As dawn broke, Liam was one of the few students at the school. A thin mist clung to the track, and the cold air nipped at his skin.
He stepped across the damp gravel, shoes crunching softly, breath rising in white clouds.
After changing in the quiet, echoing locker room, he rolled his shoulders and stretched, muscles stiff yet responsive beneath his fingertips.
Inside the gym, fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. The clang of metal greeted him as he approached the barbell.
He deadlifted two hundred and fifty pounds, feeling the rough texture of the bar beneath his palms and the grit of effort in his hands. Five reps, four sets. By the second set, sweat had begun to bead on his forehead, and his shirt stuck lightly to his back, damp from the exertion.
Then came the bench press, two hundred pounds. The padded surface of the bench felt cool against his skin.
He lowered the bar and pushed it back up in steady rhythm, arms straining, chest burning, breath quickening. Twelve reps, five sets.
Hip thrusts followed, each lift precise and controlled. Then hamstring curls—metal clinking, cables groaning with each pull.
For squats, the bar pressed into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, each controlled movement sending a deep ache through his quads and glutes.
Weighted pull-ups came next, the strap around his waist digging in slightly. Eight per rep, five sets. He grunted softly with each lift, arms trembling by the end of the final set.
Finally, curls with thirty-pound dumbbells. He gripped them tightly, knuckles whitening, alternating arms with careful control. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face as he completed thirty-five reps on each side.
Then the treadmill. He tapped the screen, set the timer, and began his run. The belt rumbled beneath his feet. Half an hour. His breathing grew ragged, shirt soaked through, legs burning with every step.
When he stumbled off, he grabbed his bottle, the cool condensation wetting his fingers as he drank. His chest heaved, lungs demanding air, but he welcomed the sting of exhaustion.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped into the gym, footsteps soft against the polished floor.
"You're up early today, Liam." His eyes scanned the empty room as he shifted his weight slightly.
Liam brushed damp hair from his forehead, fingers slick with sweat.
"Yes, coach… I finished my morning training already." His voice was quiet, still heavy from exertion, but steady, and he flexed his shoulders as he spoke.
The coach folded his arms, leaning slightly on one leg.
"I see… that's good. You're keeping a solid routine." The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the pause as he nodded once, studying Liam's posture.
Liam straightened, shoulders rolling back, and met the coach's gaze, voice steady despite the lingering fatigue.
"Yes… I have to reach my goal. I can't fall behind."
The coach shifted his weight, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights filling the pause.
"I see… I'm really impressed, you know. Not a single day skipped—your dedication is something else."
The coach leaned against the edge of the gym, eyes following Liam as he moved. Liam Ainsworth… sixteen, foreign student from the United Kingdom. Second-year. Nearly two meters tall, and built like a tank—lean, muscular, disciplined.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against his forearm. But a hundred-meter sprint isn't about strength. It's about speed. Eleven point one seconds… that's the best he's managed so far.
A frown creased his brow. I can't help but worry he's chasing a goal that doesn't suit him. And I hate that it's me who has to face the truth.
"Alright… I'm going to finish my morning training with a light thirty-minute jog. See you later." Liam rolled his neck, the muscles stiff beneath his fingers, and stepped toward the door.
The coach's brow creased as he shifted his weight, voice lowering.
"Wait, Liam… before you go, I need to ask you something."
Liam froze, hand resting on the doorframe, eyes flicking back.
"What is it… coach?"
The coach leaned slightly forward, fingers tapping against his arm.
"What exactly drives you… to want to become a hundred-meter sprinter? It doesn't make sense to me. You're so tall, powerful… why choose the track when field events like shot put or discus would suit you better?"
Liam scratched the back of his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Well… my uncle really likes sprinting. That's why I'm training to become a sprinter. That's… all there is to it." His gaze flicked away for a brief second, voice even but measured.
The coach stepped closer, eyebrows rising as his gaze sharpened.
"You've got to be kidding me… that's it? That's what drives you to be a sprinter?" He leaned slightly, the faint scrape of his shoes against the floor audible.
"If that's the case, you won't get very far. So… you're not doing it for yourself, but for your uncle, who enjoys watching hundred-meter races?"
Liam exhaled slowly, shoulders tensing for a moment before he met the coach's eyes.
"Well… that's practically what I just said."
The coach's eyes narrowed slightly.
"So all these sacrifices… just so your uncle can watch a high school race?"
Liam straightened, jaw firm, voice quiet but unwavering.
"Yes… that's the main reason."
"Listen to me, Liam." The coach's voice dropped, firm and unyielding. He unfolded his arms and stepped forward, the scrape of his shoes against the floor echoing softly.
"Every real sprinter…" His gaze sharpened, voice low but steady, "...has that fire. That need to win. To outrun everyone else on the track."
He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing as he studied Liam's expression.
"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."
"It's the thrill of the chase… the obsession with getting faster. Competing against someone stronger—that's what keeps a sprinter alive on the track."
Another beat passed, voice lowering.
"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 fingers twitched at his sides, damp with sweat. He swallowed, jaw tight, and his gaze dropped for a moment. The quiet hum of the gym stretched between them.
A memory flickered, vivid and uneasy. He was twelve, sitting on the couch, flipping through a sports channel. His uncle leaned over the armrest, eyes bright, pointing at a hundred-meter sprint on the screen.
"See that?" he'd asked, voice almost teasing. "That's incredible speed. Don't you think it's exciting?"
Liam had shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"I guess…"
That had been enough. His uncle's eyes had lit up, and he clapped him on the shoulder.
"I knew you'd have the talent for this someday. We'll train together, I'll show you everything."
Liam remembered the spark of pride he felt, fleeting and soft—but also the way the idea lodged itself in his mind, quietly growing over the years, less his choice than an echo of his uncle's excitement.
He blinked, shaking off the memory, lifting his eyes to meet the coach's once more.
"There's nothing more to say… coach. That's the complete and honest truth." His voice was quiet but steady, a trace of that long-buried spark lingering in his posture.
His jaw tightened, a vein flicking at 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 darted past the open gym doors, stride smooth and effortless, her hair trailing behind her like a ribbon.
Liam's lips curved into a faint smirk, the tension in his face softening just a little.
"Besides…" He rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders loosening.
"It's not every day a guy gets to train alongside beautiful Japanese girls this early in the morning."
He glanced briefly at the coach, a flicker of mischief behind the exhaustion in his eyes, then turned toward 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 faint scrape of rubber against tile echoing behind him.
The coach watched him go, shoulders sagging slightly, a quiet sigh escaping through his nose.
Such a waste of talent and potential… if only he knew he was meant for something greater.
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 steady.
"Good morning… Nakamura." He slowed slightly, matching her pace, shoulders rolling as he adjusted his stride.
"Oh! It's you, Liam, right? You're out early again today." Naomi glanced at him, hair bouncing with each step, a soft smile tugging at her lips.
"Yes… I need to get faster. The track meet's coming up soon, and with a time like mine… I'd probably end up last." His tone stayed calm, though a faint crease formed between his brows.
Naomi's smile widened, eyes bright.
"You're right… I'm getting a little anxious about it too, but… let's do our best, okay?"
"Yeah… for sure." Liam's gaze lingered on her for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching. Wow… she's really cute, he thought, cheeks warming as he focused 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 lightly against the sidewalk.
"Wait… what's Hayato doing at school so early?" Liam muttered, veering toward the fence.
"Hayato!" He called as he jogged over, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.
"Huh? Oh… it's you, Liam. You're out here early." Hayato blinked in surprise, hair slipping into his eyes as he brushed it back with a quick hand.
"Yes… I have to. It's called morning training for a reason." Liam's grin was small, a hint of breathlessness lingering.
"I like your enthusiasm, my foreign friend." Hayato's grin widened, eyes sparkling.
"So… why are you out here so early?"
"Couldn't sleep a wink last night after that practice match against Yokonan." Hayato rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish laughter escaping him.
"Oh… I almost forgot! You told me you had a match. How did it go? Did you win?" Liam asked, tilting his head slightly, curiosity in his eyes.
Hayato shook his head, shoulders slumping just a bit.
"No… Yokonan High was clearly the better team. But… we only lost by a single point—ninety to eighty-nine."
"You guys did great, then. And there's plenty of time to improve for a rematch," Liam replied, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Exactly. That's why I'm out here so early… I want to work on my skills in the basketball gym." Hayato's voice sharpened slightly, focus evident in the tilt of his jaw.
"Alright… all the best, Hayato. Good luck with your training." Liam readjusted his posture, ready to return to the track.
"On that note…" Hayato's grin returned, fingers curling around the strap of his bag.
"Why don't you come over for 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… focusing on my game. So… what do you say?"
Liam hesitated, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His lips curved into a grin.
"You know what? Yeah… why not? Let's see what you've got."
"Great! I'll meet you in the gym after your run!" Hayato called, already turning away with a wave.
"Sounds good… I'll see you there." Liam glanced forward, legs feeling heavy, shirt clinging to his back, yet somehow… after all that, he felt lighter.