Milo wakes up early, determined. He ties his shoes, thinking aloud, "Another day, another chance to get better."
J.J. joins him outside, grinning. "Ready for some early morning torture?"
"Always," Milo replies with a smile, as they start jogging.
On their route, they pass Lila, who looks up briefly, then quickly looks down. "Morning, Lila," Milo says. She nods shyly, barely audible, "Morning."
At basketball practice, the coach blows the whistle. "Carter, pick up the pace!" Milo hustles but feels overshadowed by the starters. "I'm giving it my all," he mutters under his breath.
Later, at track practice, he lines up for the relay. "Focus, Milo," he tells himself, feeling the pressure.
As the day ends, he sits on the bleachers, talking to J.J. "I've got to make this year count. Basketball, track... I need to find where I truly belong."
J.J. nods. "You will. Just keep pushing."
Milo leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the cool evening air settling in around the emptying track. J.J. sits beside him, flipping through his phone, probably checking stats from some game he doesn't even watch.
"You ever think about just... quitting?" Milo asks, his voice low.
J.J. barely glances up. "You? Quit? Nah. You wouldn't know how."
Milo exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Feels like no matter how hard I push, it's never enough. Coach barely looks my way in basketball. Track guys act like I'm just along for the ride."
J.J. adjusts his glasses, finally giving Milo his full attention. "You're still here, though. And you're still training."
Milo doesn't answer right away. He watches a few of the sprinters joke around near the hurdles, moving like they belong. He wonders if they even realize what it's like to fight just to be noticed.
J.J. stretches his arms, groaning dramatically. "Look, man. You keep saying you wanna prove yourself. So do it. Nobody's gonna hand you anything." He gives Milo a pointed look. "Besides, if you quit, who else is gonna make my job as team manager worth it? You know how boring it is to record stats for guys who actually get playtime?"
Milo smirks despite himself. "Yeah, we wouldn't want that."
"Exactly. Now come on, let's hit the gym before you start sulking for real."
Milo raises an eyebrow. "You don't even work out."
J.J. scoffs. "And I don't plan to. But I do plan to sit there and complain while you do. Let's go."
They head to Wilson's Gym, the familiar clang of weights and faint scent of chalk greeting them as they walk in.
Behind the front desk, Emma Wilson is leaning over a notebook, tapping a pen against the counter. She looks up as they enter, lips curving into a smirk. "Well, well. If it isn't the hardest-working benchwarmer in the city."
Milo groans. "Not you too."
J.J. snickers. "She's not wrong, though."
Emma tosses her pen down. "Hey, I give credit where it's due. Nobody trains harder than you, Milo. Even if Coach Davis won't admit it."
Milo sighs, shaking his head. "Appreciate it, Em."
She waves them in. "Dad's in the back. Try not to break anything."
Milo just nods. He's been training here for years—long enough to know that Mr. Wilson, Emma's father, is always watching. Even when he isn't looking directly at you, he knows.
As they weave through the gym, past regulars and heavy bags swinging from their chains, Milo heads straight for the squat rack. J.J. plops onto a nearby bench, earbuds in, watching some deep-dive video on sports analytics—his version of training.
Milo rolls his shoulders, stepping under the bar. "Three sets of ten," he mutters to himself.
A shadow moves in the corner of his vision. Mr. Wilson.
The old boxer stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching silently. No words, no nods, no corrections. Just watching.
Milo grips the bar tighter, lowering into his first rep. He doesn't need words. The presence alone is enough.
The weights feel heavier than usual, but he grits through the sets, pushing past the burning in his legs. Each rep is a reminder—of what he's chasing, of what he refuses to let slip away.
After a while, J.J. yawns dramatically. "You done killing yourself yet?"
Milo breathes heavily, nodding. "Yeah."
As he racks the weights, he catches Mr. Wilson still watching. A brief pause, then the old boxer moves away, heading toward the back of the gym. No comments. No advice. Just that silent, steady presence.
Emma walks by with a towel slung over her shoulder, glancing at her dad before looking at Milo. "You know, he only watches people he respects."
Milo exhales, running a hand over his face. "Then maybe one day he'll say something."
Emma grins. "Doubt it. He's been this way my whole life. But hey, at least you're in the 'Wilson Gym Inner Circle.' That's something, right?"
Milo shakes his head with a tired chuckle. "Yeah. Something."
————————————————
That night, as he lies in bed, sleep doesn't come easy. His body aches, but his mind races.
Tryouts are coming.
This is his last year. His last shot.
All the work, all the hours in the gym, all the sweat—this has to be the year it pays off.
Coach Davis has to see it.
The guys on the team have to recognize it.
This time next week, he won't be sitting on the bench.
This time next week, he'll finally be where he belongs.
He closes his eyes, clinging to that thought.