Three days before Nationals, Kayla stared at her phone, finger hovering over the send button. The message was nothing special—just checking if Miles was as stressed about packing as she was—but she'd rewritten it four times already. When had texting him become so complicated?
"Still drafting your love letter?" Amara dropped onto the bench beside her, peering over her shoulder.
Kayla quickly locked her screen. "It's not a love letter. We're just talking about Nationals."
"Uh-huh." Amara's skepticism was palpable. "That's why you've been staring at your phone for five minutes."
"Four minutes, max," Kayla protested, feeling her cheeks warm. "And I just want to make sure I sound normal."
"Because you're so worried about sounding 'normal' when you text me?" Amara raised an eyebrow. "Face it, Fisher. You've got it bad for Record Boy."
"His name is Miles."
"So defensive," Amara grinned, pulling on her training shoes. "It's cute, actually. Never seen you this hung up on a guy before."
"I'm not hung up," Kayla insisted, though the heat in her face suggested otherwise. "We're friends. We both run track. We're both going to Nationals. That's it."
"And you just happen to check his Instagram three times a day?"
Kayla groaned. "Why are we friends again?"
"Because I keep you honest," Amara replied cheerfully. "Now send the text before Coach catches you with your phone. She's in a mood today."
With a sigh, Kayla hit send before she could overthink it again: how's your nationals packing going? i've changed my bag contents like 5 times already 😭
She tucked her phone away as Coach Torres entered the indoor facility, clipboard in hand and whistle around her neck. The Central girls' track team was down to just four athletes preparing for Nationals—Kayla in the 300m and all four of them in the 4x400 relay.
"Ladies," Coach called them together. "Final preparations today. We're focusing on starts, transitions, and race visualizations. Fisher, you'll work on block technique first while the others do handoff drills."
Kayla nodded, moving toward the starting blocks. As she positioned them carefully on the track, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She resisted the urge to check it immediately.
"Something more important than Nationals preparation, Fisher?" Coach Torres asked, noticing her distraction.
"No, Coach," Kayla replied quickly, refocusing on her block setup.
Only after completing her first set of start drills did Coach give them a short break. Kayla retrieved her water bottle and finally checked her phone.
bro my room looks like my closet exploded 💀 can't decide which spikes to bring
She smiled, typing back: bring all of them duh. gotta have options
His response came quickly: lol u notice how central always wears those gold earrings? team thing or just ur thing
Kayla felt something flutter in her chest. He'd noticed her earrings? She touched one reflexively—the small gold hoops she wore for every meet, part superstition, part fashion choice.
"You're blushing again," Jen Chen observed, appearing beside her. "Must be Westridge boy."
"Why is everyone so obsessed with my text conversations?" Kayla protested.
"Because you get this look," Jen demonstrated an exaggerated dreamy expression. "It's subtle, but it's there."
"I do not look like that."
"Maybe not that extreme," Jen conceded. "But something changes. Like you forget where you are for a second."
Kayla had no good response to that observation, which hit uncomfortably close to the truth. Instead, she changed the subject. "How's your ankle feeling for the relay?"
"Better," Jen replied, allowing the diversion. "Should be at ninety-five percent by Saturday."
Coach Torres blew her whistle, ending their break. As Kayla returned to her drills, she couldn't help wondering if Miles was at practice right now too, preparing for the same competition, thinking about the same pressures—and maybe, just maybe, feeling the same confusing mix of emotions when he saw her name appear on his phone.
Miles adjusted his starting blocks, trying to implement the changes Marcus Johnson had emphasized. Lower hips. Straighter back leg. More weight over the hands. The technical details kept his mind occupied, which was good—otherwise, it might drift to the Nationals pressure, or his world ranking, or a certain Central High sprinter whose texts had been taking up more and more of his screen time lately.
"Your block position looks different," Andre observed, dropping into a crouch beside him to examine the setup. "Johnson's influence?"
Miles nodded. "He changed pretty much everything about my start."
"Smart. Your drive phase was the weakest part of your race." Andre's comment held no criticism, just technical assessment. "Need me to time a few?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Miles settled into his blocks, focusing on the cues Johnson had given him. The gun would sound at Nationals in just three days, and every repetition until then mattered.
At Andre's signal, he exploded forward, driving hard for thirty meters before gradually decelerating. The adjustment felt strange but effective—like his power was transmitting more directly into the track.
"Six-nine to thirty," Andre announced, checking his watch. "That's two-tenths faster than your usual."
The Velocity System confirmed the improvement: Drive phase efficiency: +8.3% from baseline Reaction time: 0.146s (optimal) Power application: 97.2%
Miles reset the blocks for another repetition, his mind drifting momentarily to Kayla's last text. He still hadn't replied to her comment about Nationals accommodations—unsure if his "looking forward to seeing you there" would sound too eager or not eager enough. When had texting become so complicated?
"Earth to Miles," Trey's voice broke through his thoughts. "Coach is calling us in."
Miles jogged over to where Coach Dormer was gathering the Nationals qualifiers—himself, Andre, Trey, and two distance runners.
"Final adjustments today," Coach announced without preamble. "Tomorrow is light technical work only. Thursday is travel day. I want perfect execution now, while you're fresh."
As Coach outlined the practice plan, Miles's phone vibrated in his pocket. He resisted the urge to check it until they broke into their individual training groups.
our team just got matching sweatshirts for nationals. navy with gold lettering = straight fire. what's westridge bringing to the style war?
Miles smiled, typing back: coach dormer isn't big on fashion lol. trey wants us all to get matching haircuts tho 💀
Her response came quickly: pls tell me ur not letting him near ur dreads. what would he even do???
idk that's what scares me
"Must be Central girl," Andre observed, having materialized silently beside him. "You get this look when you text with her."
Miles quickly pocketed his phone. "What look?"
"Like someone who's about to PR in the smile event," Trey interjected, joining them uninvited. "It's both heartwarming and nauseating."
"Don't you have hurdles to knock over?" Miles asked pointedly.
"Already crushed my workout," Trey replied cheerfully. "Just here for moral support and relationship commentary."
"There's no relationship," Miles insisted automatically.
Andre and Trey exchanged knowing glances that made Miles want to disappear into the track surface.
"Sure, bro," Trey patted his shoulder. "And I'm just going to Nationals for the participation certificate."
Coach Dormer's whistle saved Miles from further teasing, calling them back for relay exchanges. As he took his position for the 4x200 practice, Miles found his mind split between technical execution and wondering if Kayla dealt with the same friendly interrogation from her teammates.
His focus gradually returned as practice intensity increased. Coach Dormer pushed them hard, demanding perfect execution in every drill and repetition. By the time they finished, Miles felt physically drained but technically sharper.
"Carter," Coach called as they began their cooldown. "A word."
Miles jogged over, wondering if he'd made some mistake in practice.
"Your three hundred start position is improving," Coach said, checking notes on his clipboard. "Johnson's adjustments are paying off. How's the visualization coming along?"
"Good, I think," Miles replied. "Been running the races every night before bed."
Coach nodded, expression thoughtful. "Nationals is different. Atmosphere, pressure, competition level—it all feels bigger. Don't let it get in your head. The track's still two hundred meters around, finish line's in the same place."
"Yes, Coach."
"One more thing," Coach added. "Times matter less than execution at this level. Run your race, not theirs."
It echoed what Marcus Johnson had told him, reinforcing the importance of the mental approach. As Miles finished his cooldown, his phone buzzed again.
coach just showed us the heat sheets. i'm in heat 3 of the girls 300. you're in heat 1 of the boys. back-to-back races
Miles felt a small jolt of excitement—he'd get to see her race right after his own. good luck for me = good luck for you then
basically we're each other's good luck charms. it's science
He smiled at that, typing: the ice cream charm is definitely coming with me. extra scientific backup
knew you'd take it. see? i've got you figured out, carter
do you though? The question slipped out before he could overthink it.
There was a longer pause before her reply: working on it. that's the fun part
Miles stared at those words, reading more into them than was probably wise. What exactly did she mean by "the fun part"? Was she flirting? Were they flirting? He had no frame of reference for this—his previous interactions with girls had been limited to group projects and awkward school dances.
Before he could formulate a response, another text came through: gotta go. dinner with the relay team tonight. talk tomorrow?
definitely. good luck with your team dinner
thanks. hopefully less teasing about you than usual
Miles reread that last text three times. They teased her about him? Just like his teammates teased him about her? He wasn't sure if that made things better or more complicated.
"So when are you and Westridge boy making it official?" Jen asked, reaching for another breadstick.
Kayla fought the urge to bang her head against the restaurant table. The Central relay team dinner was supposed to be about bonding and strategy for Nationals, but somehow the conversation had circled back to Miles for the third time.
"There's nothing to make official," she insisted. "We just text."
"You mean text 24/7," Maya Patel added. "And get all smiley when you do it."
"I don't get smiley," Kayla protested.
"Cap," Amara pointed out helpfully.
Kayla silently cursed her fair complexion that made every flush of emotion visible. "Can we please focus on the relay? You know, the reason we're going to Nationals?"
"We've been focusing for months," Jen waved dismissively. "One dinner to talk about something fun won't hurt."
"Besides," Maya added, "team chemistry is important for relay success. And understanding your love life is part of our chemistry."
"There is no love life to understand," Kayla insisted, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.
"Okay," Amara adopted a more serious tone. "Then explain why you've saved every text conversation with him since States."
Kayla stared at her supposed best friend in betrayal. "How do you—"
"You left your phone unlocked when you went to the bathroom at my house," Amara admitted without remorse. "I saw you have his convo pinned."
"Invasion of privacy much?"
"Bestie privileges," Amara countered. "And you're avoiding the question."
Kayla sighed, recognizing defeat. "Fine. I like talking to him. He gets the track stuff but doesn't make everything about times and records. He's funny in this quiet way. And he..." she trailed off, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
"He what?" Maya prompted gently.
"He sees me," Kayla finished simply. "Not just as a runner or whatever. He notices things."
The table fell silent for a moment, her teammates' teasing expressions softening.
"Like what things?" Jen asked, genuine curiosity replacing her playful tone.
"My earrings," Kayla touched one unconsciously. "That I get frustrated with my starts. How I actually hate math even though I'm good at it." She shrugged, embarrassed by the admission. "Just... details."
"That's actually kind of sweet," Maya said.
"So when are you seeing him at Nationals?" Amara asked, mercifully moving the conversation to more practical territory.
"Our three hundreds are back-to-back," Kayla replied. "His heat, then mine."
"Perfect," Jen nodded approvingly. "You can wish each other luck right before. Very romantic."
"It's not—" Kayla began automatically, then stopped herself. "Whatever. Think what you want."
"We will," Amara assured her. "Now, about our relay strategy..."
As the conversation finally turned to their actual event, Kayla found her thoughts drifting. Would she and Miles find time to talk at Nationals? Would it be awkward in person after all their texting? And why did the thought of seeing him make her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with pre-competition nerves?
The day before departure, Miles went through his gear one final time. Uniform, check. Compression layers, check. Spikes—both pairs—check. Warmups, check. The list went on, each item carefully placed in his track bag to ensure nothing would be forgotten.
The ice cream keychain from Kayla hung from the side pocket, catching the light as he moved the bag. He'd attached it the day after his birthday, and somehow it had become a small comfort—a reminder that regardless of how the competition went, there would be ice cream and conversation to look forward to after.
His phone buzzed with a text from Andre: bus leaves 6am sharp tomorrow. coach says if you're late you're finding your own way to boston
i'll be ready, Miles replied, setting an alarm for 4:30 AM just to be safe.
Another text came through, this one from Kayla: all packed? central team heading out at 5:30 tomorrow
almost. just triple-checking everything. and we leave at 6
nervous?
The simple question deserved an honest answer. a little. you?
terrified af
Her candor made him smile. at least we'll be terrified together
together but separate. central staying at the hampton, u?
marriott. like 10 min from the track
close enough for ice cream after?
win or lose
nah we winning. didn't come all this way just to participate
Miles laughed out loud. confidence looks good on u fisher
thanks for noticing 💅
He remembered complimenting her confidence after States. The fact that she was playing with it now sent a warm feeling through his chest.
nervous but ready, he typed. see you at the track
look for navy sweatshirt and gold earrings. i'll look for the dreads and ice cream charm
bet
As Miles zipped his bag closed, the Velocity System activated:
Pre-competition assessment: Optimal Technical readiness: 97% Mental preparation: 94% Equipment check: Complete Final recommendation: Maintain focus on execution, not outcome
The advice echoed what both Coach Dormer and Marcus Johnson had emphasized. Focus on execution, not outcome. Run his race, not anyone else's.
With his bag packed and preparations complete, Miles stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. In less than 48 hours, he'd be competing on the biggest stage of his young career. The thought should have terrified him, but instead, he felt a strange calm—a readiness that came from months of training, weeks of visualization, and the knowledge that regardless of what happened on the track, he wouldn't be facing it alone.
The Central team bus pulled away from the school parking lot at precisely 5:30 AM, the sky still dark as they began the journey to Boston. Kayla rested her head against the window, watching the familiar streets of her neighborhood disappear behind them.
Amara slumped in the seat beside her, already half-asleep despite the travel mug of coffee clutched in her hand. The bus was quieter than usual—all of them feeling the weight of what lay ahead.
Coach Torres moved down the aisle, checking in with each athlete. When she reached Kayla, she paused. "How are you feeling, Fisher?"
"Ready, Coach," Kayla replied, more confidently than she felt.
Coach studied her for a moment. "Your training's been solid. Trust it."
"Yes, Coach."
As Coach continued down the aisle, Kayla pulled out her phone, wondering if Miles was on his way yet too. She hesitated, not wanting to seem overeager by texting first. But before she could decide, a message appeared on her screen:
bus just left. omw north. you?
A smile spread across her face as she replied: same. 30 min ahead of you
race you to boston? 🏃💨
pretty sure our drivers aren't taking requests lol. save the racing for the track
no fun smh
She smiled again, the simple exchange somehow easing her pre-competition tension. serious question tho - how many pairs of socks did you pack?
six. that weird?
lmao amateur. i brought eight
didn't know sock prep was this serious smh. nationals level requires nationals sock game
Their conversation continued intermittently as both buses made their way north, discussing everything from their pre-meet meal plans to their warmup music playlists. It felt normal in a way that calmed her nerves—just two athletes sharing the same journey, literally and figuratively.
Three hours into the trip, Amara finally fully awakened beside her. "Morning, sunshine," Kayla greeted her. "Welcome to consciousness."
Amara grunted, reaching for her water bottle. "Tell me we're almost there."
"About an hour out," Kayla checked the map on her phone. "Should arrive around 9:30."
Amara squinted at Kayla's phone. "Still texting Romeo?"
"His name is—"
"Miles, I know," Amara finished for her. "Just checking if you're still pretending this is casual."
Kayla sighed. "Can we not do this at 8:30 in the morning?"
"Fine," Amara conceded. "But only because I'm caffeine-deprived. When we stop for breakfast, all bets are off."
The bus eventually pulled into the parking lot of an IHOP just outside Boston city limits. As they filed off the bus, Kayla checked her phone one more time.
just crossed into massachusetts. stopping for food soon. you?
at ihop off route 93. blue awning. look for the navy sweatshirts if you guys stop here too
She glanced around the restaurant parking lot, suddenly wondering if their teams might cross paths here. The thought both excited and terrified her.
When she entered the restaurant, her eyes automatically scanned the space, but there was no sign of the Westridge team. Of course not—they were still at least half an hour behind.
After breakfast, they boarded the bus for the final leg to their hotel. As they pulled away, Kayla spotted another school bus turning into the parking lot. She couldn't make out the school name on the side, but she found herself wondering if Miles might be on it, arriving just as they were leaving.
did your bus just pull into ihop with the blue awning? she texted.
The response came a minute later: yea! that was u leaving?
just missed each other
of course lol. different heats as usual
until tomorrow
until tomorrow 👀
The simple exchange carried a weight of anticipation that stayed with Kayla as their bus navigated the final miles to their hotel. By this time tomorrow, they'd both have competed on the national stage—their months of training, visualization, and preparation culminating in less than a minute of all-out effort on the track.
But before that, they'd see each other. Not through texts or social media, but in person. The thought sent a flutter through her chest that had nothing to do with competition nerves.
The Westridge bus pulled into the Marriott parking lot at 11:15 AM, Coach Dormer immediately organizing room assignments and check-in procedures with military precision. Miles found himself rooming with Andre, which suited him fine—Andre valued pre-competition quiet as much as he did.
After dropping their bags in the room, the team regrouped for a course walkthrough. The national championship venue was less than a mile away, and Coach insisted they familiarize themselves with the facility a day early to eliminate any competition-day surprises.
As they approached the massive indoor track complex in Boston, Miles felt the reality of what lay ahead finally sink in. This was The Armory at the New Balance Track & Field Center—home to some of the fastest high school and collegiate times in the country. The same track where professionals competed. Where records fell. Where careers began.
Inside, several teams were already touring the facility. The Westridge athletes moved as a unit, led by Coach Dormer who pointed out check-in locations, warmup areas, and clerk stations. Miles absorbed every detail, mentally running through his pre-race routine in each space.
"Carter," Coach called him over as the others examined the hydraulic track. "Your events—sixty preliminary at ten tomorrow, three hundred prelim at two. Assuming qualification, finals Sunday afternoon."
"Yes, Coach," Miles nodded, having memorized the schedule already.
"Central team arrived yet?" Coach asked unexpectedly.
Miles blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I don't—I'm not sure," he stammered.
Coach's expression remained neutral. "Torres usually does facility walkthrough right after check-in. Thought you might have heard from your Central acquaintance."
The fact that Coach Dormer knew about his communication with Kayla was simultaneously embarrassing and impressive. Nothing escaped the man's notice.
"Haven't heard anything specific," Miles replied, trying to sound casual.
Coach merely nodded. "Stay focused. Walkthrough is for mental preparation, not socialization."
"Yes, Coach."
As they continued touring the facility, Miles found his gaze drifting toward the entrance, wondering if Kayla's team might appear. They didn't, and he told himself the disappointment he felt was ridiculous. He'd see her tomorrow. One more day wouldn't change anything.
By the time they returned to the hotel, Miles was mentally exhausted from the travel and visualization. He and Andre ordered room service rather than joining the others in the hotel restaurant, both preferring to conserve energy and focus.
"Ready for tomorrow?" Andre asked as they ate, breaking their comfortable silence.
Miles considered the question. "As ready as I'll get, I think."
Andre nodded. "First nationals is a milestone. Most people just try to take it in. You're actually favored to medal."
The reminder of expectations sent a ripple of anxiety through Miles. "Trying not to think about that part."
"Smart," Andre approved. "Johnson give you any national-level race strategy?"
"Focus on execution, not outcome," Miles recited. "The track doesn't know who's supposed to win."
"Solid advice," Andre nodded. "That's how I'm approaching the four hundred. One lap, all out, no thinking about who's next to me."
Their conversation drifted to technical aspects of their events, the familiar territory helping Miles relax. As they finished eating, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
"Go ahead," Andre said with a knowing smile. "I'll clean up."
Miles checked the message: at the track rn. this place is HUGE. definitely not counties anymore lol
we were there earlier. intimidating but kinda exciting too?
fr! scared but like in a good way. team dinner tonight then early bed. gl tomorrow if i don't see u before ur heat
thanks. u too. i'll be watching ur 300
same. for technical reasons only ofc
obv. nothing to do with seeing if i actually use that olympic training
exactly. purely professional interest. sleep well carter
u too fisher. tmrw 👊
As Miles set his phone down, he caught Andre watching him with an amused expression.
"What?" Miles asked defensively.
"Nothing," Andre shrugged. "Just interesting to see the national record holder get flustered over texts."
Miles threw a pillow at him, which Andre caught easily. "I'm not flustered."
"Sure," Andre replied, unconvinced. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day."
Miles settled into bed early, reviewing his race strategy one final time before closing his eyes. The Velocity System provided a final update:
Competition preparation: Complete
Technical readiness: Optimal
Gear check: Verified
Final recommendation: Trust your training. Execute your race. The outcome will follow.
As sleep began to claim him, Miles found his thoughts drifting between race visualization and wondering what navy sweatshirt with gold lettering might look like. His last conscious thought was simple: whatever happened tomorrow, at least there would be ice cream after.
And maybe something even better than ice cream.