03 - Spotlight

I shot up out of bed with a gasp, then blinked a few times and shook myself to consciousness. It took me a moment to notice my phone blaring, which explained the ringing in my dream. I scrambled to the edge of my bed, my teal eyes still hazed over with sleep, blindly snatching the phone off the nightstand with my paw. I smacked my lips a few times and yawned as I smashed the call button like a bug. "Hello?" I gave my best effort to sound as awake as possible.

"Morning Jasper! Didn't wake you, did I?" Michael Carson, my agent, answered with his smooth, classic New England accent.

"Yeah, Mike... you kinda did. No problem. It's not like I need sleep or anything." I retained my sarcasm since Mike surely wouldn't chew me out for it.

"Sorry... I'm gonna jump to the point, J. I am about to raise your spirits from last night, because I got some fantastic news!" Mike's tone changed about halfway through from aggravation to enthusiasm.

My ears perked up for the first time since the final lap the night before, and I shot out of bed to my feet, "Try me."

"Get your ass to the speedway. Now."

"Is it Felix?" I asked, still unsure if I would return to drive for him at Jettek Racing again next season, and I hoped to God that he finally had a word on it. My tail thumped violently against the bed and my heart pounded in anticipation of his answer.

"Even better. Get down here now." Michael stated before hanging up the phone.

I didn't get a chance to interrogate him before I heard the other line go silent. Even better? What incredible reward can surmount a new contract for a good piece of equipment in the Countrywide Series? Trust me, a few ideas hung in my brain that I could pick out pretty quickly, but I didn't want to jump to the conclusion just yet. The excitement hit, though, a bigger excitement than I'd ever expected to feel just nine hours after losing a race in such a disastrous fashion.

I scrambled to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. I felt pumped, like the rush you'd get off of coffee, only minus the guarantee of a crash. In fact, if this turned out as I already pridefully suspected, then I expected it to only multiply.

Quickly grabbing the first full wardrobe I could find; a Metallico t-shirt and gray sweatpants, I flew out the door with my carry-along luggage. Even my short tail and big ears flew outwards behind me from the speed. After nearly breaking my footpaw flying down the stairs, I pretty much fell into the driver's seat of my Subaru, started the engine and raced out of the parking lot. I paid nearly no heed to the speed limit driving to the track. With the window down, I felt my whiskers whipping my fuzzy face in the wind. Did I mention my excitement? I went from feeling like the lowest life form on Earth to feeling like the future of NAFSCAR itself.

I parked my car in a remote designated area and entered the track through the gate atop the grandstands. Fans began spilling into the speedway beer into a draft mug for tonight's Swift Cup event, despite it being early in the morning. I did not have an escort, as this was unscheduled, so I found myself waved and called at by... well, I hate to say it... girls. Though small, my newly-formed fanbase consisted of a primarily-female demographic. I never really considered myself attractive until I started driving in NAFSCAR, when all kinds of girls began to leave compliments on my Facebook as well as yell them at me in person. Heck, I even got a Facebook Group, "I bet I can find 250,000 furs that think Jasper Erickson is cute." At this point, she had found 9,300. That's a lot of people. My fans stood on a pedestal to me as one of the most important things in the sport, so I never wanted to disappoint. My biggest fear was do something that would cause them to leave. I did not know what it felt like yet, but I knew I'd someday find out - wrecks happen fast, and blame gets thrown faster.

Continuing to walk down the center stairs of the grandstands, I found myself shaking paws, smiling, saying hello, and making small talk with the fans. Did my short, boxy muzzle cause them to flock? My fluffy white ears? My soft, innocent voice? I'll stop complimenting my own looks and just say that whatever it was, I thanked God the race didn't start till 4:00 and only a dozen or so crowded me. I signed a few autographs on my way down until their fun was spoiled when I reached the base of the stairs. I shook two or three more paws before two security guards, both bulls unsurprisingly, met me and asked the fans to back up a little. Although I did have fun lacking an escort, sweet freewill felt good to get back. Shyness does that to you, you know.

The security guards escorted me onto the speedway and across the infield to pit road. My eyes wandered left and right to see a morning sun beaming over the turn 3 catchfence, filling a clear blue sky above.

I displayed good restraint for someone as tense as me in the moment, quite eager to find out what wondrous news my agent hid from me in a carrot-on-a-stick fashion, but I had known from the start what awaited me. Since the summer, rumours had floated around about four or five good teams in the Swift Cup Series looking for new drivers. An annual thing we call Silly Season, as some drivers get fired, some retire and some switch teams, allowing a new generation to take over the driver's seat and hopefully deliver as good or better results. I had been told a few times throughout the year that I would surely be driving in NAFSCAR's premiere series in 2010, and I doubled that as exactly what I figured Michael had hinted at over the phone. Again, I failed at hiding my excitement and continuously found myself jumping to that conclusion.

Before long, the guards left, and I walked through the garage area to mine, 6th in line. Upon reaching my own Countrywide Series garage, I noticed my team had not shown up yet, but Michael and Michael alone sat on a metal stool in the middle with a clipboard in his paw.

A funloving wolf, Michael Allison stood a few inches taller than me, black with gray chestfur and underbelly, and very manly but not muscular like Louis. He sported several red tribal-looking permanent furdyes on his arms. He opened his black lips to speak as soon as he heard my sneakers make contact with the concrete floor of the garage. "J! There you are! You made haste, I see." Michael greeted, observing my wardrobe of a dated Metallico T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants.

"Yeah, I did... I was eager. Cut to the chase." I snapped. Still 8:30 in the morning, I had a limited patience and low capacity for teasing.

Michael cleared his throat, "Well, I pulled some strings, pushed through some loopholes, found some answers, and got you a contract. You can sign it tonight. All I need to know is do you think you can handle the media? You're going to get an overdose of it."

It all hit me so quickly (and so early in the morning) that most of it flew in one ear and out the other. I was anticipating 'You've been hired by so and so', but I did not expect all this info to be thrown at me at once. I humoured him and nodded.

"Alright, good! Looks like you, Jasper Erickson, will be replacing Izra Lofton in Jerrod Pierce's number 25 in the Swift Cup Series next season!"

Did you take me as surprised by the first one? This one caught me completely off guard. Not only did the 25 stand among the top tier of equipment in the series, but Izra Lofton, man. What did he do to lose the ride? Aside from Rhys, Izra had the most talent of the entire crop of rookies this year in Swift Cup, not to mention a classy attitude. My jaw came close to meeting the floor. But, since my mind had been traveling light speed and change, my questions were overruled by pure excitement. I breathed heavily and smiled wide in disbelief, speechless in the moment.

"I think your expression says it all. High five?" He held up a beefy paw, which I promptly slapped hard, leaping into the air a little.

"WOOOOO!!! Oh my God! YES!! Michael, you are fucking awesome!" I wasn't the type to use foul language, but I had an excuse this time. I could not believe what was happening, but it was real, and I would be driving in the Swift Cup Series in 2010. I jumped around a little more, fists pumped. After I calmed down, I drew a long deep breath and asked, "But okay I gotta ask, why the hell did Pierce fire Izra Lofton? He finished 13th in the final standings in his rookie year! He damn near made the chase for the cup! He--"

"Sponsorship."

"Why the--"

"Cinemart is leaving as a sponsor unless they fire him."

"Why the hell?! He's a great driver! He's done nothing but excel this year!" I was finally able to complete my statement.

"This is all I've been told, dude. The fact of the matter is that you have earned yourself this ride, and it is yours next year." He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder, "And I think you have more potential than Izra anyway.

This made me blush and turn my head down a little, my ears turned back modestly and my tail gave a few bashful wags (I know, so cute right?). I guess I didn't give myself enough credit where it was due.

He gestured my eyes back on his with his black and red paw, "And buddy, I figured I'd secure you a seat in the Swift Cup, so I did a little homework. I stayed up till about... oh... 3:30 give or take a couple minutes, calling teams and team owners whom had free rides... you know, like the #22 and the #54 since neither of the Callisto brothers are returning next year."

"What about the 10?" I don't know where this question came from.

"The 10 is right now up for grabs by only four different drivers; both the Callisto brothers, David Creisman, and a young talent named Brandon Reese. I hear they're set on Reese, but I am not entirely sure. If it is Reese, I'd call him your biggest threat for Rookie of the Year. He's a beast behind the wheel, just like you."

I had no idea Criesman would move up, either. Jeez, I'm slow.

Of course, with this good news came some bad news. I had to find Louis, as I could not fathom going it alone in Swift Cup; the big boys would eat me up.

Now, usually I would want to talk to Louis for some encouraging words, and I know he cared about me so I'd usually receive the words I want, but this time I wanted to talk to him more than a starved dog would want a steak. I wouldn't necessarily kill anyone to talk to him, but I'm sure you catch my drift.

Shortly after exiting my garage, I caught his scent, and turned my head to find him darting towards me in street clothes, "What'd he tell ya?!" He sounded eager, "Did you get a Swift Cup ride?!"

He slowed up as he neared me, his eyes focused and hungry. I smiled proudly at him, "Dead on."

He jumped up and down in excitement, "Holy crap, man! Who for?!"

I didn't lose my cocky smile, "Take a shot."

"It ain't the 10, is it?" He looked a little worried; the 10 currently held the title of best car rumoured to be up for grabs as the 25 was a complete secret to the public at this point. Was Louis worried about the best ride being taken? Regardless, it was, no matter how you slice it.

"No. Some Brent Reese's cup kid has that ride locked up." I moved my head a little as I spoke for emphasis, but otherwise remained motionless.

"Well, a couple rookies got the 22 and 54. Is it the 12?"

"The 12?" I tilted my head and perked my ears up curiously.

"Some new team that's been in the rumour mill for a month or so. No details at all. Heard they got a solid sponsor, though. Either way, that's obviously not it."

I laughed a little, "Give up?"

"Are there any other rides out there, man? I thought everyone else had set their decision already." His curiosity was peaking, I could tell. I decided I had better relieve him before he started foaming at the mouth.

"Betcha didn't know Izra Lofton was getting canned." I kept the cocky smile.

He had to take a moment to think, "Wait a minute... Izra... they're firing Izra Lof--- FUCKING PIERCE ENTERPRISES?!" His jaw would have hit the pavement had it not been so perfectly attached to his face.

"That's about the size of it." I nodded, and then found myself met by him wrapping his arms around me briefly.

"My Lord... congratulations man... freakin' congratulations! That's the best two-car team in Swift Cup right now." He backed off and shook his head with a smile from ear to ear. I could see it plain on his face how much he really cared about my success. I felt a little selfish making this all about me, so I redirected it.

"Any luck on your part?" I ask him.

"Nope. Well's running dry. May have to wait another year." He shrugged and threw in a half-hearted smile afterwards.

My memory suddenly kicked in, "You gave me your winning flag last night. Any reason, bud?"

"Yeah. I got a few this season already. You don't." He said it plain as day.

"I wanted to thank you for that."

"You're welcome." He sounded sincerely thankful.

"I gotta go, but I'll catch ya later, okay?" I smiled at him.

"Good luck to ya! Congratulations again! I'll meet ya tonight during the race!"

I walked off, basking in the joy I once again found in moving up; taking clear advantage of being born with a silver spoon in my muzzle.

But it would not be so simple, this time. Moving up without Louis meant giving up my defense. I had to learn to fend for myself, but had no motivation, which again brought about the demons in my head. I could only wait and see, maybe my teammate, championship contender Christine Boyd, could shed some light on my dark little dream coming true.