The morning sun hit Manhattan's glass towers like a spotlight. Darius Swift walked through it with the same expression he wore to everything else in his life.
Mildly interested. Perpetually unimpressed.
St. Augustine Preparatory Academy loomed ahead. All red brick and ivy-covered pretension. An all-boys school in the heart of Manhattan, because apparently his parents believed separating teenage boys from girls would somehow forge character.
Character, Darius thought as he watched a group of sophomores argue over whether LeBron or Jordan was better.
One of them tried to dunk on a trash can and missed spectacularly.
Right. Because nothing builds character quite like spending four years surrounded by teenage boys discovering body spray and arguing about which celebrity they'd crack.
He'd been at St. Augustine since September. The novelty of an all-male environment had worn off somewhere around month two.
Not that he'd minded it initially. Less drama, fewer distractions, more focus on actual learning.
But after a while, the place started feeling like a monastery. One where the monks were really into fantasy football and had questionable hygiene habits.
Maybe he should transfer to a co-ed school, he thought as he climbed the front steps.
At least then there'd be girls around to make things less weird.
The hallways carried the usual mix of cologne experiments and stress sweat. Darius walked past groups clustered around phones, kids cramming for first period tests, and the inevitable Monday morning complaints about weekend family obligations.
Someone was limping for some reason.
Speaking of sports.
His mind drifted to the familiar territory as he made his way to first period. The eternal question that had been haunting him since the school year started.
Why was he so damn good at everything he tried, but none of it felt right?
Soccer had been first.
The varsity coach, Mr. Rodriguez, had practically salivated when he'd seen Darius's speed during the tryout scrimmage. He'd clocked him running down loose balls that other players couldn't even dream of reaching.
But soccer was a team sport. Something about hogging the ball, even when he could easily outrun everyone else on the field, felt wrong.
Eleven players on a side, and here he was, capable of making ten of them irrelevant just by existing.
Where was the fun in that?
Basketball came next. Same story, different ball.
Coach Williams had nearly fallen off the bleachers when Darius casually dunked during warm-ups. Despite being only 6'1", the speed translated beautifully to fast breaks and defensive steals.
But again, five players per team. Darius found himself wondering what the point was if he could simply outrun everyone to every play.
The other kids deserved to actually play too.
Baseball had been a brief experiment.
His reflexes made him a natural in the outfield. Hand-eye coordination was stupid good. But standing around for three hours waiting for something to happen?
That was torture.
Even when he was batting .600 and stealing bases at will, the stretches of inactivity made his skin crawl.
Football was perhaps the most ridiculous.
Coach Patterson had taken one look at Darius's build and speed combination and immediately started designing plays around him. Running back, wide receiver, defensive back, it didn't matter.
He was fast enough to make anyone look silly.
But the stop-and-start nature of the game felt like watching paint dry. All the huddling and strategizing between plays.
Rugby had been the most fun, if he was being honest.
Continuous action, less standing around, more pure athletic competition.
But even there, something was missing. Some spark he couldn't quite identify.
The thing was, he was legitimately good at all of them. Not just good, but scary good.
Good enough that coaches would approach him in hallways with increasingly desperate offers to join their teams. Good enough that his parents had started getting calls about "potential scholarships" and "promising futures."
But good at something and loving something were two very different things.
Maybe he was broken, he thought as he slipped into his first period English class.
Maybe normal people were supposed to get excited about these things and he was just wired wrong.
The day crawled by with the typical Monday sluggishness.
English literature, where they discussed symbolism in novels that probably didn't have any.
Calculus, where Mr. Peterson droned on about derivatives.
Chemistry, where they mixed solutions that smelled like death.
Lunch, where the conversation bounced between video games and complaints about homework.
By the time seventh period rolled around, Darius was ready for the day to end.
Global Studies with Mr. Dormer was usually tolerable. Mainly because Dormer himself was impossible to dislike.
The man was a walking contradiction.
Nearly bald, with a ring of white hair circling his head like a crown. A belly that he frequently patted while making jokes about his "food baby."
He'd been teaching for thirty years and coaching track for just as long. Somehow managed to make even the most boring historical periods sound interesting.
Today, however, seemed to be one of those days where Dormer's lesson plan had gone out the window in favor of random historical trivia.
"Did you know," Dormer said, perched on the edge of his desk with his hands folded over his stomach, "that the ancient Greeks used to compete in the Olympics completely naked?"
A few snickers from the back row.
Someone raised his hand. "Mr. Dormer, what does this have to do with the Industrial Revolution?"
"Absolutely nothing," Dormer replied cheerfully. "But isn't it fascinating how human beings have always found ways to test themselves against each other?"
He gestured broadly. "The Greeks had their Olympics, we have our sports teams. Same basic idea, different century."
Darius found himself leaning forward slightly.
Dormer had a way of connecting random dots that somehow made sense.
"Competition," Dormer continued, "is one of the few constants in human nature. Whether it's running faster, jumping higher, or building better mousetraps, we're always trying to prove something to ourselves and each other."
The bell rang. Chairs started scraping against the floor as students gathered their things.
But Dormer held up a hand.
"Track season's starting up in a few weeks. Indoor season first, then outdoor. Anyone interested?"
The usual silence that greeted any teacher's request for volunteers settled over the room.
A few kids shuffled papers. Others checked their phones under their desks.
Dormer waited patiently. Used to this routine.
"Come on, gentlemen. I know some of you have legs under those desks. Anyone want to find out what they can actually do?"
More silence. Someone in the back row coughed.
Darius found himself staring at the front of the room. His pen tapping a slow rhythm against his notebook.
Track. Running in circles, jumping over things, throwing stuff.
He'd never really thought about it before. The other sports had all found him through coaches or friends dragging him to tryouts.
But track...
"Mr. Dormer," he heard himself say, and was mildly surprised to realize the voice was his own.
The teacher's eyes focused on him. Eyebrows raised with interest.
"Yes, Mr. Swift?"
"Is track fun?"