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Paul

March 29th

The first thing I notice when I wake up is a pair of blue eyes, buried in a mass of dappled black and white, staring back at me. I'm groggy and sleepy still, and not entirely sober. The weight of his head on my shoulder has made my arm go numb. For a moment, I don't understand where I am or what is happening to me.

Then it hits me, the dalmatian, the talk, the sex. It really did happen. I'm really in his room. A bit rattier and downmarket than I expected, now that I look around. His outfits led me to believe he was at least a bit more well off. He's got mould on his roof, and there's a faint smell of his neighbours drifting in from the extractor fan in the kitchen and mixing with the scents of stale cooking oil. Typical cheap student housing. But right here, right now, it is a veritable castle, and he is its fair maiden. Well. He is fair, at least. I don't care about his exes. I don't care if I'm the knight or the dragon, as long as I get to keep him to myself.

He's looking at me. There is a streak of mischief in his eyes. He's got his head right near my hips and his paws are clutching... Oh, that feels nice.

"Are all racing drivers this eager?" I hear him say, with a smirk around that spotty muzzle of his. "All ready to get going, even before you're awake. Is this how you win so many races?"

Before I can say anything, he's dived into my lap. The sensation is just as good today as it was last night. Even had I been in doubt then, which I was not, I'm definitely not in doubt anymore. I groan and tug at his neck fur, pushing him into my groin. This time he doesn't seem to let up. He just goes faster, and with more enthusiasm. He's taking my whole shaft at once, pushing his lips against my knot. He can't take it all in without pricking me with his teeth, so he works my tip instead. It's the sounds that really gets me going this time. His lapping, sucking, and slurping, and the soft moans whenever he pushes the limits of his gag reflexes. The orgasm comes out of the blue before I can warn him. I shoot strands of cum into his open muzzle, and down his throat. I can feel him drinking it up, every last drop. Fuck, I have to find out if I talk in my sleep, because he clearly knows just what button to push to get me worked up. It's uncanny. He looks back at me from underneath my cock and licks his lips with that mischievous grin.

"Thanks for the breakfast," he chimes seductively. "I'll make you some coffee when you're ready to get out of bed."

What a way to wake up. I could get used to it. I'm not quite in the mood for fucking him, having just come, and I'm sure he's still sore from last night, but I want to do something that'll catch him off guard, show him that I appreciate him. Even if I can't work up the guts to show that level of dedication with my muzzle, I can do something.

I beckon him over, and when he comes closer, I grab him and pull him down on the bed with me. He yelps and laughs as I pull down his boxers and grab him by his sheath. He squirms, but his sheath grows in my paws, and he doesn't try to resist.

"You don't get to make me cum more than you," I growl playfully in his ears. I've got him on his back on my chest, half on, half off the bed, clenching his arms tight around his chest with one of mine. He's out of his sheath in a moment, panting from the heat between our bodies. With his head between my shoulder and muzzle, I can make him look at himself as I stroke his cock. I've never pleasured another boy with my paw, but it doesn't feel weird like I thought it would. It's fun. Having him this close, I can feel every reaction he makes to every slight movement. I stroke him more and more, and the more I sense his tension building, the more encouraged I become.

He cries out in pleasure and a spurt of cum shoots from his tip and lands on his dappled belly. As he pants, I softly squeeze the last drops from his shaft, and nuzzle his cheek, kissing and licking all over. I can feel his tail wagging against my leg.

"You bastard," he pants, shortly after.

"You don't sound like you mean that."

"At least I cleaned up, now I have to shower again."

"It's not that much of a mess," I tease, but my curiosity is piqued.

I trace my paw down his sides and across his chest, running a finger through the mess he's made. Experimentally, I scoop a finger through one of the clear white puddles, and lick it. The taste is strange, it's not overly bitter or salty, it tastes like... well, it tastes a bit like liquid musk. I can smell him on my breath, a very distinct flavour and scent that is uniquely his. I smack my tongue a few times as if I'm trying the latest chardonnay. He leans back and cuddles against me while I use my fingers to lap up the rest of his mess. It's not that it tastes that good. It's nice, but not super nice. I just want more of his scent, really. The smell of him sticks to my fingers, my chest, and after I've kiss him with my muzzle full of his cum, his scent transmits by his kiss as well.

"First taste is always a bit strange," he tells me. "You get used to it, and there's diets that'll change the taste, like grapefruit and stuff."

"I don't mind it, Spots. You've got a nice taste to you. But there's not enough there for a big boy like yours truly. I could go for some proper breakfast just about now. My treat."

We get dressed, and head outside. I've still got my shirt from yesterday, missing a few buttons, smelling of the excitement I felt right before it came off. There are people in the streets now, and I feel like they're watching us. They're probably smelling us. It's embarrassing, but none of them have commented on it. I wish I didn't care. I wish it didn't bother me. I wish I could hold his paws, but I can't.

We did hold paws for the short moment as we walked out of his apartment on campus, but when the taxi came to pick us up, we put on a more casual act. He didn't protest then, but I'm still a wolf, he can't hide his feelings from me completely. I just can't bring myself to take it in my own, where it swings next to me, just a foot away. Reece knows this, I tell myself. He has to know. He's been in gay relationships before. Surely, he must know how much I care, even if I don't take his paw. After a while, he puts his paw back in his pocket. For a long time, I can't even look him in his eyes, I'm so ashamed.

I can't recall what place we got our food, but it was a nice, clean, and modern looking café with a Scandinavian style interior. The food helps some of my shame go away, and I consent to sit across a small table with him, at the back of the café.

"So, what are you going to do now?" Reece asks, after we've both finished our sandwiches.

"What do you mean?"

"You know... In general."

He stares out the window and sips his coffee, but I can tell he's more focused on me than anything going on outside. When he looks back, I can tell his smile isn't as firm as I'd first thought.

"I'm not sure I follow," I say.

"Between us, Paul. What does this mean to you?"

"What do you want it to mean?" I ask, I just want to say the right thing, I'm not sure what he wants to hear. I'm not sure I dare to say anything in case it's somehow the wrong thing to say.

He fixes me with a look, but there's a flicker from his smile. "I'm asking you."

"I... I want to see where this is going, I hope you want that too."

My answer is rewarded with his lovely smile. I realize I might have been overconfident when I just automatically assumed that he'd want to be with me.

"So... you want a boyfriend?" He asks.

"Y-yeah," I say, quietly. "Is that what you want too?"

"Sure," he says, and renews his smile to me. I return his smile, and my tail starts wagging all on its own. His tail soon matches mine, but his smile is fading a little.

"But, you know, when we're together, people are going to find out, sooner or later."

That's a tough one. What do you say to that? I scratch at my chin for a while, so that it looks like I'm thinking it over. "That's a question for later. As for now, I think it's best if I keep my head down. I don't want to distract you from your school. And I don't think it's a good idea to make a big announcement about something that has been going on for just under," I check my watch, "twelve hours, more or less."

The suddenness and speed with which we got together is a great crutch to utilize. There's a whole list of reasons why coming out is a bad idea for me, I don't feel like getting into that just now. I'm in a good mood, why not just enjoy his company for a little more?

"I guess that's for the best," he says, sipping his tea and shifting his gaze to the street outside again, expressly not meeting my eyes. "I'm out to some people, but I've not told my parents. I'm going to do that some time, though. I just never had any reason to, before."

"Don't think they'll take it well?" I ask, shifting the subject from my closet to his.

"Dad might, or he might not, I guess. I don't know about mom. She wants grandkids. Me and Dad have always been close, however. We've been like close friends, really."

"He sounds like a decent guy," I say out of curtesy, mostly because I want him to keep talking about his family, and not so much all that complicated relationship stuff. It's way too soon for that.

"Yeah, I love my dad." He rests his head in his paw and stirs the ice cubes in his now empty glass of iced tea. "How about you? Do you ever think about telling the world? I mean, just getting it out there. I don't suppose there's many gay racing drivers, is there?"

I think about it all the time... but they're just thoughts. Meaningless thoughts which have no reason to be anything other than that.

"I can't do it, it'd cost everything."

"I can't recall there being a rule against gay people in motorsport," he says in a tone that I'm sure he puts on to seem absent minded and blasé, but I know he's trying to walk me back onto the subject of my closet.

"I'll tell you about it later. Right now, I don't want to think about that."

I try to make my voice sound calm and friendly, He deserves a calm and friendly wolf after what he did for me last night.

"Alright, if you say so," he says. I put my paw over his own to reassure him, because at that moment there's nobody watching, and I can get away with it. He smiles then, and turns his to hold mine, briefly, before I pull away.

"You'll understand," I say, but at the same time, I feel bad, like I've just lied to him. It's not a lie, really, I'm just not telling everything right now.

We go for a walk through the streets just talking about ourselves. Reece talks about his parents, how they help him with his tuition and living expenses, but he makes it sound like a complaint. They sound to me like great parents, and he should feel lucky. I guess it must be difficult for him to hide from them. That isn't a problem I ever had, at least. Well, dad was never difficult to hide from, and mom... she doesn't know either.

We walk around a corner, and we spot the park bench from last night. The streets aren't empty anymore, but I want to go over and sit down with him on that bench. No public display of affection like last night, but I want to see if I can still feel what I felt then just from sitting here. I let him sit closer to me than what you'd expect from two friends, but it's as far as I dare go. I hope he appreciates the gesture.

My phone rings. I check the number, it's my team principal. I glance across at Reece, but he's busy with his own phone, poking at some kind of game, so I answer the call.

"It's about your next week's schedule," comes the voice of Garry Hammond, a fierce sounding, slightly hoarse voice. Garry is a very short, and very stocky little hamster, and I think that has always bothered him, because he's got a mean temper if he doesn't get his way.

"My schedule?" I ask. "You've got my schedule, you put it together."

Reece takes advantage of my distraction to lean closer to me, and I can't stop him with an earful of Hammond. He's really close. I have to constantly check the street for familiar faces, but luckily, nobody seems to pay us any mind.

"Your private schedule," he barks.

"How come?"

"You have a media appearance after the next round, a spot on the local sports news radio, and some newspaper wants to interview you and Remy. I need to know when you enough time to prepare, including the hour I'll spend personally briefing you for the radio interview. It has to be sometime after the Safewell Raceway 200 on the 5th."

"Fine, I'll send it over," I mumble, and tap my phone over to speaker so that I can prepare an email while I talk. Part of my job sometimes require me to log every detail of my life in a schedule for just these reasons. You might think it's a breach of privacy, but really, for the money I'm getting, I don't mind. "Don't just fill it up, though. There are some things I need to do; I would like a day off occasionally."

"What?" he exclaims. "You never take days off!"

"So that means I have some vacation days saved up, right? How about a few now, before the race?"

"Unlikely, there's more," Hammond says. Reece's ears twitch, and he looks up at me. But I can't reassure him while my TP is listening. Can't even acknowledge he's there. "We also need you to keep an eye on Sal. You guys need to shake down number 31. Sal has basically confirmed that there's a high-speed stability issue like you mentioned. You better stay with the engineers and get to the bottom of it. We need you to clear the car once it's fixed. I don't care if it takes all week, order some pizzas. We need you on the start line with a working car. A great car. Come down as soon as you can."

Hammond sounds like his temper is rising all on his own accord. I decide not to tempt fate, even though it hurts to think about leaving Reece by himself for so long.

"I'll come down... Later, Hammond."

I really don't want to go on the radio, either, but for some reason, the media thinks we have something new to say every time there's a new race. I go over the speech in my head. Couldn't have done it without the team. We've got some great cars under us. The competition will be fiercer this season. No, I can't wait to get started. I'm most worried about not getting a good chance to win and deliver that trophy to my team. No, there's not a lucky girl in my life.

Reece looks up from his game as I put my phone away. I've grown warm and comfortable around the area where he leans his head.

"Trouble at work?"

I shake my head. "I'm going to be busy for this next week, as you probably heard. We're having all kinds of problems with the car. I have to get going."

Reece sits up straight and puts his phone away. "When will I see you again?"

I do some arithmetic in my head, mentally tallying up everything that can, and therefore will go wrong.

"I don't know, I might be free on Friday or Saturday next week. I'm sorry. I'll do my best, but I can't guarantee anything. That's just how it is."

Reece checks his phone calendar. "My parents are coming down on Friday. It's my dad's birthday. You probably don't want to hang around with me for that."

"So, not time to meet your parents just yet, I guess?" I joke with him, but it seems to bother him. I know a forced smile when I see one. I pat his shoulder as he stares into his phone, looking at the reflection of us on his black screen.

"Maybe another time," he mumbles.

I follow him to a bus stop and wait for the buss with him. We hug goodbye. I can almost feel his disappointment when I ignore his subtle hint for me to kiss him. He manages to peck me on the cheek however, but passers-by might think he's an immigrant, and assume that's just how they say goodbye in his country. That's the excuse I've got stored up for anyone who asks. My teammate, Remy, comes from those parts too, and he greets women with that kissing stuff. I'm not planning to ask him if it's considered normal to kiss other guys like that too.

The track is quiet when I arrive. I pull up to the team garage and park my car next to a sensible luxury saloon car. I meet its owner Sal, my backup driver, in the little lobby area behind the Whyllis team garages. He's a short, brown and white pine marten with a dead-eyed glare, and that's about the liveliest thing about him. Whenever he opens his muzzle, his speech and vocabulary are finely calculated, exact, and his tone is measured.

"Hey Sal, what's the low down?" I smack his outstretched paw and pull him close for one of those bro-hugs. And no, it's different when I hug Sal. He's not Reece.

"There's not much of a problem low down, ironically." Sal rattles off monotonously, like a text to speech app with a slight Circle City accent. "We can see from the engine's performance data that there's a .2% deviation in desired road speed per percent of engine acceleration beyond 4500 rpm in 5th gear."

"That really doesn't explain anything about the actual problem to me," I say, waving dismissively. "You're just saying we've got high speed aerodynamic drag. Now we have to find out where. We're not chewing tires, are we?"

"We are not, Mr. Courage. It's simply an offset between road speed and throttle position compared to the ideal data. The car is very unstable in turn four, and prone to oversteer. I don't have enough time going down the straight to discern what the issue is."

He opens the door to the workshop, and we enter the room behind the garage.

"Are you saying you're not man enough?" I ask, punching his shoulder. I might as well punch the air around him for all the reaction I elicit.

"It is a deviation, which elevates the high risk of the last corner to an unacceptable level."

"Our performance in the other turns should place us well, anyways. If I'm driving, I can make up for a twenty-five mile an hour deficit on the exit of that corner."

I leave the rest unsaid and he nods stiffly. He isn't able to do that. Nobody on the current grid can do that.

"Hammond was quite insistent that we eliminate this issue," Sal explains, as he walks alongside me. "It must be identified and remedied before we get to a high-speed track like the Transatlantic or Kenwood Ring, where the issue will be too great a burden to overcome."

"Fine. How are you doing against your best times in the various sectors?"

"I've only driven for an hour today, but it seems sectors one and two are largely consistent with my regular times. A negative split of a few tenths, but that could just be track conditions."

"Right, so it's likely not the splitter or spoiler," I mumble to myself as I enter the garage. The large gates have been thrown open to the pit lane and the track. Through that garage door lies my entire world. Inside, there's a few people in team t-shirts and lanyards looking around the car.

My main focus is on a pair of almost identical looking ferrets, whom I can neither tell apart nor remember the names of. They're Pete and Peter, or Dave and David, or maybe it's one of each. They're two of the team's newer mechanics, so I haven't learned to tell them apart yet. Poor guys probably couldn't come up with an excuse quick enough when Hammond called them.

"Morning, guys," I say, greeting them both and avoiding using their names. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me what's going on here?"

They glance at each other, and one of them hands me a paper. "We went over these with your colleague just now, There's no drop in engine power between the crank and the differential. The injectors and MAP pressure readings are all fine, and the fuel pressure reads perfectly-"

"I know, I know. It's not power delivery. I mean have you looked at the car?"

One of them hesitates, while the other one flips a page in his ring binder. "I... we, we couldn't see anything. I mean, it's not been in any accidents. There's no trace on it."

"You know I run the curbs pretty hard. You've checked under it too?"

"We thought... since it was aero-related, and all... that you might-"

"Alright, alright. I'll go out in the death trap," I joke.

Sometimes, with problems like these, your butt might be your only way to identify a problem. We racing drivers don't rely on our eyes half as much as we rely on our arse, and that's no joke.

I skim through the papers I was just handed. They're rather dry and technical printouts from the engine dyno test. I can't really pay much attention to them. I'm already missing my dog, my dalmatian. Boy, it feels strange to think about another guy like that. But it's a good kind of weird.

"No offense, Sal, but I've got more hours in this thing than you," I say, fishing out his helmet from the driver's seat, plugging in mine instead. Sal only shrugs his shoulders as I hand his gear over to him. He doesn't have to like the fact but I'm the number one driver, and he's not.

There's a heap of things you don't need to think about driving your average passenger car. First of all, I need a steering wheel. It's usually slung somewhere inside the cabin. Hammond says we have to store it safely somewhere, but nobody really cares. When we're done driving, we're usually celebrating, nobody has the time to file it carefully away under S for steering wheel. I locate it in the passenger footwell and click it into place after I've seated myself in the car. I won't fit unless the steering wheel comes out first, anyways. The average racing seat has high walled support surfaces and is really constricting. It feels like sitting in a coffin. The steering wheel plugs in via one of those old-time landline corkscrew cables, and I'm all dialled in and ready to start the car.

I push the fuses back in and turn the main power breaker to the 'on' position. Then there's the multiple aircraft-style flip switches. Fuel pumps, ignition, lights and electronics, then coms. As I push them in, my steering wheel lights up with numbers.

I flip the last switch, which just says "arming", and press the start button. The engine barks to life, and the whole cabin rattles and shakes. It's completely different from a normal engine. I stab the throttle a few times to get a feel for its weight and resistance and scrub my mind of everything else. I psyche myself up and look to the west for a moment. It's become a habit, ever since I left Australia and I do it every time I get into a race car. Then I'm ready to go.

I give a read out of the figures on my dashboard over the team radio. There is Wi-Fi transmission between the car and the garage, but we have to make sure that's what I'm seeing as well. I rattle off the numbers into the intercom. Everything seems to be working well, I'm looking for the all clear signal from the mechanics.

If you go to a track day with your friends, and you play around for a little, you soon realise you can only drive as fast as you dare. There's that ancient part of your brain that simply says 'Stop. This is idiotic. This is dangerous. This is unnecessary' when you push your limits beyond where you think they lie. That's the first thing you have to unlearn when driving in the big leagues like I do. I've done this for almost four years, and raced in karts since I was thirteen. I'll drive a car as fast as it'll go. I took my Maserati, a big, heavy road car, around Laguna Seca in 1:39:93, which was a second and a half quicker than the instructor of that track, and a damn sight faster than you. It sets me apart, a member of an elite club, one which only a pawful of people in the world can be a member of. A professional racing driver. There's nothing else I want to do in this world.

As I pull out of the garage, I give my rear tires a bit of spin to get the car twisted around the narrow, sharp corner from out of the garage, and spin them through the gears down the pit straight to put some heat in them. No other teams or marshals at the track means no speed limits in the pits.

The other thing that is different with my car as opposed to yours, is the raw, unfiltered experience of driving it. There's a frankly dangerous amount of noise in the cabin. I have to wear double ear protection, and even then, the sounds are pushing their way into my skull through the sheer force of the soundwaves alone.

Above the roar of the engine, there's a more penetrating whine from the gearbox, and that does actually hurt my ears, but I've gotten used to it. I pull out from the pit straight, and onto the track, and I go into my happy place. The car howls and shifts, picking up the pace. I'm north of 100 mph after just a few seconds. I punch the gearshift up to third, and take the car to 7000 rpm, at which point I move past 130 mph, the threshold at which aerodynamical effects become critical to the car's stability. I sense the push from the spoiler at the back, and I feel the weird ground effect, like a weight over the front wheels, as the splitter shifts air into the ducting underneath the car and pushes it into the asphalt. I feel it all through the seat of my pants.

I short shift up to fifth, and the engine quiets down to around 4000 rpm. As I pootle around the medium speed corners which make up sector one and two, I try to listen out for any rattle or sound.

"You need to carry more speed onto the straight to really feel it." A tinny voice goes off in my head. It's garbled by the relatively poor quality of our intercom systems, and I can't tell who said it.

I start to carve through the complex of corners, picking up speed. I start hitting apexes, making the tires squeal under braking, and focus on nailing that perfect line. It takes a few laps of warm up before the car reaches optimal temperatures all around, and the tyres are gripping properly. I check my race timer, and find I've maintained a positive split from my last race during the last two sectors of this race. I call up the garage on the intercom.

"Okay, I'm going all in, break out the clocks," I shout into the microphone on my helmet.

"Cocks?" comes the voice from either Dave or David, or Pete or Peter, acting as crew chief in place of Cartwright, who has not come down.

"The clocks. Jesus," I laugh.

"What do you want us to do with our cocks?"

"Just make sure the timers are running"

"Alright, but you said something about-"

I turn off the intercom and make my way down the straight for a hot lap. As I brake for the first corner and turn the car in, I feel the tyres bite and squeal slightly, and then the rest of the car follows after. I feather the throttle, keeping power to the rear wheels while constantly feeling for grip. There's a lot, we're on completely new tires and the car's handling and suspension is perfectly set up for this track. On a hot day like this, I can get some real competitive times out of the car. I know we're not chasing times today. But if I stop trying to be the best at any point, then what's the point of even racing?

I feel the centrifugal push as I climb the bank of the last left corner onto the flat straight. I love this one. I need all my concentration. Banked corners are different from normal ones, and these cars aren't made to race like NASCARs. The angle of the momentum as the car changes direction is focused towards the ground while I'm in the middle of the corner, but then focused more and more laterally as I reach the end. Which means I'll have more grip on the banking, which will gradually disappear as I exit the corner. And that's just not how corners are supposed to work. But when I get everything right, I'm the fastest racer of them all through this sector. As the track straightens out in front of me, I bury my right foot.

The engine screams. I take it to the red line in third, feel the wheels slip around before I shift to fourth, then we're in fifth. I'm halfway down the straight when I run it into the red. That's much further down the track than I'm supposed to be at this speed. I'm sitting at 170 mph, I should be at 180, and then some. I got a good drive, like I usually do. More than once, I've beaten people on the finish line because I could carry more speed out of the last corner. It's always the last resort, but when it works, it's really impressive to watch. Not wishing to brag, or anything. But today, there's nothing to brag about. I'm not going quicker, and I notice something tickle my tailbone through my overalls, a vibration which does not belong. It feels like something is loose underneath the car, almost exactly underneath my seat, and it's making a subtle playing-card-in-bicycle-spokes sound underneath the noise and fury. It feels like the engine is unwilling to push on, even though by now, I'd have changed up to sixth and knocked on the door of 185.

"Are you hearing that sound?" I yell into the intercom system. "It's buzzing and rattling like crazy!"

No reply, maybe they didn't hear me? more likely that they didn't hear me through the noise, or maybe they didn't hear the noise. Oh, right. I turned it off. Instead of fiddling with the radio, I slow down, after I cross the line and log my time, of course, and twist the car around, heading back into the pit lane the wrong way around.

The ferrets, Sal and the other mechanics are all gathered around a table in the back of the shop. The pizzas have arrived. They don't pay attention to me entering, they're only interested in the food. I'm fairly sure I know what I need to check already.

"Some of your best acceleration data yet, Mr. Courage," one of the ferrets mumbles behind a mouthful, leaning in through my open door. "It's on par with your race day last week. That's good."

It takes a few minutes to get unstrapped from my seat. I climb out and throw the steering wheel back inside the cabin.

"Get the car up on the jacks, guys," I tell the mechanics. I feel excited now that there's something to do. I want to fix this as quick as I can, so that I can go and be with my dog... my actual boyfriend that I actually have. I can't believe it, really.

Walt is going to be here any time soon. This is very much his job, and I'm not really supposed to poke around underneath the car. However, I know what is wrong as soon as I catch a glimpse of the underside.

It might look fine to the untrained eye. Perhaps a few scuff marks and battle scars. The undertray, which protect the engine and suspension in the front, looks fine apart from the occasional scratching, which comes from riding the curbs on the exit of the corners too hard. The wheels, axles, brakes, and suspension all look fine. The diffuser wings, a series of parallel air ducts running along the underside, seems to be fine, but they are not.

I test one of the vertical fins by bending it with my paw. Sure enough, there's a wide gash in the carbon structure, probably a foot long, which almost bisects the entire duct.

When the car is stationary, the carbon weave pattern makes the crack almost invisible, like when you push the pieces of a broken china teacup into place. But at speed, there's a lot of aerodynamical force acting upon it, and each time it vibrates, it comes a little bit looser, and upsets the airflow, besides.

I can hear one of the ferret mechanics swearing behind me. I know that he knows that the job is not going to be fixed in a short time. We'll need new mouldings of carbon fibre from dad's workshop, and then we have to run the car several times so that it sits right. I'm looking at the beginning of a long weekend of twelve-hour shifts, not counting all the times we need to service the car and change tires. That's if the car doesn't suffer any other failures during that time, which is not a guarantee.

"How long do you reckon it'd take you guys to patch it up again?" I ask casually, in the faint hope that they'll have some magical solution for all this. Perhaps they have a spare diffuser somewhere? They just stare at me.

"I reckon somewhere in the ballpark area of all of the week, Paul," One of them tells me, with an annoyed sigh. "I'll get on the phone now. Maybe we can get them to do overtime at CPP. They already have the measurements, so it shouldn't-"

"How about we just patch it with a steel brace or something?" I ask, sandwiching the tear between my two paws to demonstrate that I know how a steel brace functions.

"That's not what I'd call a fix," the other ferret says, scratching the back of his head. "For one it'd be unreliable. For two, it might disturb the air flow, potentially causing more trouble, and for three, it's not even guaranteed to fix the problem."

"Come on," I plea. "If we got a big enough brace... It's only temporary... If it doesn't work, we'll just throw the whole underside away anyways. The moulding will take some time to get here. We can afford to find out."

I can see that they're contemplating it. They want to be home just as much as I do.

"Look, we just have to post a good result and get out of here before grumpy comes around. Order the diffuser, we'll put it on before the race, and we'll still have time to run it in before the other high-speed events. For now, we patch this up. We get good results, the boss is happy, I'm happy, Sal here is happy, and you're happy. Agree?"

I can tell they're weighing the options up in their heads. It's just unreasonable to keep us all here while there exists dalmatians in this world who are alone. I can't seem to get him off my mind.

We back and forth a bit, them offering alternative suggestions that might work, and me pushing for my initial suggestion. My stubbornness wins out in the end. I always win in the end. While the mechanics work on the repair, I explain to Sal what he must listen out for. While I eat pizza and look at the track cameras, Sal roars out of the garage with measured, calculated wheelspin.

He's a very academic driver, very precise. He'd be a prime candidate for my spot if he'd been good at overtaking. Overtaking usually incurs risk and Sal doesn't like risk.

He comes back 15 minutes later with a measured, calculated smile on his muzzle.

"The engine will now accelerate unhindered through fifth gear and feels altogether like it should." Sal reports.

"And the sounds. Did you hear any rattling or feel any vibrations?"

"Negative, Courage. I think we're good to go this Sunday."

Before he's gotten out of his harness, I'm on the computer, pulling up the email client and typing out my report.

Got down at track, Took car out. Buzzing from underside. Applied mechanics to buzzing. Buzzing stopped. Car now runs fine. No issues.

Succinct, short, slightly untrue, but she'll be right, as the great man once said. I pace around the garage until I see the screen light up with the response.

_ Unbelievable, great job. See you next Sunday for the radio interview. 6PM. Don't forget._

Hammond

Thank god he doesn't ask any questions. Walt pulls up in his truck just as I push my way out the door. I wave at him, more out of habit than anything else, secretly pleased that I managed to get in and out before he had the time to get down here.

"Paul," he grunts, and looks at me curious, stopping me before I can make my way to my car. "You got Hammond's message. Why are you not out on the track?"

"Fixed it," I told him. I explain briefly about the fix, but in such a way that he concedes that my fix was probably the right thing to do. And anyways, keeping us all down on the track is expensive, and he concedes that Hammond was probably rash to hand out shifts before we knew what the problem was. Despite my polite tone, I strain to hold back the anger in my voice.

Every time I look at him, I see him clutching that purse Reece had held. See him standing over a helpless dalmatian a third his size. Those are terrible images, and I can't shift them from my mind's eye. I almost started a fight with him, wrenching that purse out of his grasp. Almost got him thrown out or called the police on him, because I remembered the last time it happened.

Every second I spend around him makes my whiskers curl and my nose wrinkle. I can tell that he notices the subtle twitch, because he instinctively sniffs the air. It's this thing us wolves have. Always go for scents if something seems off. And something is off with me today.

"You smell... different," he says. The way he says it, it doesn't ring of concern. Smelling different is our way of asking if everything is alright. But he'd never ask me that. His words are edged, as if smelling different was an invitation for him to kick my ass. Fucking cave wolf.

"New shampoo," I say, quickly. When I sniff myself, casually so as he won't notice, I recognize Reece's smell faintly. Oh crap. He opens his muzzle before I even have time to worry about it.

"You remind me of that... that thing... which snuck into the hotel last Sunday."

"Thing?" I blurt out incredulous. I mean, I'm not going to go ahead and defend him too vehemently, but thing? At least call him what he is. A boy... A person, a living being with real feelings, and a boatload of soul. I shouldn't let myself get worked up. Don't want his attention.

"You know the one," he grumbles. "You helped it get home, didn't you?" He eyes me with narrowed eyes. "Didn't you?"

I can't meet his eyes, because I'm getting annoyed. "Stay the fuck out of my private matters, Walt."

"Private matters, is it?" He sneers and pokes me in the chest, hard. "Or what?"

"Fuck you," I say, but it's pretty much all I can say.

"Fuck you?" his muzzle twists into a cruel smile. "I don't care if he's balls deep in you, if we call, you come. Always."

"Go to hell," I grumble, and start to walk away.

"And don't you forget it," he calls after me. "Any more lip, and it's your career."

I sit in my car for a while, focusing on the anger which he's managed to get out of me. Again. I hate that he can just do that, whenever he wants. I need to do my mental exercises again. What is it I'm here for? Winning races, standing on that podium, holding that trophy, becoming a famous racing driver, shaking paws with my heroes. Which one of those do I need him for? None.

He's the other one who knows. Three years ago, he took away all the joy I had. He was Team Principal then. I'm only just starting to feel it returning to me. He can't know about Reece. He'll ruin everything. I have my racing at least. But he and his father controls that. I slam the wheel in frustration, and the car lets out a clipped honk. Folding my ears, I look around to make sure nobody saw me. If I lose it now, I might go and do something stupid. I hope I haven't done that already. I pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Once I get up to speed and feel my car start to communicate underneath me, bouncing along over the rough roads they have here, I start to relax.

I pat my dashboard where the '1:39:93' sticker is. I still recall that vacation warmly. If the track is my happy place, then this is my happy memory. My car was completely new, and I took it for its first road trip. I was all by myself, with my music and my car and my thoughts, and nothing else. It was the first time in my life I felt I'd made a choice which was completely for me, and nobody else. And when I set the lap time in my car, and the instructor at the track couldn't match it, I knew that I would be doing this for all my life. That thought was what drove me, more than the fame and money, more than the speed and thrills. It was only then I really realised. This is what I do, after all. It's all I can do. There is nobody who can do what I do. Because I can do Laguna Seca in under 1:40, and I know a thing or two about race cars.

The fix will work, I just have to be careful. No showboating, just clean, simple driving like how Sal does it. It'll be fine, that moulding will come around in another few days, perhaps, and it won't even matter. I turn on the radio to drown out the last of my worries.

The presenters pipe up between the songs with their inane chatter. Already I'm judging them. I've not been on this radio show before, and the presenter sounds like a bit of a cunt. He's like all the others, I guess. I've done this so many times already. They don't really care about racing, and I'm not allowed to seem like I care too much. They don't know anything other than to read the papers uncritically and ask their guests whatever questions relate to the headlines, and I'm not allowed to call them out on it or go into technical detail. At least Reece pretends to understand and shows genuine interest. Either this radio DJ hasn't the capacity to care, or he simply doesn't care. In my head I'm preparing my blandest answers to meet their bland questions.