The Last Heat

The afternoon sun bore down on the dusty athletics track, making the air shimmer like a mirage. It was the last Saturday of summer in Werribee, and the annual community games were in full swing. The smell of sausage sizzles wafted over from the Lions Club tent. Kids darted about with icy poles dripping down their wrists. The loudspeaker crackled with the voice of old Mr Tomkins, who had volunteered as announcer every year since anyone could remember.

“Next up, the men’s one-hundred-metre final. Line up, boys. Give the crowd a show.”

The crowd’s cheers rose like a tide, and among the runners stepping onto the track were two who couldn’t stop glancing at each other.

Noah Carmichael rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. He was twenty-five, lean and muscled, his body honed by early mornings pounding the pavement along the river. Athletics had been his dream since primary school, but dreams had a way of turning sour when your knees gave out at seventeen and you missed Nationals by a heartbeat. He had worked as a PT ever since, telling himself it was fine, that he didn’t need the glory. But today, under the blazing sun, he wanted it back. He wanted to prove to himself, to everyone, that he was still the fastest man in town.

Beside him stretched Marcus Doyle, twenty-three, tall and wiry, his hair tied back in a messy bun. He had swagger. Everyone knew Marcus. He was the golden boy of the athletics club, the one who trained half as much as anyone else yet won races with a smirk on his face. He was also dating Jess, Noah’s ex. Not that it mattered, or at least that’s what Noah told himself when he tried to sleep at night.

What was at stake was more than a trophy. It was pride. It was redemption. It was proving who deserved to be called the fastest, once and for all.

“Set!” barked the starter, raising his pistol.

The world shrank to a thin white line stretching down the track. Noah crouched, heart hammering. He breathed in dust and sweat and determination.

The pistol cracked.

They exploded forward. The ground blurred beneath their spikes. For the first thirty metres Noah led, arms pumping like pistons, but Marcus crept up on his shoulder, his long strides eating the track. The roar of the crowd faded to a dull hum. It was just them, side by side, locked in battle.

At eighty metres Marcus surged. For an instant Noah’s chest filled with dread. The finish line rushed closer. He dug deep, legs screaming, and drove himself harder than he ever had.

They crossed together, bodies straining, heads thrust forward. The photo finish camera clicked.

Noah staggered upright, chest heaving. He didn’t know who had won. He looked at Marcus, who smirked and raised a fist, as if victory was already his.

The loudspeaker crackled. “And the winner, by two hundredths of a second… Noah Carmichael!”

The crowd erupted. Kids cheered, parents clapped, whistles split the air. Noah bent over, hands on his knees, laughter bubbling up from his chest. He had done it. He had actually beaten Marcus Doyle.

But the victory tasted sharper than he expected. Marcus walked over, jaw clenched, eyes cold. “Enjoy it, Carmichael. One race doesn’t mean you’re better.”

Noah stood tall, sweat running down his temples. “A win’s a win.”

“Best of three,” Marcus said. “Tomorrow. The oval. No officials. Just you and me.”

Noah should have walked away. He had nothing to prove. But pride dug its claws in. “You’re on.”

The next morning dawned hot and dry. The oval was empty except for magpies warbling from the goalposts. Noah arrived early, stretching in the shade, a knot of nerves in his stomach. When Marcus strolled up ten minutes late, carrying two battered relay batons, his grin was cocky as ever.

“Hundred metres again?” Noah asked.

“Too short. Let’s see who’s really got the lungs. Two hundred. Three heats.”

Noah nodded. His legs still ached from yesterday, but he wouldn’t back down.

They set the batons at the start line, shook out their arms, and crouched. Marcus counted down. “Three, two, one, go.”

They sprinted. The oval’s grass slowed them compared to the track, but the challenge was fiercer. Marcus took the first heat by half a metre. Noah swore under his breath.

The second heat was brutal. They thundered down the straight, legs pumping, lungs burning. At the line, Noah lunged and collapsed in the grass, winning by a whisker.

One heat each. Everything came down to the last.

As they set up again, Noah caught Marcus’s expression. The grin was gone. This wasn’t a game anymore. It was war.

The final sprint tore every shred of strength from their bodies. The oval blurred, the crowd of magpies scattered, and Noah felt his hamstrings quiver like frayed wires. They were neck and neck all the way. At the last ten metres Marcus stumbled, just slightly, and Noah pulled ahead to cross first.

He collapsed, gasping, the world spinning. Marcus threw his baton aside and cursed.

“Face it,” Noah said, once he caught breath. “You’re not faster. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

Marcus glared. “You think winning here means anything? This was my town before you came back. People respect me. You’re just clinging to your glory days.”

Noah laughed, though there was no joy in it. “Respect isn’t given. You earn it.”

Marcus’s mouth twisted. “Jess still chose me.”

The words landed like a punch. For a moment Noah couldn’t speak. Then he stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “Maybe she did. But she’ll know who’s faster.”

Marcus shook his head, snatched up his bag, and stalked off the oval.

Word spread quickly in a town like Werribee. By Monday the whole athletics club knew about the secret showdown. Some called Noah a legend for toppling Marcus. Others muttered that Marcus had been off his game, that the rivalry wasn’t finished.

Noah didn’t care. For the first time in years he felt alive. The races had lit a fire in him. Maybe he could compete again, not just at the community games, but at real meets. He still had speed, still had hunger.

Yet at night, lying in his small flat, he couldn’t shake Marcus’s words. Jess had chosen him. Winning races couldn’t change that. What was truly at stake wasn’t medals or bragging rights. It was how Noah saw himself. Broken or reborn. Defeated or defiant.

He decided he wouldn’t run against Marcus again. The real competition was with the man in the mirror, the one who had nearly given up. And this time, Noah intended to win.