NOVEMBER 29, 2013 / GOMERY STADIUM RACERS LOUNGE

Suavely decorated, the lounge had a calm atmosphere that most of Asher's fellow racers sought after such a frenetic night — and most importantly: food. Asher took three of the polystyrene plates, and started piling up food from the buffet. He'd been running on nothing but electrolyte drinks the whole day — as was the case on race days — because all the jolting during the race would make for a very hasty regurgitation.

Finally, holding the three plates pressed to his chest with arms and chin, Asher left the buffet table, and walked to a low table. Minimalism had been the design brief, apparently, since anything that could be circular, was. The blue and lilac lighting made the room look almost nightclub-ish, mind the lack of dance music. Quiet, lazy — Asher did not want to disturb the tranquillity. The leather couches curved around the tables, and looked cyan under the lighting — Asher knew they were actually white.

He'd taken a seat with some of his competition, who were also stuffing their mouths with food. Once he'd gotten to the big leagues of competitive racing, he found a stark difference between the racers. His first race, Venture, had been filled with desperate teens trying to prove their status. Here, the racers were champions of their own minds, and did not mind a bit of contest.

In other words: they accepted defeat with as much grace as a ballerina. Asher found that admirable, and could see forming friendships with some of the men here.

He was by far the youngest, and the racers treated him as such. Not with baby jokes and mockery; they all leaned towards Asher with a older-brotherly disposition, wanting to be the ones who showed him the ropes of the industry. That they did, and Asher was never more grateful. This racing community was small, knit tight like cotton threads.

For half an hour straight, the only sounds were the soft thumping of The Neighbourhood songs and uncouth chewing sounds. Everyone ate liked starved men, and when, finally, they cleared their plates, Leon Lonzano spoke, "God, I'm full."

It wasn't much, but that prompted the men sitting around Asher's table to spark up a casual talk. They never spoke much; not snobbery; what else could be expected from athletes?

A chorus of, "Me too," followed.

Leon addressed Asher this time, "Good on you, man. What's this? Seventh?"

Asher could only nod, too busy sucking the melted chocolate off his fingers.

"Ah, you are heading for the top," Leon sighed.

"I hope so," Asher muttered.

Rocky Bhatti, who had left university to pursue a racing career, spat a cherry stone out. "But, there are other things to life."

Leon laughed, "Such as? Heroin?"

Rocky ignored the jab at his old high school habits. 

Asher found out that once into the top level of competition, there was a limited selection of racers. Most events saw the coincidental meeting of many of the top league of racers. This was also part of the reason no-one was bothered too much by losing; it was more than likely another time, another place, would lend the chance to try win against the exact same people. 

Asher had been a new addition to their exclusive league, a youthful change that they welcomed — for entertainment, and friendship's sake. The competitors also got to know each other as friends, outside of the dirt track.

"Women, my friend," Rocky smirked, flaunting his slight tipsiness with a loose giggle.

Leon's eyes widened, as if remembering just how important this face to life. Asher watched lazily, slumped next to Rocky — equally tipsy — as Leon unzipped his racing jacket (none of them had the energy to take the filthy things off) and pulled out his wedding ring. When he slipped it back on his finger, he returned to the conversation with a contented sigh.

"Of course, Asher," he grinned. "Got your sights on any specific girl?"

Asher thought back to Tracey, one of two girls he'd ever dated. She'd come running back to him once he gained an Instagram following bigger than hers (though at the time, he'd posted around five photos — three of them were memes), claiming that she'd made a mistake and wanted him back. 

Fame did funny things to the mind, Asher realised. 

The boy had imagined too many times exactly what to say to her if she ever came running back to let this opportunity go. 

"It's okay, Tracey," had been his reply. "I made a mistake, too, dating you." 

The way her face fell looked more beautiful to him than any of her contrived selfies ever had. He felt no remorse — anger, actually, since she dared ask for him back when Asher was dating another girl. 

Diana was a wallflower on the verge of blooming, when Asher met her. This was at the start of his racing career, and her innately shy nature during the dates they had proved to him that his busy schedule and her hesitance to be serious did not spell a future. She was always so timid, and being Asher Delrov's girlfriend wouldn't do anything but put more negative attention on her. They ended on civil, if not awkward terms, and still smiled at each other in the halls.

Wistfully exhaling, Asher answered solemnly, "No specific girl."

His heart was devoted to the smell of oil and sting of smoke in his eyes. His love was the hum of machinery. A welding spark was prettier than any sparkling pair of eyes could be. Asher was fascinated by how each set of wheel tracks could be so different, each as unique as a snowflake. The wheels of the motorcycle Vasily gifted him — the only one he used outside of racing — left a slim track, ornately twisting on and on like strands of hair.

Leon and Rocky did not accept that Asher had no love interest easily. Leon twirled his wedding ring around his finger, whilst Rocky thought deeply. Either that, or he was trying to squeeze out a fart. 

Finally, Rocky exclaimed, "A guy, perhaps?"

Leon and Asher sat upright, looking surprised those words had slipped from Rocky's mouth. 

"But," Leon seemed to see Asher in a new light, "do you?"

Asher felt himself heat up in his jacket again, and struggled to get out of it. In a wife beater singlet, he felt much cooler, and much more in control. 

Exasperatedly, Asher asked, "Do I have to like someone?"

"Pretty much," Rocky burped. He took note of how Asher did not deny anything this time.

"You're a teenager," Leon supplied. "It's never as easy to love someone as it is at your age."

Asher thought about the dramas he heard about at school. Kerrish rarely mentioned his love life — guys seldom did — but Asher saw enough to know. Around Asher and Ryanel, Kerrish's mouth ran as loudly and turbulently as a jetski motor, spewing swear words like sea foam. But girls only ever whispered about how smoothly he spoke; his voice so gentle that rose petals seemed like cliff faces in comparison. They knew nothing.

His friend was a free spirit like no other; a bird that felt ugly when he wasn't flying. Girls opened the cages of their heart for him, and Kerrish would readily fly in. He was always ready. But Asher knew when the time came for them to close the doors, tie him down, Kerrish would bolt. 

He did not commit; just as how the ocean never promised to be kind to a ship. Sailing out was a chance to be taken, and sinking couldn't be blamed on anything but the vessel that risked it. That was as much of teenage love as he knew.

Asher ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. He spoke softly, explaining to Leon and Rocky exactly why he didn't date any more, "If you say that love is easiest at my age, I'm scared shitless for how it's going to be when I'm older."