Sunday morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows across Miles's face. He stirred reluctantly, clinging to the remnants of his dream—something about running, freedom, endless possibilities. Groaning, he rolled over and reached blindly for his phone to check the time, only to find the screen completely black.
"Fuck," he muttered, remembering he'd forgotten to charge it last night. He'd meant to plug it in after his shower, but exhaustion had claimed him first.
Miles sat up, stretching arms overhead until his shoulders popped satisfyingly. His legs felt surprisingly good despite yesterday's exertion—a little tight, but not the muscle-screaming soreness he'd expected. Maybe that "Recovery Rate: B+" attribute wasn't just for show.
He plugged in his phone, watching impatiently as the charging icon appeared on the black screen. It would take a few minutes to gather enough power to boot up. In the meantime, he shuffled to the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face, trying to wake up fully.
The medals from yesterday still hung on his doorknob where he'd placed them before his shower. The sight of them brought back a rush of memories—the races, the announcer's voice, the feeling of breaking the tape. It hadn't been a dream after all.
Downstairs, the familiar weekend sounds of kitchen activity reached his ears—the clatter of plates, the sizzle of something on the stove, his mom and sister's voices in conversation. Miles followed the sounds and smells, his stomach reminding him that burning thousands of calories yesterday had consequences.
"Morning," he said, entering the kitchen to find exactly what he'd hoped for: his mom at the stove flipping pancakes, Zoe already seated at the table with a half-eaten stack, and a third plate waiting empty.
His mom turned, spatula in hand, her face lighting up. "There he is! Our track star finally awakes."
"Mom," Miles groaned, though without real annoyance. "I'm not a track star."
"That's not what Zoe tells me," she replied, sliding two perfect golden pancakes onto the waiting plate. "Three gold medals in your first meet? Sounds pretty star-like to me."
Miles slid into his chair, immediately reaching for the syrup. "It was just a local meet."
"With state-leading times," Zoe added helpfully, grinning as she sipped her orange juice.
His mom set the plate in front of him, pausing to ruffle his hair affectionately. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there. The ER was swamped yesterday."
"It's okay," Miles said automatically, though a small part of him had wished she could have seen it.
"So," she said, taking the seat across from him, "walk me through it. Every race. I want details."
Miles took a big bite of pancake, buying time. With his mouth full, he pointed accusingly at Zoe. "Didn't she already tell you everything?"
"She told me results. I want to hear how it felt." His mom leaned forward, chin resting on her hand. "Start with the first race."
Between bites, Miles recounted the day—the nervous energy before his first race, the shocking 200 meter time, the 60 meter final where something had clicked into place, and finally the relay comeback. He carefully edited out the parts about the Velocity System and left vague his internal motivations about his father. Some things were still too personal to share.
"You should have seen him in the relay, Mom," Zoe chimed in. "Everyone was posting the video. He caught this guy who had like a half-track lead."
"It wasn't half a track," Miles corrected. "Maybe seven meters."
"Still," his mom said, "that's incredible, Miles." Her expression grew thoughtful. "You know, your father—"
"Can we not?" Miles interrupted, more sharply than he'd intended. The mention of his father threatened to tarnish the golden glow of yesterday's accomplishments.
His mom's face softened. "I was just going to say that you've clearly found your own path. Whatever natural gifts you might have inherited, what you did with them yesterday was all you."
Miles looked down at his plate, oddly moved by her words. "Thanks, Mom."
"So," Zoe said, expertly shifting the conversation, "have you checked your phone yet? Because my feed is blowing up with stuff about you."
"Dead battery," Miles explained, finishing his last bite of pancake. "It's charging now."
"Oh, you're in for a treat," Zoe said with a knowing smile. "Yesterday, you were some random freshman. Today, you're 'that super-fast kid from Westridge.'"
Miles rolled his eyes, but curiosity was already pulling him back toward his room. He helped clear the table, thanked his mom for breakfast, and headed upstairs to check his phone.
The device had finally gathered enough power to turn on. As the screen lit up, it immediately began buzzing with a barrage of delayed notifications. Text messages, Instagram alerts, Snapchat, and even some notification from apps he rarely used. Miles sat on the edge of his bed, watching in disbelief as they continued rolling in.
Once the initial flood subsided, he started sorting through them methodically, beginning with text messages from friends. Shelly had sent several, starting with casual questions about how the meet went, progressing to all-caps excitement as she apparently heard about his performances from others. Dami's messages were similarly enthusiastic, with the addition of several memes about speed.
Next, Miles opened Instagram, where the notification count had climbed to triple digits. He scrolled through, trying to make sense of the sudden influx.
@milesplit_ny started following you
@tracknation started following you
@ny_track_coach started following you
@amara.west_ liked your photo
@kayla.michelle liked your photo
His follower count had jumped from around 200 to over 800 overnight. Miles tapped through to see who these people were—mostly track athletes from other schools, running accounts, and what seemed like half the student population of Central High.
A DM notification caught his eye:
@milesplit_ny: Congrats on your performances yesterday! We'd love to do a quick interview for our site. Let us know if you're interested.
Miles stared at the message in disbelief. MileSplit was the biggest high school track platform in the country. They wanted to interview him? After one meet?
He kept scrolling, finding the posts that had apparently started it all:
@milesplit_ny: FRESHMAN PHENOM ALERT 🚨 Miles Carter from Westridge HS just dropped a 6.71 in the 60m, 21.40 in the 200m, and a 20.61 anchor split in the 4x200 at yesterday's Central Invite. All three marks are NY #1 for freshmen and the 200m is US #1. #TheNextBig Thing #NYTrack
The post had thousands of likes and hundreds of comments:
@sprint_coach_mike: Just watched the relay footage. This kid came from another PLANET in that anchor leg. Unreal turnover.
@track.recruiter: 👀👀👀
@tylerb_2024: No way those times are legit. Timing system error.
@samanthap_: New track crush unlocked 😍
@jamal.w: Bruh went from unknown to legend in one meet 💀
@coach_tjackson: Where was this kid hiding? Natural form with huge upside if he gets proper coaching.
There was a second post with video clips of his races, which had even more engagement:
@milesplit_ny: The footage speaks for itself. Miles Carter (FR, Westridge) with three stunning performances yesterday. Watch the relay anchor leg at the end - this is FRESHMAN speed. #FutureStar
@alexis.nyc: That anchor leg just gave me chills. Definition of HAWKDOWN.
@zara.thompson: @amara.west_ @kayla.michelle we saw him first tho
@ny_track_coach: Form needs work but the raw speed is exceptional. Keep an eye on this one.
@tylerb_2024: Ok I take back what I said earlier. Just watched the video and this kid is the real deal.
As if Instagram wasn't overwhelming enough, his Snapchat notifications were similarly flooded. Miles opened the app to find dozens of friend requests and messages from people he'd never met. Several were from the girls he'd encountered at the meet:
amara_west added you!
kayla.michelle02 added you!
zara_thompson added you! leila.runs added you!
Along with several others—apparently half the female track population in the area had decided he was worth knowing overnight.
There were also messages from teammates, videos being shared, and group chat invitations. Miles closed the app, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the attention. Yesterday morning, he'd been nobody—just another freshman trying to navigate high school. Now he was... what? A "phenom"? A "future star"?
He set his phone down, needing a moment to process it all. Fame, even at this small scale, hadn't been part of his plan. He'd joined track reluctantly, discovered he was good at it, and now suddenly people he'd never met were analyzing his form and declaring him the "next big thing."
His phone buzzed again with yet another notification. This time it was from Andre:
You seeing all this? Don't let it get to your head. Monday practice, 3pm sharp. The real work starts now.
Miles smiled at his team captain's message, appreciating its grounding effect. Whatever was happening with social media and all these new followers, the track itself remained the same—400 meters around, a simple test of speed and endurance. That part, at least, made sense to him.
He picked up his phone again, this time to respond to the people who actually mattered—Shelly, Dami, Andre. The rest could wait until he figured out what to do with this strange new attention.
As Miles typed a reply to Andre, he glanced at the medals still hanging on his doorknob. Whatever came next—interviews, expectations, pressure—he'd earned those. No one could take them away. And maybe, just maybe, the news of his success would reach the one person he'd tried not to think about: his father.
The thought brought a complicated mix of emotions—satisfaction, anger, hope, resentment. But underneath it all was a new feeling, unfamiliar but growing stronger: pride. Not pride that his father might notice, but pride in what he, Miles Carter, had accomplished on his own.
And that, more than any medal or social media fame, felt like the real victory.
His phone buzzed again. Another notification. Then another. Miles sighed, realizing he couldn't ignore all these messages forever. Might as well see what people were saying.
After responding to his friends, he decided to check some of the DMs that had flooded his Instagram. Most were congratulatory messages from track kids at other schools or random followers hopping on the bandwagon of his sudden fame. But a few caught his eye—messages from the girls he'd met at the meet.
Trey was right, Miles thought with amusement. All that talk about "track baddies" and social opportunities hadn't been completely off-base. He just hadn't expected it to happen so quickly.
One message in particular stood out:
@kayla.michelle: heyyy congrats on your races yesterday! that anchor leg was insane, do you have the central invitational next week too? if you do maybe we could grab smoothies after?
Miles clicked on her profile, trying to remember which one Kayla was. Her profile picture showed a girl with honey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but it was zoomed in too close to see much else. He scrolled through her recent posts and recognition clicked.
Kayla was one of the trio of girls who had approached him at the meet—the one with the honey-blonde hair pulled into a side braid that fell over one shoulder. In her photos, he could see she had a sprinkling of light freckles across her nose that he hadn't noticed in person. Most of her posts showed her either in her Central High track uniform or casual athletic wear, often posing with friends or at track meets.
He remembered Trey mentioning something about her TikToks having thousands of likes. Her Instagram had over 5,000 followers, which was pretty substantial for a high school athlete.
Miles tapped back to her message, reading it again.
@kayla.michelle: heyyy congrats on your races yesterday! that anchor leg was insane, do you have the central invitational next week too? if you do maybe we could grab smoothies after?
Smoothies after the meet next week? Miles wasn't even sure if he had another meet scheduled so soon, or if it was against Central again. He'd have to check with Coach Dormer tomorrow.
He started typing a response, then stopped, deleted it, and tried again. It was just a message—why was he making it complicated? Miles shook his head at himself and typed out a simple reply.
"Hmm," he murmured to himself.