As dawn came, Liam was one of the only students at the school. A light mist clung to the track, and the cold in the air pinched at his skin. He stepped across the damp ground, shoes crunching lightly on gravel, his breath forming clouds in the chill. After changing in the quiet, echoing locker room, he rolled his shoulders and began to stretch, muscles stiff but responsive under his fingertips.
Inside the gym, fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. The clang of metal greeted him. He deadlifted two hundred and fifty pounds—grit in his palms, the bar rough beneath his fingers. Five reps, four sets. Sweat broke along his forehead by the second set. His shirt stuck lightly to his back.
Then came bench press, two hundred pounds. The padded surface of the bench was cool against his skin. He lowered and pushed in rhythm, arms straining, chest burning, breath quickening. Twelve reps, five sets.
Hip thrusts followed. Then hamstring curls—metal clinking, cables groaning with each pull. For squats, the bar bit into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. Each controlled movement sent a deep ache through his quads and glutes.
Weighted pull-ups came next. The strap around his waist dug in slightly. Eight per rep, five sets. He grunted softly with each lift, arms shaking by the end.
Finally, curls— thirty-pound dumbbells. He gripped tightly, knuckles whitening. Alternated arms. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face as he hit thirty-five reps each side.
Then the treadmill. He tapped the screen, set the timer, and started his run. The belt rumbled beneath him. Half an hour. His breathing grew ragged, shirt soaked, legs on fire.
He stumbled off and grabbed his bottle, cool condensation wetting his fingers as he drank. His chest heaved.
"You're here early, Liam," said a man as he walked into the gym.
Liam turned, wiping the back of his hand across his damp forehead. "Yes, coach, I already finished my morning training," he said, his voice still heavy with breath.
"I see. That's good. Keep up the good work," said Liam's coach, nodding slightly as he approached, arms folded.
"Yes, coach. I need to reach my goal as soon as possible." Liam straightened up and looked him in the eye, voice steady despite the fatigue etched in his posture.
"I know, and I'm really impressed with your work ethic. You haven't missed a single day of training."
Liam Ainsworth, a foreign student from the United Kingdom. Age sixteen. Second-year. One hundred and ninety-eight centimeters tall with a powerfully built frame—lean, muscular, disciplined. But the hundred-meter sprint is a race of speed, not strength. Eleven point one seconds was the best he'd clocked. His coach had started to worry he was chasing a goal that didn't suit him. And he hated the idea of having to be the one to say so.
"Alright, coach. I'm going to finish my morning training with a light thirty-minute jog. See you later," Liam said, rolling his neck and stepping toward the door.
"Wait, Liam. Before you go, I want to ask you something," said the coach, his tone lowering as a frown creased his brow.
Liam paused, one hand on the doorframe. "What is it, coach?" he asked, turning around.
"What exactly drives you to want to become a hundred-meter sprinter? I mean, it doesn't really make sense to me. You are so tall, massive, and powerful, so why did you choose to be on the track when you're more suited for field events like shot put or discus?"
Liam scratched the back of his head and shifted his weight slightly. "Well, you see, my uncle really likes sprinting, so that's why I'm training to become a sprinter, and that's all there is to it," he said, voice even, though he avoided the coach's eyes for a second.
"You've got to be kidding me. That's it? That's what compels you to be a sprinter?" The coach stepped closer, arms still folded, eyebrows raised. "If that's the case, then you won't make it very far. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. So what you mean to tell me is that you aren't doing it for yourself but for your uncle, who likes to watch hundred-meter races?"
Liam exhaled lightly and met his coach's eyes again. "Well, that's practically what I just said."
"So you make all these sacrifices just so your uncle can watch a high school race?" the coach asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yes, that's the main reason," Liam said, voice quiet but firm.
""Listen to me, Liam." The coach's voice hardened. He unfolded his arms, stepping forward. "Every real sprinter—" he said, voice low but firm, "—has that fire. That need to win. To outrun everyone else on the track."
He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing.
"That's what drives them. That's why they train until their legs feel like lead. Why they throw up after practice and still come back the next day hungry for more."
He paused, watching Liam carefully. "It's the thrill of the chase. The obsession with getting faster. Competing against someone better—stronger—that's what keeps a sprinter alive on that track."
Another beat. His voice lowered. "So how can you stand there, look me in the eye, and say you're doing all this... just because your uncle likes sprinting?"
"Liam's lips parted for a second—but he shut them again, swallowing hard. His fingers twitched at his sides, still damp with sweat. The air between them felt heavy.
"There's nothing more to say, coach," he said quietly. "Because that's the complete and honest truth."
His jaw tightened. A vein ticked in his temple. "I will become the best sprinter in Japan... and I'll make my uncle proud. That's all I need."
A flash of movement caught his eye—Naomi darting past the open gym doors, her stride effortless, hair trailing behind her.
Liam smirked faintly, the tension in his face easing just a little.
"Besides," he added, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's not every day a guy gets to train alongside beautiful Japanese girls this early in the morning."
He met his coach's eyes again—briefly, a flicker of mischief behind the exhaustion—then turned for the door. "I'll see you later when training starts, coach."
And with that, he jogged off, footsteps soft but steady against the gym floor.
The coach watched him go, shoulders dropping slightly with a sigh.
"Such a waste of talent and potential," he muttered under his breath. "If only he knew that he was meant for something greater than an eleven-point-one second hundred-meter dash."
The cool air hit Liam's skin as he picked up speed. His legs ached but moved on instinct. The track surface was firm underfoot. Mist lingered near the fences, slowly dissipating as the sun rose.
He spotted Naomi up ahead, her pace smooth, ponytail swinging behind her.
Liam caught up beside her, breathing controlled. "Good morning, Nakamura," he said, slowing slightly to match her pace.
"Oh, it's you, Liam, right? You're here early again today," Naomi said with a friendly glance his way.
"Yes, I have to get faster. The track meet is quickly approaching, and with a time as slow as mine, I'd probably come in last place." His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of tension in his brow.
"Yes, you're right. I'm getting sort of anxious about the upcoming track meet, but let's do our best, okay?" Naomi said, offering a reassuring smile.
"Yes, for sure," Liam said, watching her smile linger. Damn, she's so cute, he thought, cheeks warming slightly as he looked forward again.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed someone approaching along the outer fence.
As time passed, Hayato strolled beside the track, sneakers brushing against the gravel edge.
"Wait, what's Hayato doing at school so early?" Liam muttered, veering toward the fence.
"Hayato!" he called out as he jogged over.
"Huh? Oh, it's you, Liam. You're out here early," Hayato replied, blinking in surprise.
"Yes, I have to. I mean, it's called morning training for a reason," Liam said, slightly breathless but smiling.
"I like your enthusiasm, my foreign friend," Hayato said, grinning as he pushed his hair out of his face. "So, why are you out here so early?"
"Well, I couldn't sleep a wink last night after that practice match we had against Yokonan yesterday," Hayato said with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Oh, I almost forgot! You told me you had a match. So how did it go? Did you win?" Liam said.
Hayato shook his head. "No, we lost. Yokonan High was obviously the better team. However, we only lost by a single point—ninety to eighty-nine."
"You guys did great then, and you have a lot of time to improve your game to get revenge the next time you meet," Liam said, a smile on his face.
"Yes, which is exactly why I'm out here so early. I'm going to work on my skills in the basketball gym," Hayato said, voice sharpening with focus.
"Okay, all the best, Hayato. Good luck with your training," Liam said, ready to turn back toward the track.
"On that note," Hayato added, "why don't you come over and spend a minute or two? It's been a while since we played together. Ever since that class vs. class match, we haven't had the chance. You've been busy with training, and I've been... well, you know, focusing on my game. So what do you say?"
Liam hesitated, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His lips curled into a grin.
"You know what? Yeah, why not?" he said. "Let's see what you've got."
"Great! I'll meet you in the gym after you're done with your run!" Hayato called, already turning away with a wave.
"Sounds good. I'll see you there," Liam replied, then turned back onto the track.
His legs felt heavy, his shirt clung to him, but somehow—after all that—he felt lighter.