The stopwatch in Coach Mendez's hand clicked as Miles Carter jogged across the finish line of the 400-meter oval, fifteen seconds behind the rest of the soccer team.
"Carter! That's three laps! You're killing me here," Coach Mendez called out, not even trying to hide his frustration. The rest of the team was already sprawled out by the water coolers, some scrolling through their phones, others glancing over with mild interest.
Miles bit back a response. This was the same coach who'd benched him for the championship game last season despite his twelve goals in fourteen games. The same coach who'd put his nephew in the starting position instead.
"My bad," Miles muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. His mind was elsewhere—stuck on the math test he'd failed yesterday and how his mom would react when she saw it. Soccer felt increasingly pointless with Coach Mendez clearly having his favorites.
Coach Mendez blew his whistle. "Final conditioning drill! Hundred-yard dash, five groups. Winners skip tomorrow's ladder drills."
Miles lined up with the fourth group, standing next to Jason Healy, the team captain who'd made varsity as a freshman and never let anyone forget it.
Jason glanced over, noticing Miles's worn shoes. "Damn, you running in those? That's tough." The comment wasn't even directly insulting, just the perfect blend of observation and judgment that Jason had mastered.
Something tight coiled in Miles's chest. He'd had enough—enough of being overlooked, enough of Coach Mendez's favoritism, enough of Jason and his perfect life with his perfect cleats that probably cost more than Miles's entire wardrobe. His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably his sister Zoe texting that she was locked out again. Mom wouldn't be home from her hospital shift for hours.
"On your mark!" Coach Mendez raised his arm.
Jason dropped into a proper starting position. Miles stood there, casual and disinterested.
"Get set!"
Miles's mind flashed to his father—the only clear memory he had of him running. Eight-year-old Miles watching from the bleachers as his dad demonstrated a perfect start for the high school team he coached before he walked out of their lives.
The whistle blew.
Jason exploded forward. The other three boys strained to keep pace.
Miles took off a half-second late. But once he started running, something clicked.
His body found its rhythm. The world narrowed to the finish line ahead. His feet barely seemed to touch the grass as he accelerated, moving with an effortless speed he didn't even know he possessed.
He caught up to the group, drew even with Jason, and then—
Passed him.
Passed all of them.
He crossed the finish line three full strides ahead of Jason, who stared at him with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Miles hadn't even broken a sweat.
Complete silence fell across the field.
Then his phone buzzed again. Miles pulled it out, seeing Zoe's text: "door locked again. where r u???"
"Coach," Miles called out, already backing away. "Gotta go. Family thing."
As he turned to leave, the world around him seemed to shimmer for just a moment. A faint blue glow appeared at the edge of his vision, and somewhere deep in his mind, he heard a sound like a bell ringing.
DING
Miles shook his head, dismissing it as he broke into a jog toward home. Behind him, he could hear Coach Mendez shouting his name and something that sounded like "...track team!"
He pretended not to hear. Track was his father's sport. And Miles Carter wanted nothing to do with it.
Miles cut across the park, taking the shortcut that shaved five minutes off his walk home. His mind kept replaying that moment on the field—the sensation of pure speed, of moving faster than he'd ever moved before. It felt good. Too good.
He rounded the corner onto Maple Street, spotting Zoe sitting on their apartment steps, backpack beside her, head buried in a book. She didn't look up until his shadow fell across the page.
"Took you long enough," she said, marking her place with a finger. "I've been waiting forever."
"It's been twenty minutes," Miles countered, fishing the key from his pocket. "And you've got a book, so clearly you're suffering."
Zoe rolled her eyes as she stood, shouldering her backpack. "Mom called. She's working a double again."
Miles nodded, unsurprised. Their mom had been picking up extra shifts since Grandma passed, trying to cover the bills that seemed to multiply every month. He unlocked the door and Zoe pushed past him into the apartment.
"There's leftover pasta in the fridge," she informed him, heading straight for the kitchen. "I'm starving."
"Heat some up for me too," Miles called after her, dropping his gym bag by the door.
He made his way down the short hallway to his bedroom, kicking off his shoes as he entered. The walls were still covered with soccer posters—Messi, Ronaldo, Pulisic—remnants from a passion that he no longer felt attached to. He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
That run today. It was different. He'd never moved like that before, not even when he was trying. And that strange blue glow at the edge of his vision...
DING
Miles sat bolt upright. There it was again, that same bell-like sound, but louder this time, reverberating inside his skull. He glanced around his empty room, heart suddenly racing.
"What the hell?" he whispered, pressing his palms against his temples.
The air in his room seemed to thicken, and a translucent blue interface materialized in front of him. Miles blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the screen remained—floating about a foot from his face, glowing with soft blue light.
*****
VELOCITY SYSTEM INITIALIZING...
USER: Miles Carter
AGE: 14 years
TALENT ASSESSMENT IN PROGRESS...
*****
"What the..." Miles whispered, instinctively reaching out to touch the interface. His fingers passed through it, but the screen rippled like water where his hand made contact.
*****
ANALYZING PHYSICAL CAPABILITIES...
SCANNING GENETIC POTENTIAL...
CALCULATING BASELINE METRICS...
*****
"Miles!" Zoe's voice called from the kitchen. "Food's ready!"
"In a minute!" he called back, unable to tear his eyes from the glowing text.
He had to be hallucinating. Maybe he hit his head during practice? Or maybe he was just tired, and this was some weird waking dream. But it felt too real, too present.
*****
TALENT ASSESSMENT COMPLETE
USER: Miles Carter
AGE: 14 years
TALENT ASSESSMENT: Grade-A (Elite Untapped Potential)
VELOCITY POINTS: 0
ATTRIBUTES:
→ Acceleration: A- (Natural gift)
→ Top Speed: A (Exceptional)
→ Endurance: C+ (Undeveloped)
→ Form/Technique: D+ (Inefficient but powerful)
→ Race Strategy: F (Nonexistent)
→ Mental Fortitude: C (Untested)
→ Recovery Rate: B+ (Above average)
EVALUATION: Rare natural talent with potential to break records with proper development.
SYSTEM FUNCTIONS UNLOCKED:
- Attribute Training
- Basic Form Analysis
- Progression Tracking
VELOCITY SYSTEM ACTIVATION COMPLETE
*****
Miles stared at the interface, mouth slightly open. His heart hammered in his chest as he read the assessment over and over. Elite untapped potential? A for top speed? What was this thing?
"Miles!" Zoe shouted, louder this time. "Your food's getting cold!"
"Coming!" he replied automatically, his mind racing.
The blue interface faded slightly, becoming more transparent but still visible. Miles tentatively stood up, and to his surprise, the interface moved with him, maintaining its position relative to his field of vision.
He took a deep breath, trying to process what was happening. This had to be some kind of hallucination. People didn't just suddenly develop... whatever this was. Video game-style interfaces didn't appear in real life.
But the memory of that run today—the effortless speed, the way he'd blown past Jason like he was standing still—made him pause. That hadn't felt normal either.
"Miles Carter!" Zoe was at his door now, hand on the knob. "Are you ignoring me on purpose?"
Miles quickly blinked, and to his surprise, the interface disappeared completely.
"Sorry," he said as she pushed the door open. "Just... thinking about something."
Zoe gave him a suspicious look. "Well, think about your pasta instead. I'm not reheating it again."
As he followed his sister to the kitchen, Miles tried to make sense of what had just happened. The system, whatever it was, had called him a natural talent, with potential to break records.
His father's voice echoed in his memory: "Running's in your blood, Miles. Carter men were born to fly."
Maybe it wasn't just empty words after all.