Asher ✓

30 | nebula

NOVEMBER 29, 2013 / GOMERY STADIUM

Fame built a home for itself in the gentle sound of Asher Delrov's name. It came in the last syllable of his first name, which came to sound like the shutter of high-end cameras; it came in each new victory of his. He was a nebula cloud — scattered all over the place, leaving only dusty remnants of where he'd been — about to become a full-fledged star.

  "Delrov, Delrov," the crowd chanted.

Even louder, so that it seemed to pulse in his chest like a second heartbeat. They were going insane with excitement. 

Asher himself had not planned to do what he did next, for showing off's sake or otherwise.

But the screaming and the pressure seeped into him like he had his back pressed against a block of ice; he was put off for a second, and misgauged his speed. If he simply did a straight jump, he would land way past the optimum zone, and have to take his speed down to keep from being thrown off. And when his wheels were just kissing the take-off ramp, and Asher was just beginning to feel the lift — like a pair of hands dragging him up — he leant back, and flipped.  

His head pounded with the rush of blood. 

The race had shaken him up — though he'd won — heaved his muscles out of the cracks in his bones where they had taken root. Sports journalists, boasting VIP passes strung around their necks, flocked to him like pigeons to bread. Asher was not that level of famous where appearances in public drew much attention. He was only ever interviewed exclusively after big wins; other times, he was let off with a few easily-answered questions and photos. It was the way of athletic journalism to focus primarily on the winner, and Asher was a winner, a forming star, a target of theirs.

"Mr. Delrov!" Asher heard. He stopped walking, making sure to stitch a smile over his tired form before taking his helmet off.

"Evening, folks," he flaunted his Russian accent. The girls went wild for that, "What can I help you with?"

Through talks with Hershel Donte — who spoke of fame as if he had felt it in his veins alongside one too many shots of vodka, though he hadn't — and his own personal experiences, Asher knew that fame was a fickle animal. It drew towards very superficial items, only concerned with wading into the shallows of a coral reef — the prettiest part. 

They did not care for the deep, for the shark-infested waters, where Asher really was.

Asher had to present himself as confident enough to appear esteemed, but not so much that he came off arrogant. Many times, questions directed towards him asking for his opinion about current trends and issues — which seemed, to him and everyone else, not in the least relevant to his career, and his interests.

There were at least ten reporters crowding around him (more could be heard screaming his name from behind the white screen they used for photos. Asher was sure that they only represented three or four companies — most interviewers brought their own photography along. 

The interview experience was a familiar shirt on Asher's skin; it made him feel coveted the first time he wore it, covered in flashing lights and praise. Now, it was torn and tatty and Asher wanted to throw it out.

A man hefting a film camera on his shoulder stepped forward, along with the woman he accompanied. "That flip shocked everyone, especially in a speed race. What compelled you to pull that trick out?" she asked him. 

That moment protruded clearly in his memory — a possible injury that was easily spotted among so many other effortless wins. It was a jagged nail, sticking out from a panel of wood that was otherwise smooth.

Asher found that all his almost-crashes remained prominent this way; he remembered the lightning flashes of terror more than the intoxication of victory. 

It was only ever a brief second where he though, "Oh, this is it, I'm dead" before something innate kicked in. 

The paranoia would wither, just as Asher felt some scalding chemical mix in with his blood. Suddenly, he knew how hard to push the engine and when the last possible moment to keep a straight line on a curving track was. He could only call it natural instinct.

"I was very intent on not losing speed, even to land a smooth jump," he answered. "It was either slow down and keep consistent, or speed up and start praying."

The reporters laughed in response. They were players in the fame game as much as Asher was — except, they were his opponents. The opponents that he internally hated, but had to shake hands and small-talk with for sportsmanship points.

She pressed on, "Many of your fans are wondering if this means you branching out into the more extreme categories of racing."

Asher was taken aback. Though he was one of the best junior racers out there, the world of extreme racing remained as unexplored and frightening to him as the Marianas Trench. Especially for someone as naturally disadvantaged as him.

"To be honest," reporters loved that word, "I hadn't given it much thought. The idea of stunt racing scares me. I know this race is purely speed and endurance, which are the only skills I've looked at practising."

"Thank you for your time," she said, before stepping back into the crowd. She hung around though, looking uncomfortable on the dirt in shiny black pumps, in case another interviewer asked a question that she hadn't thought of but would find useful.

Something, somewhere, was smiling through Asher. The cheerful exterior was paper-thin, and stopped far from his bones. Maybe that tug at the corner of his lips was what fish felt, after being hooked and dragged out of water. Asher certainly felt like suffocating, despite his breaths coming even in the smoky air.

"Are you open to accepting sponsorship deals?" a new guy asked, holding a microphone hooked up to a tape recorder close to Asher's fake smile.

"Yes," he readily answered. Funds were short back at the Astoria Motorcycle Club; Asher could see Hershel Donte struggle through the months. The attention brought to the club was well worth the money spent on upgrades and transport just to get Asher to races. "Currently, I'm representing the sponsors of my club."

He felt an obligation to give his roots a bit of credit. The interview was over briefly; Asher made sure to word his answers clearly. Every reply was a short story, with enough content to satisfy readers and an end that wouldn't lead to any sequels. Every camera flash made tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but Asher kept his fish-hooked smile up until all the cameramen and reporters left to take pictures of the bikes and scenery.

Finally, Asher could escape to the one place he'd been aching to go since getting the trophy. His face was sore from forcing a grin that did not belong, arms straining with holding the trophy in a photogenic position. 

He dashed to the racers lounge before anyone else could stop him.