It had been only two short weeks since Cassian entered high school, but adjustments were still an uphill battle. Classes at least weren't a problem in quantity, but making friends with the other students is another deal entirely. On the other hand, there was something that had always made sense to him: running. The wind in his skin, the pumping adrenaline—it was the one place where he never needed to think but move.
Before him was the athletic field of the school, still wrapped in soft morning light. His heart pounded in his chest as he gazed at the track. It was tryouts for the sprint team—a 100-meter dash to make the cut, to show who had what it took. Running had always come so easily to him. But now, as he prepared himself to prove himself, doubt crept into his mind.
"You good?" a boy from his class asked, standing beside him with a friendly grin.
Cassian shrugged. "I guess. We'll see."
"Well, I heard Coach is tough to impress," the boy said, turning his head back in to watch the other runners.
Cassian's crimson eyes fixed on the track as the first of the students lined up to start their sprint. He had spent hours researching everything there was to know about sprinting—form, breathing techniques, and most importantly, the science behind muscle fibers. He found out that the sprint relied heavily on the fast-twitch muscles that allowed for quick bursts of speed to run short distances, such as in the 100-meter dash. On the other hand, slow-twitch fibers were meant for endurance, to count by miles rather than meters, for fueling those explosive movements to cover a distance such as the 100-meter dash.
Cassian had always seemed to have it—all his life—the raw power in his legs that seemed to propel him faster than everyone else. His body was made for speed, and today he'd let it all loose.
The coach bellowed out another runner's name: "Cassian Reeve."
Cassian stepped forward, bright red hair shining under the lights. He coiled his muscles and stretched to sit at the line between him and what was about to come. His heart beat with a simple, well-practiced rhythm, ready for what was going to happen. He bent down, coiling muscles flexing with promise of potential energy. The rest of the world narrowed to just him and the track.
The whistle blew.
He left the block like a shot out of a cannon, his legs pistoning with precision. The fast-twitch muscle in his legs was firing in sequence, giving him the pull he would need. The step was gliding, just skimming the surface of the track as it propelled itself down the straightaway. His breathing sounds became a distant thing, slowly falling into the background as the roar of the wind and the steady thud of his heart consumed him.
Everything blurred to a point where the world disappeared, and all he saw was the finish in front of him. Digging deeper with every step, faster, his muscles screamed in pain. He knew this burn, though, was the familiar pain that told him it was do or die. He was entering the finish with one last push, nearly buckling his legs as he slowed to stop.
He gazed down at his stopwatch, raising his brows. "Thirteen-point-five-nine seconds," he announced, hardly keeping the incredulity out of his voice.
Cassian was breathing hard, catching his breath as his chest heaved from the labor. Thirteen seconds—fast but not exactly record-breaking, just enough to get the attention of the coach, of course—and a murmur did go through the rest of the students there; they knew it too. Anything under fourteen seconds within a high school tryout is pretty impressive, but this time? That's elite.
The coach stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the stopwatch: "That some phenomenal speed, Reeve. Very good.".
This did make Cassian's heart swell up quietly with pride. All the doubts had melted away, being replaced by the electric thrill of success. He knew that the legs of his are stronger than most guys, and now he's proven it. The coach nodded in appreciation, jotting down some notes on the clipboard before proclaiming, "Welcome to the team.".
Cassian smirks. His lips curl into a small, rare smile as he walks off the track, through the buzz of whispers following him. His fast-twitch muscles could carry him to victory, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he's finally found something he can be actually good at.
And it wasn't just running. It was who he was.