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"So how 'bout it? You all got any good stories that you don't tell when the wives and girlfriends are around?"

Silence met the question as everyone took a sip of their drinks. From out in the dining room I heard the sound of paws clapping, followed by laughter. I looked through the doorway to see a cluster of drivers chuckling as the fox in the center flailed his paws, describing a crash he'd been through. My attention returned to conversation in front of me to find the buck who'd asked the question, Mike Thompson--retired pro football player turned race team owner--looking around the living room and shaking his head.

"Nothing? Really? I mean, I don't know anything about stock car racing, but you mean to tell me you guys get into less trouble than we did? Your season's twice as long!"

"Ease up, boss," Lucas Stewart replied to his new co-owner with a laugh. "It's not like Formula 1 in the Seventies where we have to stop the parties and orgies to go race."

"Yeah," I put in. "Luke's season-end parties are about as wild as we get in SCRA. And with your employee winning the Cup this year, this one is looser than usual."

Around the circle of the sofa and chairs, our little group raised our drinks to our host. Luke tried to look embarrassed, but like all the coyotes I've known he didn't quite manage--especially with his tail doing an impression of a checkered flag waving. Next to Luke was his cougar crew chief, who was sharing the other couch with my crew chief Steve. On the couch with me was Jon Wallace, and next to him was his crew chief--since a ferret, a weasel, and a bobcat could comfortably share a couch. Mike, occupying the chair across from Luke frowned at my comment.

"Scar--Oh! Stock Car Racing Association. Bah. Still getting the hang of the acronyms. Used to ones were you just say the letters. But come on, I can't be the only one with dirty stories. It's someone else's turn. I only scored with so many cheerleaders in the showers after games."

"Kit's got a good one," our coyote host put in with a grin and a wink in my direction.

I cocked my head and glared at him as best a ferret can. Luke's grin got even broader, and so did the one on Steve's vulpine muzzle as they shared a knowing look. Mike sniffed and glanced between them, confused. Jon sighed and wiggled nervously, trying to sink into the couch. Luke's crew chief had his muzzle in his drink, but his ears twitched in amusement.

"Which one?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"The 'always watch a weasel' one," Luke replied.

Mike's eyes flicked to Jon, naturally, since he was the only weasel in the room. A puzzled look crossed the deer's face. I chittered and looked at the newcomer before looking back at Luke. Telling that story required letting go some personal information that everyone but Mike knew--and there was a reason for that. The stag had only joined the racing community a week ago at the request of Luke's owner and his sponsor, and before I told that story I needed some reassurance.

"Is he cool?"

"Hell yeah, dude," Luke replied with a huff. "I wouldn't bring it up if he wasn't."

"Alright," I said and casually draped my arm around Jon's shoulders. Mike's eyes went a little wide as my weasel leaned in to nuzzle my cheek ruff, but then he gave a broad smile and a thumbs-up.

"Before he starts," Jon said. "I just want to say this was really dumb. Like 'dumbest thing ever done' dumb."

"Yes, dear, it was. So, what was it? Three years ago now. Season was winding down and I was on top of the point standings--first time for me that late in a season. But this guy here," I gave Jon a squeeze, "was right on my tail. He was my longtime rival from way back in the minor circuits. He'd also been my boyfriend for four years at that point, ever since our second Grand National race. I'd crashed and took us both out. During the ambulance ride, he glared at me and said, 'I'd be really pissed at you if you weren't so handsome.' Weird how Life works sometimes. We kept it quiet at the time, 'cause of the stereotype that racing fans don't approve of 'them there queers.' Now it's an open secret. Anyway, that day I learned why you need to keep an eye on your weasel."

I looked at Mike. "How much you know about racing so far?"

The deer shrugged. "Drive fast, turn left."

"Okay," I said, grimacing a little at the joke. "There's four things you need to know for this story to make sense. Number one, the starting order of a race is determined by qualifying--fastest in front, slowest in the back. Number two, we do our practice at the event rather than beforehand. Number three, you get points in the season long standings based on where you finish. Finally, before the race there's a driver's meeting where the sanctioning body goes over any safety issues, rule, or procedural changes that might have come up. SCRA makes a big deal about that meeting. So..."