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March 29th

I get home, pack my racing overalls into the laundry basket where they will be promptly ignored for another week, and plop down in front of the television. I figure I should give Reece a text, just to let him know I solved everything. I can only dream about all the fun stuff we could get up to this week with all the free time I suddenly gained for myself. I can feel myself growing hard in my boxers, just thinking about him.

The last text from Reece was before we had sex. It's so innocent, but reading it now, I can almost feel his hunger through the words. Or maybe I'm projecting? I quickly type out another one, written with the knowledge thus gained.

Hey pup, I had fun last night, and I wanna let you know, I can have fun tonight as well.

I snicker to myself as I write it. I get this weird pleasure from being forward and pushy. It's so much easier than in public, and really, I do envy him for being able to make public displays of affection. Too much of a risk for me. I'm not the one for picking my words and carefully applying them to a conversation like verbal jigsaw puzzles. Other than blanding it down for the cameras and microphones, I can't really hide or obfuscate my feelings when they're close to the surface and I just know that'd get me into trouble if we were out in public. I only have two settings. Not passionate and passionate. I just hope Reece can accept that. I don't take it for granted that I've got someone who I can, given the right time and place, just tell my deepest desires to, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Well, I'll tell him eventually. When the time is right. My phone lights up with his reply much later, and no, I didn't constantly check it, only once a minute or so.

I'd love that <3

I'm on it like a hawk, studying his message, seeing right through the words to their subtle undertone. I have the reply written out as quick as I can.

Wanna come over to my place? We can play all night, my dad's not home.

I joke, but he really does bring out the cub in me. I feel my tail tapping as I type the texts, and I'm giddy and excited as if I was twelve again, and the world hadn't taken its toll yet. There's nothing wrong with his place, but my apartment is an actual apartment, and not someone's hand-me-down glorified motel room.

Sure. Speaking of, I gotta get my dad a present, and I only have this week to find something.

His reply seems to take a long time to type out. I guess he is distracted or perhaps horny from my implications. Perfect time for me to play the opportunistic raconteur. I can get underneath his skin with my clever charm, so I try my paw at subterfuge.

Why don't you come over, and we can COME up with something together?

His reply comes quicker this time, minus the time he must have spent laughing at my brilliant pun.

I don't think we can give my dad a grandson the way we do it ;)

Then another message comes through, right after.

pick me up in 30?

Score one for Paul.

I pick up Reece from his dorm building 29 minutes later. A short blast of rain came on the drive down, followed by sun and choking humidity. He's soaked from the hems of his ankle length pants and down, and he has a pair of white canvas shoes which doesn't like the rain at all, but somehow looks just right on him. Just a tiny bit dishevelled and distressed, but with this restrained desire to look cute and innocent. He's got this way about how he dresses, girls' clothes or guys', he always looks pretty, and he makes it look like he does so despite the efforts of his clothes. Even when his clothes are cute, it feels as though they're the cloud obscuring his sunshine. I want to spoil him rotten every time I see him, because I know he'd get lots more cute outfits to wear and entice me with. I can feel my sheath grow in my pants. His tail is wagging as he runs up to my car, and his tongue pokes out from his muzzle, panting from the humidity.

"Hey there!" I greet him as he bounces down on the passenger seat. The smell of him spreads instantly through the interior of my car. A mix of wet dog, cherry scented bath soap and a subtle but noticeable undertone of arousal. I reach over to hug him. The car has slightly tinted windows so nobody can really see inside. He pushes my arms away and instead grabs a kiss. It's not something I can just get used to like that. It feels strange at first, like I'm not sure what to do with it. But with his eyes so close to mine, his muzzle pressed up against mine, the smell of him so close to my nose, my body quickly remembers what it's wants to do. It gets a bit carried away.

"Happy to see you too, sexy."

He smiles as we break contact, and I pull my paws out of his pants. He sighs happily, resting a soft paw on my thigh as I pull out onto the main road.

"How did things go at work?" he asks.

"Pretty good, got things sorted out much quicker than I was anticipating. How about you?"

"Oh, nothing big, been working on this assignment for class, but it's not coming together right. I have to read more about it during the week. Anyways. You didn't answer my question. Wanna help me look for a present for dad?"

"Sure," I say automatically. I can't really wait to bring him home with me, but I should do boyfriend things with him also. I think it means a lot to him.

Reece bounces from shop to shop, looking for interesting things as we're milling around the mall. He occasionally talks about his father, his family, and his relationship with them. The way he tells it, they sound like your average, traditional, suburban family. Sounds like they're slightly wealthier than average, but not so much that it has affected his personality. All in all, they sound nice. Not overly religious, or extreme, or any of that crap, though he does complain a lot about his mother and her obsession with blood lines.

My dad is way too busy with work, and I'm not going to bother him with who I date. I tell Reece briefly about him, but I can't say very much. Dad and I don't talk much, especially not personally. He runs the business and I race cars. I've always gotten the feeling he's got some weird views on masculinity anyways, but I haven't taken the time out to find out about them. I don't talk about mom either. Not with dad, nor with Reece. My dalmatian is in a good mood, no need to ruin that.

I see Reece emerging from between two racks of summer jackets, clutching a sweater. The size is several increments too small for me. The dalmatian would fit in it twice.

"What do you think about this one, Paul?"

"It's a green sweater," I conclude. "It's nice, I guess. Acceptable, if you're careful what you wear it with. Not quite my taste."

"I can't afford your taste, wolf," he complains, pouting. "Mom wouldn't let me spend that much money, even if I could. Is it better than this one?" He tilts his head and holds up a mustard looking sweater with a slightly different pattern.

"I'm not sure, they look kinda' awful, both of them, if you ask me."

His ears droop and he return the sweaters to where he found them.

"I'm serious. Getting presents for dad is hard!"

"I don't know what input I can give, Spot. All I can say is that these stores really don't stock the sort of stuff meant to flatter older guys. I don't even know what he looks like."

"Well, he's white with black spots, Paul. I want to get him something that looks good with those." Reece pokes around inside another rack which carries mostly striped shirts. "I thought you knew this stuff too, I mean... you always dress really nice."

"I could help, if you'd up your budget," I say, probably not very helpfully. In truth, I've learnt most of what I know from the luxury fashion magazines Remy always brings to the garage. I'll let the fashion houses of Europe pick the colours for me, so that I don't have to think about it. That's why I pay a premium. I shrug my shoulders and look around for some of the more upmarket shops.

"I'll kick a few bucks your way, if you-"

"No, I said," Reece mutters. Then he flicks his ears. "Sorry, Paul. I mean... I shouldn't have to tell you why that's a bad idea." I sense a bit of annoyance dripping into his voice. "Mom will find out how much it's worth. They know how much money I have, or rather, don't have." He turns to me, paws on hips. "What would you give your dad? It's not like it has to be this grand personal gesture, I just want it to be something nice. Something that dads like."

I shrug my shoulders again. "Booze, I guess?"

"Other than booze, that's off the table. It has to be something a mother wouldn't object to."

My ears flick down, but I try to play it off casually. "Then, I don't know."

I didn't intend for there to be as long a silence there was between us. I'm not sure he guesses. Maybe he thinks I'm being obstenate, I quickly change the subject. "What kind of guy is your dad, anyway?"

"It's hard to describe. He's dad. He's like every other dad, I guess. He makes dumb jokes, likes barbecue, beer and embarrassing himself in local news comment sections. He watches football, and he got me into watching motorsport, and-"

"He made you interested in racing?" I ask, feeling the dust blowing off the old processor. "That's something... If it weren't for him, you might never have met me, eh?"

"Don't say it like that," he mumbles, but he has a coy smile on his muzzle. "I mean, it was mostly that asshole's Walt's fault, but it did actually turn out really well, didn't it?"

He's so damn precious, I can almost not keep myself from holding him. He's got my jacket sleeve in his paw, pulling me gently around the store. I angle my wrist and squeeze his paw gently for a second. His ears flick, and he lights up. It's enough to put him in a good mood. I do care.

"What's on your mind?" he asks, smiling back at me as he pulls me along.

"You could get him, like... tickets? You say they were here on Sunday? How about a track-side seat? I can get them any spot in the grandstands."

"No, they're leaving on Sunday, there's no time that day to watch racing," he says apologetically, "but I'll watch, so don't you worry about that."

"Oh, I know you will," I tell him. I want to make it the best race he's ever been to. If I can't hold his paw in public, at least I can do this. That reminds me that there's something I can do. "So, they're here on Saturday? How about taking your dad on a track visit? I could show him around some real race cars. The garages will be empty all night before race day."

Reece pauses and looks at me. He looks like he's considering it. "You're not going to take him out in the car? Mom wouldn't like him doing that, I think."

"Nah, I can't use the track when we're alone. I thought just a look around the garage. I can talk a little about what's in there. We sometimes get career-curious high schoolers on field trips, and I've shown them around once or twice before."

"I think dad would like that. Is that something you can just do?"

I shrug. "I mean, I have unlimited track access and a key. I can just go down there whenever, you know."

"You mean, just you and him?" Reece looks at me questioningly. What does he want me to say to that?

"Y-yeah, I mean, sure, as long as he's not press. Won't you come along too?"

He laughs nervously. "Of course! I'm going to come along too."

He pauses, as if he wants to say more.

"But?" I ask.

"I don't know, wolf."

We both go silent for a while. Reece finds a free table at a small coffee shop, which is secluded and hidden away from the main walkways of the mall. I start to understand that he wants to have a talk, as he takes care to make sure we're alone. I get him a chai latte, mine is a roast blend.

"Talk to me, Reece," I demand. He's looking away, his ears have a more drooping quality than they normally have. "You don't suppose he'd take kindly if I say his son found his present in my pants."

"Paul!"

He kicks my shin, not hard, but probably hard for him, because he winces slightly.

"I'm serious..."

"Serious about what, pup?" I ask him. A casual glance around the shop informs me that nobody can see or hear us.

"I guess..."

Reece's mind is somewhere else. I don't even know if he heard me. I sip my coffee for a while, as I'm waiting for the response which never comes.

"You think it's too early?" I ask him finally, because it's a worry I've been mulling over myself. He looks at me for a second, then looks away. He sighs and almost drifts off again, but I nudge his foot with mine and he looks at me again.

"It's the perfect gift, really," he says, "But I don't know if I can do it. It feels wrong to hide you from him, and yet introduce you. My parents have never met any of the other guys I've been with."

He pauses for another moment, before sighing again. If I'd known how difficult I made it for him, I'd probably not have offered. He chews his lips for a moment before speaking up again. "Don't you think we should be together for a bit longer before we take it so far as to introduce our parents into the mix?"

"Is there a law against it?" I ask, mimicking his own words to me the other day, but I get what he means. We've been properly together for only a day or two. Maybe longer if you count the two dates we had. You could call it a week at best if you think our first encounter counts. I don't want it to be an issue, honestly. If you think you have a good thing, you should grab that chance. I'm too used to have to grab chances as soon as they come, and I've been hesitant to do that outside of the track. But he's different. He's got a string of exes. He's experienced a lot of ups and downs in love. He knows that no matter how wild it feels now, in a week, or a month, or a year, it might feel different. You think I can't tell from a look, from the faintest smell? We're perceptive creatures, us wolves.

"It's okay," I tell him, "I'll play whatever part you want me to. I promise. It's only going to be us there. Things will be safe, I can be your friend, or I can... I can be more than a friend. It's your choice."

I smile at him, but I know it's not going to fix anything just like that. I really have no idea what I'm getting into here, but if it's boyfriend stuff, and we're alone, I'm sure I can do it for him. Anything to distract him from wanting to be out in public. I know it's not nice of me to think of it like this, but I really just want to spend more time with him before we go that far. Reece is looking at me wistfully, his pale blue eyes scanning mine for a long time. I wonder what he's thinking about now. I take a deep breath, and put my paw on his over the table, while looking back into his eyes. I try my best to not let my eyes travel around the little café. I'm sure there's nobody else here, but I don't want him to think I can't do this for him.

"It's going to be fine," I plead with him, softly squeezing his paw in mine. "I'll take your dad on a tour of the garage. You'll come along. We'll tell him whatever you want us to tell him, or we'll tell him nothing. I can do this, if you want me to."

A dalmatian's ear flick is very subtle. Not like me, waving my massive radio-telescopes around. Cute and restrained, as expressive as any dog. We have a saying. You can get as much out of an ear as you can put into it.

"Thanks, Paul," he whispers. "It is a lot to ask, but it means a lot too. I think dad will be happy. I just hope I can keep it together. I'll try to figure out what I want to tell him."

I can feel his paw shifting under my own. His fingers move around mine and intertwine. We sit there for what feels like a year, holding paws and looking into each other's eyes, before I think to ask the question.

"I guess we don't have to hang around here anymore?"

When we get home to my place, there's nothing stopping all that tension from releasing. I've restrained myself out of trepidation, and he has held back out of respect. That seems to require more and more effort the longer we're out together.

His kisses are as fierce as mine. I clutch him close to me, and we tumble down on the couch where I was just watching the races earlier today. He's brought his own lube, thankfully. The sex is as wild and passionate as it was the first time, but we're sober this time, and it feels even better as we climax together.

It's somehow more exciting doing it in my apartment. I've brought him in here, where for the longest time, only I belonged. He fits so well in with the furniture. I wonder if that interior designer knew who I'd bring into the apartment he outfitted when I hired him. A fox, I think. I couldn't say no to any of his suggestions, I'm afraid. I ran a pretty hefty bill for it all. It's kind of embarrassing, but I had a bit of a thing for him. Didn't say anything of course. I wonder if things would've been different. I don't even remember his name now, but his legacy remains. I haven't got the heart to rearrange, and Reece seems to appreciate it, so that means I do too.

My dalmatian snuggles up in my arms, in which he also fit admirably. In the hazy afterglow, we cuddle on the sofa, both our coats damp with sweat. It didn't matter that it was white, it's got stains none the less. I wonder how you clean a sofa.

Here in the northeast, it gets really dark outside. My full-length windows in front of the sofa faces a patch of grass and a forest beyond. No other houses can be seen, and just the faintest reflection of streetlight make it through my kitchen windows in the other end of the room, from the quiet cul-de-sac on the other side of my house. Though nobody can see us where we lie together, it still feels risky and bold all the same. In return for the imagined risk, I get to enjoy his reflection in my windows, as he shifts around, resting against my chest.

My shower is big enough for the both of us, so I pick him up and carry him inside. I must have given him just as much of a workout this time. I'm by no means "good" at sex, or whatever. But you can get far by just being in shape, and I can keep pounding long after he's winded and worn out. He's panting softly against my chest fur, his eyes half lidded, mumbling about how good it was. That gets me hard again. I can't help it; I like having my ego stroked almost as much as my dick.

He perks a bit when the water hits us, but I make sure to take good care of him. I shampoo him up nicely and scrub him down, using most of my body as a makeshift sponge. He's getting hard again. I tease him about it, holding him close against my chest so his paws can't reach his cock, while I rub against him. The smell of musk mixes with the smell of the shampoo. He protests meekly, but his scent betrays him.

I can show him what having a racing driver for a boyfriend means. It's not just him I feel the need to convince, but myself as well. The few public displays of affection I've managed so far feel severely lacking, so I'm going to have to compensate in the bedroom.

I've got almost all my stamina back despite the sex we had half an hour before. As soon as we're out of the shower, I pick him up, hoist his legs over my hips, and push him against the wall. He gasps when he touches the glistening, cold bathroom tiles, but I silence him with my tongue.

"Bottle... in my pants pocket... quickly," he moans as we break kisses to catch our breath. He's still loose from our last session, and probably sore, but he can't hide what he really wants from me. He gasps when I push my now slick shaft back inside him. I start pounding, encouraged by his soft voice. God, he drives me wild.

I bite down on his ear, not hard enough to puncture the skin, but hard enough that his moans assume a different pitch. I can sense him clenching against my length, but he's weakened, and can't do much more than massage my shaft softly. I push my knot in for the second time in less than an hour. It fits just as snugly as the first time. He's tired and panting, whining and sore, pawing himself off while I hold him against the wall. When he finally orgasms, all that comes out from his tip is a small trickle. I gently carry him to the bed. I don't care that we're still damp. We spend some time seated face to face, trying to recover from the raw, animalistic sex we've just had.

I offer him to spend the night, but he has school tomorrow. He also declines my offer to take him there in the morning. That I don't mind so much. I'm not really keen on getting up at 7 am.

Getting dressed in front of each other feels strange, somehow. We've just fucked twice in a night; we've had sex two nights in a row. We've seen each other naked 80% of the time we've been alone in a room together. And yet, it still feels weirdly private and personal.

I drop Reece off by his apartment and kiss him goodbye. On the way home, I pick up some groceries, but I'm too tired to focus on my diet, and end up with more frozen pizzas again. When I get home, I plunge into bed. It smells strongly of his musk, his scent, his cum mixed with mine, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

March 30th

I've got to dedicate a few days a week to my personal trainer, who greets me with a scowl as I enter the gym.

"You are late, wolf," the otter barks. His harsh, square Karlinian accent underscores the intensity of his statement.

"I'm right on time, Otter!" I protest, but of course, as I glance at the large clock in the gym, it reads almost thirty seconds past ten in the morning, and that is late.

"You must strive for consistency," he growls. "You are racing driver. Thirty seconds off is unacceptable. One second is unacceptable."

"My watch doesn't count seconds!" I complain. It's a vintage Rolex sports watch, but that means nothing to the otter. Neither does my prowess in the car or my many championship victories. He only concerns himself with my physical condition, and he's almost never satisfied.

"No protests. On the machine, now!"

I get on the so-called machine, which is what he calls the treadmill, and start running at a gentle pace. My legs are protesting slightly from having gone two rounds with my boyfriend last night, but there's no skipping leg day.

I don't know his name. He has never told me his name, greeted me, or shaken my paw. He never calls me anything other than Wolf, I never call him anything but Otter, and I suspect even that is too personal and up close for him.

Otter does his stretches in a corner of the studio while I work up a sweat. I've got my music on my wireless headset, so I can tune out, and re-live the last few days back to myself. That's what I usually do when working out, zone out and meditate, but today I can't. Reliving the two last days for me is just one long sex scene with my dalmatian. He keeps cropping up in my mind and stealing my concentration. I can see that playful smile on him. I want to reach into my daydreams and grab him, pick him up, fuck him until he cries in pleasure. I feel my sheath stir and grow, so I try to concentrate on something else. My shorts are not the type of shorts to get hard in.

"WOLF!" Otter's voice penetrates my music, and I start, almost tripping and falling. I hope he didn't notice that my shorts were not so lose as they're meant to be. "Get on the machine. Do leg work."

His intention is so fierce that there's no room for confusion or doubt as to which machine is the machine in question, this time around. A leg press bench. His purple leotard is already glistening with sweat, or whatever otters call it. They always seem wet somehow. I'm not sure what he's done to exert himself other than shouting at me. I get in and start doing reps, while he stacks on plates and shouts at me for my weakness and lack of character. He curses my father, my friends and anyone whom I've come into contact with for the last six months. No word about my mother, though. I guess he still remembers my reaction when he brought her up the last time.

"Wolf, you stink of sex," he says matter-of-factly, but so suddenly and loudly that it makes me jerk the weights up with a loud clack, almost breaking my legs as I catch them on the return. I've not had time to shower before I got here, reasoning that I was going to get sweaty anyways, and I still smell of my bedsheets. And my sheets still smell of him. I swallow down the embarrassment of smelling of another boy's cum. He can probably not detect what kind of sex it is with his inaccurate otter nose. I don't think he can smell stuff like gender and intentions, but anyone could've smelled this. I grumble and strain my legs to push the weights up and down, trying to push his words out of my head. My ears flick down none the less, and they start heating up, not just because my blood is pumping more.

"How can this be?" he continues, "how can someone as weak and lazy as you get a lay for the night?"

For some reason, I latch onto the fact that he didn't just immediately jump to using the word 'girlfriend' like anyone else would have. Maybe it's a quirk of the Karlinian language he translates in his head. I channel my annoyance with him at the weights. The sound of growling escapes from the back of my throat with every exertion. The click-clack from the weights grow steadily faster. He smiles his mischievous smile.

"How much did it cost you?"

He grins. I really could punch that grin right off him, just about now. He's looking to get a rise out of me. It's always been playful ribbing like this, and it's usually mutual. Mutual in the sense that I am usually the one panting and cursing the day I was born, while he stands over me, cursing the father who raised me to be a weak little bitch.

Otter gets his results. He's got this way of breaking down an ego which I'm slightly worried about. I wonder if he worked in the secret service or something equally sinister, like a secret brain washing program or something. Or, he works with a lot of racing drivers. Sometimes, it feels like he's targeting my sense of self-worth, squeezing it for all the superficial bullshit I tend to put in it, until the only thing that remains is whoever I truly am. I'll be honest, it's not pretty. Today is one of those days. I can sense my legs protesting, burning, shaking, and I smack the weights back one last time and cry out in frustrated pain. I sit in the machine for a few moments, breathing heavily while Otter looks at his stopwatch, gives a small whistle, and shoos me out of the machine.

"Maybe your partner was so unimpressed that they told you to improve in my gym, eh wolf?" I can't answer his taunt. I can't answer any taunt. I am nobody, I am just muscle and blood, there is nothing else. I must perform, I must not waste energy. I'm too tired to speak, and furthermore, bragging about how much Reece enjoyed me in bed is just the sort of behaviour I know he'd latch onto and start beating out of me.

Otter smiles because he knows when he's won again. He is the one opponent I can't beat. My legs are wobbling as we move from exercise to exercise, each getting more demanding than the last until I can barely stand up. Only then is otter truly satisfied, and I'm allowed to escape to the shower. My legs are so raw and used up that I don't trust myself to stand up on the wet tiles, and I plop down on the floor letting the water wash over me. With the anger and annoyance out of my system, and my dalmatian nowhere to be seen, I feel a strange sadness rush in to fill the hole.

Tired and weak, and broken down, there's nothing preventing my mind from wandering. A side effect of Otter's work. He doesn't just take away the ego, he also blows dust off of the dark things I've hidden inside myself. I find those two wolves inside of me, both of whom are me. One, the great racing driver Paul Courage. A strong and confident hero. Someone who shrugs in the face of danger every time he gets behind the wheel. Then there is Paul Courage, the insecure, scared and weak little husk of a wolf. Someone who shies away in fear at the thought of sacrificing a little bit of comfort and security. Someone who knows deep down that great sex, kissing and cuddling isn't quite enough. Someone who has created a comfortable hole inside me to hide in, which has only grown bigger and deeper with time until it became a part of me, instead of something missing. But some holes take more than just a nice ass and some sweet words to fill. There's another thing that worries me too.

I have neglected to share a few things with him. It's not something he needs to know. We were always in public and he was always in a good mood. I couldn't risk scaring him away too soon by talking about heavy subjects. That was what I kept telling myself. But it concerns me, and I concern myself with him, so I guess it concerns him too. I can't not tell him for much longer, or I'll just make it worse. He's done so much to help me reach this point. He deserves to know. But could I actually tell him? Could I actually bring myself to say the words? I've not talked to anyone else about it, not dad, not my colleagues, nobody. He deserves to know.

When I get home, I text my boyfriend.

Hey pup. Loved our little workout session last night. How ya' doin' with that assignment?

I get the reply a little later.

I'm doing fine, keeping my head down and writing. Gonna be busy the next few days. Sorry hun. ttyl

I really shouldn't bother him. He's busy with something important, trying to improve his life. Meanwhile I'm just lonely. But my fingers move of their own accord.

If you need a break, you know where to find me. Already missing you <3

My phone is silent for the next ten minutes as if it was dead. And I know it's not dead, because I checked it regularly. Suddenly it plings, and I dive for it.

That's okay, sweetie. We'll have lots of time later. Gonna work now. Radio silence.

Oh no, he hates me, is my initial reaction.

For crying out loud, Paul, my internal voice chides me, you're twenty-six, not fifteen. He's busy, don't bother him. You can take care of yourself for another half a week or so. You've done it all your life. Just because you had a tough day at the gym doesn't mean he should drop everything and rush to your side. You managed just fine before.

I grit my teeth and erase the half-written reply, exhale, and toss the phone down on the couch next to me.

I turn on the TV instead and start flicking absently. I turn over to a random news channel, and stop suddenly. There's an interview with my father's CFO. He's wearing a company shirt with the legend Courage Performance Parts printed on its chest. Since it's the local TV station, the reporter is really struggling for the local angle. I don't know why I stop here. Perhaps I just hope to see more of my dad without the formality of setting up a meeting or inviting him over for a meal. That's probably a bit drastic. I just want to know what he's up to without having to call him. But then the sound of the reporter's voice comes and I'm forced to take notice of it.

"And what about the recent carbon fiber shortage that we're seeing throughout the industry?"

"We're seeing some cutbacks in production," the ram responds, "but we're thankful that we haven't seen any major losses as a result of this crisis. Some orders will have to be pushed back as we wait for the international markets to rise to this new opportunity. We've reached out to our customers with information regarding their orders already, but that's as much as anyone can do in this situation."

I perk up. First time I'm hearing about this. The rest of the interview is some rather dull marketing stuff which doesn't concern me. I pull up my phone and send off a text to Walt.

New diffuser ordered from CPP. Has it arrived?

A text appears shortly after.

No.

Then, another one comes in a few minutes later.

That's not going to happen anyways, watching the news now. Nothing carbon fiber coming our way the next week or so. But you said you'd fixed it, right? If it's unsafe, I'll have to tell Hammond and my father that we have to retire the car.

If I tell him the car is unsafe, I'd probably have to spend days in the garage with him while we test alternative fixes, and explore alternative measures. The thought of me and him alone in a garage together brings up bad memories. I don't want him hanging over me. Smelling me. Getting on my nerves. I don't want to retire the car when I've already gotten Reece hyped for the race, and told him I'll win it for him. I don't want the garage full of mechanics on Saturday before the race, when Reece's father comes to visit, and have to break my promise. I've gotten him a season ticket and everything. I know I can handle it; I can make him proud of me. If I'd just taken his damn paw when I had the chance, I'm sure I wouldn't have to feel like this is so damn necessary. I poke at my screen determinately.

The car is ready to race.

I'll just have to make do. Worst case, I'll lose a position on the straights, during the first ten laps, before I can make a big enough gap through sector one and two. By the end, I'm usually at a second and a half positive split, so I can afford to go slower on the straights. Reece won't be able to tell the difference between top speed and almost top speed from where he's sitting anyways. It's no big deal really.