The sun blazes high overhead, the heat rippling off the track like waves of pressure. Milo rolls his neck, shaking out his arms, his muscles wound tight like springs about to snap.
"This is it."
He plants his feet at the starting line, body coiled, every nerve in his body firing with energy. He has to win this. He will win this.
To his right, Jamal "Jet" Anderson stands tall, barely stretching, a lazy smirk on his face. He doesn't need to warm up. He doesn't need to care.
Further down, Corey Thompson methodically adjusts his stance, his eyes cold and calculating, like he's already mapped out how this race is going to end.
And on the far end, Darnell Reed bounces on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders, his thick, powerful frame like a coiled beast ready to be unleashed.
Coach Bryant steps forward, stopwatch in hand. "This race decides your spots in the 4x400. No holding back. Give me everything you've got."
Milo's fingers twitch.
"Everything I've got? That's more than enough."
The whistle blasts.
BOOM.
Milo erupts off the line like a gunshot.
His arms pump like pistons, his legs burning the track beneath him. The world blurs as he surges forward, the wind slicing past his ears.
And just like that—
He's ahead.
His footfalls thunder against the track as he eats up meters. Corey's pacing himself. Darnell hasn't reached full speed. Jamal isn't even moving seriously yet.
But Milo? He's FLYING.
"I can win this. I can win this!"
The first 150 meters belong to him.
Then—
Reality hits like a brick wall.
Corey closes in first. His breathing is steady, his stride smooth. Where Milo is fire, Corey is ice. Controlled. Calculated. No wasted movement. He doesn't even look at Milo as he overtakes him.
At 200 meters, Darnell starts his charge. His heavy footfalls shake the track, his massive frame powering forward with brute force. Milo pushes, but it's like running against a tidal wave.
"No—No, I won't let them pass me!"
250 meters.
Jamal finally moves.
No struggle. No wasted energy. He doesn't sprint—he flows.
Like gravity doesn't apply to him.
Like he was built for this.
His long, gliding strides devour the track.
Milo pumps his legs harder, but he can't keep up.
Their strides are longer. Their reach is greater. They don't even have to try as hard as him.
300 meters.
Corey pulls away.
Darnell blows past him.
350 meters.
Jamal is gone.
Milo's chest burns. His legs feel like lead. His body is screaming at him to stop.
"Not again. NOT AGAIN!"
He lunges forward, arms slicing, lungs begging for air—
400 meters.
He crosses.
Dead. Last.
The world spins as he stumbles to a stop, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the track.
Jamal stands ahead, barely winded, shaking his head with a grin. "You really came out like a rocket, huh?"
Corey exhales through his nose, hands on his hips. "Yeah. Too bad rockets burn out."
Darnell stretches his arms over his head, smirking. "Not gonna lie, I was worried for a second. Thought you were actually gonna hold us off."
Milo grits his teeth. They're laughing it off. Like it was never a question. Like he was never a threat.
Coach Bryant steps forward. "That settles it."
Jamal leans back, tapping his chest. "Guess that means I'm anchor."
Coach nods. "Jamal, you're finishing. Corey, second leg. Darnell, third."
Then he looks at Milo.
"You're leading off."
Milo's heart drops.
Corey shrugs. "Makes sense. Kid's got a good start. We just need to make sure we're close enough to make up for anything later."
Darnell nods. "Yeah, we'll be fine as long as he doesn't drop off too early."
Jamal grins, slapping Milo's shoulder. "Don't worry, man. We got you."
Like they're covering for him.
Like they're fixing his mistakes.
Milo clenches his jaw.
Coach watches him for a long moment before exhaling. "Carter, you run like your life depends on it. But that speed only lasts so long."
Milo meets his eyes.
"You know why?" Coach gestures toward the others. "You're shorter than them. Their strides are longer. You have to work twice as hard to keep up."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
"Their strides are longer."
That's the difference.
That's the gap he can't close.
Jamal. Corey. Darnell. They didn't just beat him because they were better.
They were built to win.
Milo stands frozen as the others jog off, laughing, throwing their arms around each other.
Like this race was just confirmation.
Like it was never even a question.
He grips his shirt.
"I trained harder. I worked for this. But I can't change—"
His breathing shakes.
"—I can't change my height."
Coach claps his hands. "That's it for today. Hit cooldowns."
Milo doesn't move.
He just stands there.
Watching the distance between him and them.
That night, he stares at the ceiling.
The coach's words won't leave his head.
"Their strides are longer."
He clenches his fists.
Tomorrow is basketball tryouts.
If track isn't where he proves himself—then basketball has to be.
This can't happen again.
Tomorrow, he takes his spot.
No more limits. No more "falling short."
He WILL make the team.
The next afternoon, Milo steps into the gym.
The air is thick with the scent of rubber and sweat. Sneakers squeak against the hardwood. The sound of a ball bouncing echoes around him.
This time, no one decides his worth but him.