Miles changed his shirt for the third time.
"It's not a date," he muttered to himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. "So why am I acting like it is?"
He settled on a simple navy blue hoodie over a white t-shirt—casual enough to reinforce the not-a-date narrative he'd been telling himself, but still a step up from his usual worn-out t-shirts. The rest of his outfit was straightforward: jeans, clean sneakers, and his hair pulled back into its usual bun.
His phone buzzed on his desk.
omw to juice junction. eta 15 min
Miles checked the time. He still had a few minutes before he needed to leave, but the text sent a small jolt of nervous energy through him. This was actually happening.
After four shirt changes (he'd never admit to the fourth), Miles grabbed his wallet and headed downstairs, where Zoe was sprawled on the couch scrolling through TikTok, their mother at work for her Sunday shift.
"Where are you going all dressed up?" Zoe asked without looking away from her phone.
"I'm literally wearing jeans and a hoodie," Miles replied, heading for the door.
"Yeah, but it's your nice hoodie. And you actually did something with your hair." She finally glanced up, an insufferable smirk forming. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that girl who commented on all your track photos, would it?"
Miles paused, hand on the doorknob. "She did what?"
"Oh, so you haven't checked Instagram since yesterday." Zoe's smile widened. "Interesting prioritization, little brother."
"I'm leaving now."
"Have fun on your date!"
"It's not a date," Miles called back as he closed the door behind him, Zoe's knowing laughter following him onto the porch.
The walk to Juice Junction took about ten minutes, cutting through a neighborhood park that separated Miles's part of town from the more commercial area near the mall. Despite the crisp February air, the sun was bright, and Miles found himself enjoying the simple act of walking without pushing his muscles to their limit.
The Velocity System remained quiet, as it often did outside of training or competition. Miles had come to appreciate these moments of normalcy, when he could just be a regular teenager without performance metrics floating in his vision.
Juice Junction sat on a corner across from the mall, its bright green and orange signage visible from a distance. It was a popular hangout spot—casual enough for study sessions but nice enough for low-pressure first dates. Not that this was a date, Miles reminded himself for the dozenth time.
As he approached, he spotted Kayla already waiting outside, scrolling through her phone. She wore light-wash jeans and a cream-colored sweater, her honey-blonde hair loose around her shoulders instead of in the side braid she usually wore at track meets.
Miles felt a strange flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with pre-race nerves.
She glanced up as he approached, a smile lighting her face. "Hey, track star."
"Hey," Miles replied, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands. What was he supposed to do with them? Pockets? No, too defensive. Cross his arms? Too closed off. He settled for a small wave that immediately felt ridiculous.
"Ready for the best smoothies in Suffolk County?" Kayla asked, seemingly oblivious to his internal crisis.
"Lead the way," Miles replied, holding the door for her as they entered.
Inside, Juice Junction had the expected aesthetic of a place catering to health-conscious teenagers—brightly colored walls, motivational quotes about "fueling your body," and a menu full of items with names like "Power Protein" and "Green Machine." About half the tables were occupied, mostly by other high schoolers.
"I always get the Berry Blast," Kayla said as they approached the counter. "But their mango one is pretty good too."
Miles scanned the menu, overwhelmed by choices with unnecessarily enthusiastic names. "What's in the Berry Blast?"
"Strawberries, blueberries, banana, yogurt, and they add this vanilla protein thing that actually doesn't taste like chalk, which is rare."
When it was their turn to order, Kayla went with her usual Berry Blast while Miles opted for something called the "PB Power-Up"—essentially a peanut butter banana smoothie with chocolate protein powder.
"My treat," Miles said when Kayla reached for her wallet, remembering his mom's advice about always paying if you invited someone out. Not that he had technically done the inviting, but it felt right.
"Thanks," Kayla said with a small smile. "I'll get it next time."
Next time. The casual implication that this wasn't a one-off hanging out session sent another flutter through Miles's chest.
They found a table by the window, sitting across from each other as they waited for their orders. There was a brief moment of silence—not quite awkward, but charged with the awareness that this was different from texting or talking between events at a meet.
"So," they both said simultaneously, then laughed.
"You first," Miles offered.
"I was just going to ask how you're feeling after yesterday," Kayla said. "Three races plus a relay leg is a lot."
Miles considered the question. His muscles were tired but not painfully so—another benefit of the System's enhanced recovery. "Better than expected, actually. You?"
"My calves are killing me," she admitted. "The 4x400 was brutal."
Their conversation paused as a barista called their names, and Miles went to retrieve their smoothies. When he returned, Kayla was looking at her phone, a slight frown on her face.
"Everything okay?" he asked, sliding her Berry Blast across the table.
"Yeah, just..." she hesitated, then turned her phone to show him an Instagram post from MileSplit. It was a photo of Miles crossing the finish line in the 300, with the caption: "Freshman phenom Miles Carter (Westridge) drops a 34.42 in the 300m at Suffolk Counties, ranking him US #1 among freshmen. Is this the next big name in high school track?"
Miles stared at the post, his stomach doing a strange flip. "That's... weird."
"Is it weird that they posted about you, or weird to see yourself described as a 'phenom'?" Kayla asked perceptively.
"Both?" Miles took a sip of his smoothie, buying time to sort through his feelings. "Three weeks ago, I was just a regular freshman who was kind of fast. Now I'm... whatever this is."
Kayla studied him for a moment. "You don't seem to love the attention."
"It's not that," Miles said, trying to articulate something he was still figuring out himself. "I like being good at something. I like winning. I just didn't expect everything else that comes with it."
"Like random people following you on Instagram and commenting fire emojis on all your photos?" Kayla asked with a small smile.
Miles groaned. "You too? My sister was just giving me crap about that."
"It's the track girl code. We have to hype up the fast boys," she said, her tone making it clear she was teasing. "Though some girls are definitely taking it to another level in your comments."
"I haven't even checked," Miles admitted. "After the meet, I just wanted to crash."
"Probably for the best. Fame might go to your head," Kayla joked, stirring her smoothie with her straw. "Then how would I claim I knew you before you were famous?"
Miles laughed, feeling some of the tension ease. There was something refreshing about Kayla's approach—acknowledging his sudden recognition but not treating him differently because of it.
"So besides becoming track famous overnight, what else do you do?" she asked. "Any deep dark secrets or weird hobbies I should know about?"
Miles considered the question, deliberately avoiding thoughts of the Velocity System. "Nothing too exciting. Video games, hanging out with friends. Pretty standard stuff."
"What games?" Kayla asked, seeming genuinely interested.
"Mostly Apex and Elden Ring lately," Miles replied. "You play?"
"I'm more of a Valorant girl myself," Kayla said. "But my brother got me into Elden Ring over winter break. I'm terrible at it though."
"Everyone's terrible at it," Miles assured her. "That's kind of the point."
Their conversation flowed more easily after that, jumping between topics with the natural rhythm of two people discovering their shared interests. Miles learned that Kayla had been running since middle school, had an older brother in college, played violin reluctantly ("My mom's idea, not mine"), and had strong opinions about nearly everything—from movie franchises ("The third one is always the worst") to the correct way to eat Oreos ("Twist, lick, then eat the cookie parts separately").
In turn, Miles found himself talking more than he usually did, telling her about his photography hobby that he rarely mentioned to anyone, his and Zoe's ongoing Mario Kart rivalry, and even touching briefly on his complicated family situation.
"So it's just you, your sister, and your mom?" Kayla asked when the topic came up.
"Yeah, since I was ten," Miles said, not elaborating further.
Kayla nodded, seeming to sense his reluctance to dive deeper. "My parents split when I was twelve. My dad's still around—he comes to most of my meets—but it's different, you know?"
Miles appreciated that she didn't press for details. "Yeah, I know."
By the time they'd finished their smoothies, nearly an hour had passed, and Miles was surprised by how comfortable he felt. There had been no awkward silences, no struggling to maintain conversation. If anything, it felt like they could have kept talking for hours.
"Want to walk around the mall a bit?" Kayla suggested as they gathered their empty cups. "Unless you need to get home or something."
"No, I'm free," Miles said, perhaps too quickly. "Mall sounds good."
The mall across the street was typical suburban fare—two levels of chain stores, a food court, and groups of teenagers with nowhere better to be on a Sunday afternoon. As they walked side by side, Miles was acutely aware of the occasional moments when their shoulders or hands would brush, each brief contact sending a small current through him.
"Oh, we have to go in here," Kayla said suddenly, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward a store called Cosmic Vinyl, which sold records, band merchandise, and various pop culture items.
Inside, Kayla headed straight for the vinyl section, flipping through records with practiced ease. "My dad got me into collecting these," she explained. "Says the sound quality is better, but I think he's just nostalgic."
Miles followed her lead, scanning through albums from artists he recognized and many he didn't. "I don't think I've ever actually listened to a vinyl record," he admitted.
Kayla looked at him with exaggerated shock. "That's it, we have to fix this immediately. My dad has this whole setup in our living room."
"Is that an invitation?" Miles asked before he could overthink it.
"Maybe," Kayla replied with a small smile that made his heart do a weird skipping thing.
They continued browsing, Kayla occasionally pulling out records to show him—bands she thought he might like based on what little she knew of his music taste. Eventually, she selected a record by an indie band Miles had never heard of.
"Trust me, you'd like them," she said confidently as she made her purchase.
As they left the store, Miles checked the time, surprised to see they'd been hanging out for nearly two hours already. Neither seemed in a hurry to end the afternoon, so they continued wandering the mall, stopping occasionally to look at things that caught their interest.
In a sports apparel store, Kayla held up a pair of neon green running shoes. "These would definitely help you break 34 in the 300," she joked.
"Pretty sure Coach Dormer would have a stroke if I showed up to practice in those," Miles replied, eyeing the blindingly bright shoes.
"Speaking of coaches," Kayla said as they moved on, "is yours always so... intense? He barely seemed happy even after you guys won the relay."
Miles considered this. "That was actually him being really excited. You should see him when he's disappointed."
"Yikes. Our coach is the opposite—gets super hyped about everything. She was jumping up and down when our relay got third yesterday."
As they talked about their respective teams and coaches, Miles realized how much he'd come to appreciate Coach Dormer's approach—demanding but fair, pushing him to improve while recognizing his potential.
Eventually, they found themselves at the mall's small movie theater.
"Anything good playing?" Kayla asked, scanning the digital display of showtimes.
Miles checked the listings. "New horror movie, that superhero sequel, some rom-com..."
"Horror movie could be fun," Kayla suggested. "Unless you're scared."
"Me? Never," Miles lied, having a complicated relationship with horror films since Zoe had forced him to watch "The Ring" when he was nine.
Kayla grinned, clearly seeing through him. "How about the superhero one instead? Less chance of you having nightmares."
"Generous of you," Miles replied dryly, but felt relieved nonetheless.
The next showing was in twenty minutes, so they bought tickets and headed inside. The theater was only about half full, allowing them to find good seats in the middle. As the previews began, Miles experienced another moment of internal awkwardness—should he put the armrest up between them? Was that too presumptuous? He decided to leave it down, not wanting to make assumptions.
Kayla solved the dilemma by simply placing her arm on the shared armrest, her hand close enough to his that he could feel its warmth but not quite touching.
The movie itself was decent—the standard superhero fare of spectacular action sequences interspersed with quippy dialogue and setup for future installments. Miles found his attention divided between the screen and his acute awareness of Kayla beside him, particularly when she leaned closer to whisper commentary about predictable plot twists or ridiculous physics.
About halfway through, during a quieter scene, Kayla's hand brushed against his on the armrest. Instead of moving away, she let her pinky finger rest lightly against his. Miles held perfectly still, afraid any movement might break whatever was happening. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, he shifted his hand slightly, allowing their fingers to interlace in the most tentative of holds.
Neither acknowledged it verbally, but Miles could swear he saw Kayla smile in the dim light of the theater.
By the time the movie ended—with the expected post-credits scene teasing the next installment—their hands were fully clasped together, and Miles had processed maybe half of the film's plot.
"That was..." Kayla began as they walked out into the mall's main concourse.
"Yeah," Miles agreed, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.
There was a new awareness between them as they exited the mall into the late afternoon air, the sun already beginning to set. They'd spent nearly five hours together, far longer than the quick smoothie hangout Miles had originally anticipated.
"I should probably head home," Kayla said, though she didn't immediately move to leave. "I've got homework I've been avoiding all weekend."
"Same," Miles admitted. "I haven't even started my history paper."
They stood facing each other in the parking lot, neither quite ready to end the day.
"This was fun," Kayla said, meeting his eyes directly. "We should do it again sometime."
"Definitely," Miles agreed, feeling uncharacteristically bold. "Maybe next weekend?"
"I'd like that." Kayla hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward and gave him a quick hug. "Text me when you get home?"
"Sure," Miles said, his brain struggling to process the sensation of her arms briefly around him.
They parted ways, Kayla heading toward the bus stop while Miles began the walk back to his neighborhood. The entire way home, he replayed moments from their time together—her laugh when he'd made a particularly bad joke about protein powder, the way she'd gestured animatedly when talking about music she loved, the feeling of her hand gradually finding his in the darkened theater.
It wasn't until he was halfway home that he realized he'd completely forgotten to check if the Velocity System had any input on the day's events. For once, running, training, and performance metrics had been the furthest things from his mind.
Miles pulled out his phone to text Kayla that he was home (even though he wasn't quite yet), then noticed his unread notifications. Among the various alerts was a simple message from the System that must have appeared at some point during the day:
[Velocity System: Personal development tracking engaged. Non-athletic social integration: Beneficial. Status: Balanced.]
Miles smiled to himself as he put his phone away. Even the System seemed to approve of him having a life beyond the track.
When he finally reached his house, he found Zoe in the same spot on the couch, though she'd transitioned from TikTok to some reality show on Netflix.
"Well?" she prompted as he walked in. "How was your not-date that lasted—" she checked the time, "—six hours?"
"It was good," Miles said, unable to keep a small smile from forming despite his best efforts at nonchalance.
"Just good?" Zoe pressed.
Miles hesitated. "Really good," he amended.
Zoe studied him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "You know, for someone who's suddenly track famous, you're still hilariously awkward about normal teenage stuff."
"Thanks for the support," Miles replied sarcastically, heading for the stairs.
"Anytime, little brother!" Zoe called after him. "By the way, Mom's bringing home pizza again. She'll be back around seven."
In his room, Miles flopped onto his bed, a strange contentment settling over him. Yesterday had been about athletic achievement, about pushing his body to its limits and finding success. Today had been entirely different—connection, conversation, the tentative exploration of something new.
His phone buzzed with a text from Kayla: today was fun. maybe next time we can watch a movie you'll actually watch instead of pretending not to be terrified of horror 😂
Miles laughed, typing back: I was paying attention. The guy with the cape definitely won
ur hopeless she replied, followed by another message: in a cute way tho
Miles stared at the word "cute," his face warming slightly. He was still figuring out how to respond when another text came through:
gtg start this homework. talk tomorrow?
Definitely, Miles replied, finding the word applied to more than just talking.
As he set his phone down, Miles realized that for the first time in weeks, he hadn't thought about his father once all day. No wondering if news of his achievements had reached him, no complicated mix of wanting to prove something while simultaneously rejecting the connection. Today had simply been about Miles—his interests, his enjoyment, his connections to people in the here and now.
The Velocity System might be transforming him as an athlete, but days like today reminded him that he was still just a fourteen-year-old navigating the complexities of high school life. Fast times and medals were one thing; figuring out this new territory with Kayla was another challenge entirely.
And surprisingly, Miles found himself equally motivated to succeed at both.