with each stride. Five meters. Four. Three. The crowd's noise built to a crescendo, the announcer barely audible over the roar.
"Coleman and Carter battling down the stretch! The senior and the freshman, stride for stride with fifty meters to go!"
Miles drove harder, finding reserves he didn't know existed. Coleman matched him, neither athlete yielding an inch. For twenty meters they ran precisely even, the gold medal hanging in the balance with every footfall.
"THIS IS A CHAMPIONSHIP BATTLE FOLKS!" the announcer shouted, professional restraint giving way to genuine excitement. "COLEMAN AND CARTER GIVING EVERYTHING DOWN THE STRETCH!"
With thirty meters to go, Miles felt the first subtle shift in momentum. Coleman's turnover rate had plateaued, while his own mechanics were allowing him to maintain velocity despite the crushing fatigue. Miles gained inches, then a foot, edging slightly ahead as they entered the final twenty meters.
Coleman sensed the danger and responded with the desperation of a champion, finding one more gear when there shouldn't have been anything left. He pulled even again, the two athletes driving toward the line shoulder to shoulder, the crowd on its feet.
"TEN METERS TO GO! NOTHING SEPARATING THEM!"
In the final meters, Miles felt something beyond conscious control take over—a primal competitive drive that refused to yield. His focus narrowed to the finish line ahead and the sensation of Coleman right beside him. There was no Velocity System now, no technical analysis, just raw human will against mounting pain.
Miles threw himself at the line with a perfectly timed lean, his chest crossing a fraction of a second before Coleman's. Both athletes staggered past the finish, legs trembling, lungs heaving, before collapsing to the track surface in utter exhaustion.
"IT'S GOING TO BE A PHOTO FINISH!" the announcer's voice cracked with excitement. "CARTER AND COLEMAN HAVE GIVEN US A CHAMPIONSHIP RACE FOR THE AGES!"
Miles lay on the track, oxygen debt demanding full attention, unable to even turn his head to check the scoreboard. Beside him, Coleman was in a similar state, both athletes having pushed beyond normal physiological limits in pursuit of gold.
After what seemed like an eternity but was merely seconds, Miles managed to roll to his side, then push himself to his hands and knees. Coleman did the same, their eyes meeting briefly in mutual respect before both turned toward the scoreboard, joining the entire facility in a moment of suspended anticipation.
The announcer's voice cut through the buzz of conversation. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have the official results of the men's 300 meter final."
The crowd hushed, the tension almost unbearable as the results appeared:
Carter (NY) - 33.57
Coleman (TX) - 33.59
Williams (FL) - 33.88
"MILES CARTER OF WESTRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL IS YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPION!" the announcer proclaimed. "THIRTY-THREE FIFTY-SEVEN, A NEW PERSONAL BEST AND EXTENDING HIS OWN NATIONAL FRESHMAN RECORD! WHAT A PERFORMANCE!"
The crowd erupted, the decisive two-hundredths of a second transforming Miles from promising talent to legitimate national champion. He stared at the board in disbelief as the reality washed over him. Not just a medal, but gold. Not just a personal best, but a dominant one that further solidified his place in the record books.
"Hell of a race, freshman," Coleman gasped beside him, extending his hand through his own disappointment. "You earned that."
Miles clasped his hand, still too oxygen-deprived for words, but nodding his appreciation for the sportsmanship.
"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up one more time for these athletes," the announcer encouraged as they finally found the strength to stand. "One of the greatest 300 meter finals in national championship history!"
Miles stared at the board in disbelief as the reality washed over him. Not just a medal, but gold. Not just a personal best, but a dominant one that further lowered his own freshman national record.
"Hell of a race, freshman," Coleman gasped beside him, extending his hand through his own disappointment. "You earned that."
Miles clasped his hand, still too oxygen-deprived for words, but nodding his appreciation for the sportsmanship.
As he gradually recovered enough to walk off the track, Coach Dormer met him with what might have been the closest thing to a smile Miles had ever seen from him.
"Executed perfectly," Coach said simply. "Championship performance."
The medal ceremony passed in a blur—standing atop the podium, gold medal placed around his neck, the weight of it against his chest a tangible reminder of how far he'd come since reluctantly joining the team months earlier.
As Miles stepped down from the podium, still processing what had happened, a flash of navy and gold caught his eye. Kayla had worked her way to the edge of the track, her bronze medal visible around her neck, her expression pure excitement.
Before Miles could even react, she was running toward him, and in a moment of uninhibited joy, launched herself into his arms. Miles caught her instinctively, her momentum spinning them halfway around as her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
"YOU DID IT!" she exclaimed, the excitement of the moment overwhelming any self-consciousness.
Then, seeming to suddenly realize what she'd done, Kayla quickly disentangled herself, her cheeks flushing as she stepped back. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, gold earring catching the light.
"Sorry, I just—that was the most amazing finish I've ever seen," she said, her enthusiasm barely contained despite her obvious embarrassment. "You're literally a national champion!"
Miles found himself grinning, still breathless both from the race and her unexpected reaction. "Thanks. Saw your race too. Third place—that's huge."
"Not as huge as gold," she countered, nodding to his medal, grateful for the shift in focus. "Pretty sure ice cream is on me now."
"The deal was just if we both medaled," Miles reminded her.
"Yeah, but I didn't expect you to go and become national champion," she laughed. "Kinda raises the stakes."
Before Miles could respond, Coach Dormer appeared beside him. "Recovery protocol, Carter. Team meeting in thirty minutes."
"Yes, Coach," Miles nodded.
"Tomorrow," Kayla said, understanding the priorities. "Ice cream celebration. You earned it, champ."
As she walked back toward her team, Miles felt a complex mix of emotions—the physical drain of championship effort, the pride of achievement, and something else entirely related to that brief hug and the plans for tomorrow.
The Velocity System offered a final assessment: Championship Performance Analysis
300m Final: 33.57 - National Championship, PR, National Freshman Record
Race execution: 98.7% efficiency
Technical application: Elite level
Competition result: Maximum achievement
But for once, Miles didn't need the System's validation. The gold medal against his chest, the respect in Coleman's handshake, the pride in Coach's rare almost-smile, the excitement in Kayla's hug—these told him everything he needed to know.
From reluctant freshman to national champion in less than six months. And somehow, Miles knew, this was just the beginning.