The alarm went off at 5:30 AM.
Elena reached over and silenced it before it could wake Tobias. Her body clock was still adjusting from the Olympics and the travel, but she needed to get back to training. Bronze wasn't gold, and she was already thinking about next season.
It felt good to be home, but the competitor in her was restless. She'd taken a week off to recover and be with family, which was more than enough. Time to get back to work. Her coach had scheduled an easy session for today, just eight miles at recovery pace to see how her body felt.
She moved quietly through the bedroom, pulling on her training clothes in the dark. Tobias was still sleeping, and he deserved the rest. He'd been handling everything while she was gone.
Elena opened the bedroom door and stopped.
Darius was standing in the hallway in his pajamas.
"Mama?"
"What are you doing up, baby?" She kept her voice low.
"Where you going?"
"Just going to the track to run."
His eyes lit up in a way that caught her off guard. "Me too?"
She hadn't been planning to bring him. But seeing his face, and honestly, she was curious. Tobias had said he was obsessed with track, but she wanted to see it for herself.
"Okay. Let's get you dressed."
She helped him into little track pants and a t-shirt while he bounced with excitement. She packed a bag with water, snacks, and a few toys, though she suspected he wouldn't touch the toys. She left a note for Tobias on the kitchen counter and they were out the door by 6:15 AM.
Darius was in his car seat, awake and alert. Most three-year-olds would be groggy at this hour, but not him. He stared out the window with complete focus.
"We're going to the track?" he asked.
"Yes, baby."
"Like on TV?"
"Just like on TV."
He went quiet after that, seemingly content.
The University track and field complex came into view as the sun was just starting to come up. Elena had trained here for years and knew every lane, every mark on the 400-meter outdoor track with its nine lanes and high-quality Mondo surface. The infield grass was still wet with dew. Bleachers lined one side, and the equipment shed sat quiet in the distance near the long jump pit and pole vault area.
The air was still cool and the track was empty when they arrived. Elena loved this time of day. Peaceful and focused.
She unbuckled Darius from his car seat and took his hand as they walked through the gate to the track. He stopped walking.
Just stopped and stared.
"Wow." It came out barely as a whisper.
Elena watched him. Most kids would run around excitedly, touching everything, asking a million questions. He was just looking, taking it all in. The track, the lanes, the starting blocks that were set up in lane four. Like he was memorizing it.
Strange.
"You can sit right here, okay?" She pointed to the bleachers, first row. "Mama's going to run."
He nodded and climbed up with her help, then sat with his hands on his knees and his eyes on the track.
"I'll just be out there. You stay here."
"Okay, Mama."
He was so obedient, almost too obedient for a three-year-old.
Elena walked onto the infield and started her dynamic stretches. Leg swings, lunges, high knees. She glanced at Darius and found him watching every movement. Not fidgeting. Not playing with grass or his shoes. Just watching.
Her coach had texted her workout: easy eight miles at 7:30-7:45 pace. A recovery run. Keep the heart rate down. She started jogging and settled into her rhythm.
The first lap felt good. Her body was remembering what it did, though her legs were a bit heavy from the post-Olympics recovery. But it was familiar and comfortable. She passed the bleachers and Darius tracked her with his eyes.
By the third lap, another runner had arrived. Noah, one of the college 800-meter guys. He waved at her and noticed Darius.
"That your kid?"
"Yeah."
"Cute. He gonna run?"
Elena laughed. "Maybe someday."
Noah headed to the other side of the track for his own workout.
At lap five, Elena was settling into the zone. Her breathing was even and her pace was steady. She passed the bleachers again and Darius still hadn't moved. He was still watching.
That was ten minutes of sitting still for a three-year-old.
By lap eight, she was halfway through and checked on him more carefully. He wasn't just watching randomly. He was tracking her form. His head moved smoothly to follow her around the curve, like watching film, like how she watched races.
Something about that observation unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite name. Good or bad, she didn't know, but she was paying more attention now.
At lap ten, Darius stood up.
Elena's heart jumped with the thought that he was bored or leaving, but he climbed down from the bleachers carefully and walked to the edge of the track. He stood at the fence separating the infield from the track and watched her approach. She passed him and he followed her with his gaze, then walked along the fence line, staying parallel to where she was on the track. Trying to stay close.
By lap twelve, he'd figured out that if he stood at the 200-meter mark, he could see her on both the backstretch and the homestretch. Smart positioning. Really smart for a three-year-old.
At lap fifteen, she was three-quarters done when she realized Darius was on the infield now. She wasn't sure when he'd gotten there because she'd been in the zone. He was running. No, jogging. His tiny little legs were moving as he followed her path on the grass, trying to keep up.
She slowed slightly to see what he would do.
His form.
She looked more carefully on the next lap.
His arms were pumping correctly at a ninety-degree angle, not flailing like toddlers usually did. His posture was upright instead of hunched. His feet were landing midfoot, not heel-striking, not the flat-footed toddler slap.
That wasn't normal. That wasn't accidental. That looked trained.
But he was three. She hadn't taught him anything. Had he been copying from TV? Could that even work?
Elena completed her last lap and did a cool-down jog for 800 meters. Darius stopped trying to follow and walked toward her. She met him at the fence and opened the gate to the infield. He came through.
"You were fast, Mama."
"Not that fast. That was easy running."
"Oh." He paused. "You were running too."
He looked down. "Little bit."
"Did you like it?"
Big nod.
"Want to run more?"
Bigger nod.
Elena wasn't sure why she was doing this. Curiosity maybe, or coach instinct, or mother instinct. But she wanted to see. Really see.
"Come here, baby."
She took his hand and walked him to the starting line of lane one. A hundred-meter straightaway stretched ahead.
"You see that line down there?" She pointed to the finish.
"White line?"
"Yes. I want you to run to it. As fast as you can."
His eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really. Like a race. Like on TV."
"Like Kinky?"
She laughed despite herself. "Yes. Like Quincy."
He was bouncing now, unable to contain his excitement. "Go fast?"
"As fast as you can."
"You watch?"
"I'll watch. I'll be right here."
Elena set him up at the line with his tiny feet behind the white paint. "When I say go, you run. Okay?"
"Okay!"
He was vibrating with energy. She stepped back and took her phone out. She might as well time it. For fun. For memory. Not because she thought... well.
"Ready?"
He nodded and actually got into a ready position. A slight crouch with his hands forward.
Where did he learn that?
"Set."
He went still. She wasn't expecting that. Three-year-olds didn't understand "set."
"Go!"
He exploded forward, and that was the right word. Exploded. His little legs were churning but not wild, not uncontrolled. Purposeful. His arms were pumping properly, and she was watching in real-time but her mind was analyzing. Stride efficiency. That's what this was. Efficient movement. Minimal wasted motion.
Where did he learn this?
At ten meters, he was accelerating, still in control with his head forward and not looking side to side. Eyes on the finish line.
At thirty meters, she realized her phone was recording. Good. She wanted to watch this again. Study it. Because this wasn't normal.
Fifty meters. Halfway. He was starting to slow, which was inevitable because he was three and had no endurance. But the form was still there. Still efficient.
Seventy-five meters. Really slowing now. His arms were getting tired and his form was breaking down a bit, but he was still going. Still pushing.
One hundred meters. He crossed the line and stopped, then bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. But smiling. Huge smile.
Elena stopped the timer and looked at the number.
24.7 seconds.
For 100 meters. For a three-year-old.
Was that good? She didn't know. She'd never timed a three-year-old before. But it wasn't the time that mattered. It was how he ran.
She closed the distance between them. He was still catching his breath.
"Did I do good?" His voice was small, seeking approval.
Her heart broke a little because he did so good. Better than good.
"You did amazing, baby." She picked him up and hugged him. "So fast."
He giggled against her shoulder.
She set him down. "Where did you learn to run like that?"
It was an important question. Maybe the most important.
He shrugged. "TV?"
"You learned that from TV?"
"I watch... a lot."
"But you can't just learn that from watching."
He looked uncomfortable. "I try to... run like them."
"Like the runners on TV?"
Nod.
Was that possible? Elena had learned through coaching, through years of feedback, through drills and repetition. But he was saying he just copied it? Mimicry was powerful in kids, but this level of mimicry?
She sat on the track and pulled him into her lap. "Do you want to be a runner when you grow up?"
He nodded immediately. "Like you."
"Like me?"
"But... faster."
She laughed. "Faster than Mama?"
Serious nod. "The fastest."
No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty.
"Do you like running? Or do you just like watching?"
"Both."
"What do you like about it?"
He thought for longer than most three-year-olds would. "It's... going fast. But also..." He struggled for words. "The... trying."
"Trying to go fast?"
"Yeah. Like Quincy. He was behind. Then he went fast. He tried really hard."
Elena understood. He loved the competition. The push. The effort.
This wasn't just a phase. This wasn't just "wants to be like Mommy." This was real passion. Real understanding. At three years old. She'd never seen anything like it.
Noah was finishing his own workout and came over. "He run?"
"Yeah."
"How'd he do?"
Elena looked at Darius, then at Noah. "Twenty-four seconds for 100 meters."
Noah blinked. "He's three."
"I know."
"That's..." He trailed off.
"I know." Elena paused. "His form was perfect."
Noah looked at Darius, then back at Elena. "Looks like you got yourself a runner."
After Noah left, Elena sat there, still processing. Her son was three years old, and he'd just run 100 meters with better form than half the high schoolers she'd seen, with passion that matched her own, with focus that was almost unsettling.
She couldn't coach him. Not really. Not at three. He was too young for real training. But she could nurture it. Bring him to the track. Let him run. Teach him the love of it, not the pressure. Just the joy.
"Ready to go home?"
"Can we come back?"
"You want to?"
Emphatic nod.
"Then we'll come back."
"Tomorrow?"
She laughed. "Maybe not tomorrow. But soon."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
In the car, Darius fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted from the run. Elena glanced at him in the rearview mirror. A tiny kid in a car seat. Looked so normal.
But what she'd just seen...
She'd trained with prodigies before. At the Olympic village. Kids who showed promise at eight, ten, twelve. But three? Three was unheard of. Not the speed, because he was still slow by any objective measure. But the form. The understanding. The passion.
She'd started running at seven. Fell in love with it at nine. Got serious at twelve. Made the Olympics at twenty-six. It had been a long journey.
Would his be faster? Did she want it to be?
Part of her was excited, but part of her was scared. She knew the pressure, the sacrifices, the pain. Did she want that for him?
But then she remembered his face when he crossed that finish line. Pure joy.
That's why you run. Not for medals. For that feeling.
She pulled into the driveway where Tobias was up on the porch with coffee. He waved. She carefully unbuckled Darius and carried him still sleeping. Tobias met her at the door.
"How was it?"
Elena looked at their sleeping son, then at her husband.
"Tobias."
"Yeah?"
"Our son is a genius."
Tobias laughed, thinking she was being a proud mom.
But Elena didn't laugh. She was serious. Because she'd just watched a three-year-old run. Really run. And she knew, knew deep in her bones, that something special was starting.