After the Spectrums were wiped out of the playoffs by the Dakota Bikers, former race-driver Crosby Sutters accepted the #3 driver position for Ferrari's F1 team for the summer.

It was everything he ever dreamed, and he even found what he thought was the man of his dreams, only to then learn that not everything is as it seems.

But the real measure of a man is not how hard he falls, but how he gets back up.

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And, here it is for those who don't have Word installed:

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Crosby Sutters wished he was dead. He couldn't stop staring at the headline on the tabloid-style, but very real newspaper. The story had broken yesterday, but even still he couldn't believe it was true.

Still, there it was, staring him square in the face. The headline read, "I F*cked Ferrari's Fast Fag," and beneath it was possibly the most effeminate-looking photo of Crosby that had ever been taken.

How could he have been so stupid? It was too perfect, and he knew it, but he wanted so badly to believe that he'd found love that he fell head over heels. Now it seemed like that tumble had thrown the genet off a cliff.

Formula 1 was not what he had been expecting, and he found himself not praised and adulated as he had hoped, but instead put down and brushed aside as, "that tall American kid." It didn't matter to them that he'd broken records, and had an incredible sense out on the track. He was an American, and to the Italian racing team, that seemed to be a setback. Well, that and he was obscenely tall at 6'10", which had required his car's cockpit to be modified. Still, he had performed well on the track, well enough to at least shut up his teammates about his skills, but this... this could end him.

Crosby had known for years that he was gay, but he had always kept it to himself, barely acting upon his desires except for in deepest of secret. Only a few of his former teammates on the Spectrums knew, and none of them had told anyone. But this, this headline had just outed him to the world, and not in a flattering way.

The article was well-written, delving deep into his emotions, but it also delved deeper into his behavior in the bedroom, and shared in explicit detail how he willingly submitted to what he thought was his boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Only three days ago he thought of Luis that way. The lion was gorgeous, masculine and powerful, but had still been oh-so-sweet. He was the perfect man, Crosby had thought, and for two weeks they spent almost every free hour together, though often having to keep the particulars of their friendship secret, as Ferrari did not care to have a gay driver sullying the reputation of their terribly masculine heritage. Luis had been smooth, tender and passionate, and that mix got him into Crosby's bed their first night together - something which made Crosby seem easy, even slutty in the article, and hurt even more, because it had been Luis who wrote it.

The entire relationship had been a fraud, with Luis pretending to love Crosby the whole time, and doing everything it took to get the genet vulnerable enough to share secrets. Luis was a reporter, and the story, with all its intimate details, had made his career. And in doing so it threatened to destroy Crosby's.

An hour after the newspaper had hit stands, Crosby had been called into the head office of Ferrari's F1 division, where his interpreter relayed the president's fury of not only having a gay driver, but an effeminate gay driver, on his team. Crosby tried to ask what difference it made, but he was quickly silenced, and had heard nothing else from him since.

A phone call then came from his family, where his mother and father unleashed their fury and disappointment over Crosby's choice to be gay, though he didn't feel it was a choice at all. Only his brother, Dane, seemed to understand, but didn't truly support him.

There were more phone calls that day, most from his agent and publicist, both telling him he didn't have much of a case, since technically everything in the article was true. Crosby had never felt so hurt, and that night he went to bed alone, clutching his pillow and wetting it with his tears.

The next morning he woke to the ring of his phone, and he hastily answered when he saw the call was from N'duk Hunter, his old teammate, and closest friend on the Spectrums. N'duk had known Crosby was gay, and had helped him out with dealing with it when they'd hung out in the past. Even though they were half a world apart, N'duk wanted to let Crosby know that he was still there for him, and that things would be okay. Crosby tried to say that they wouldn't be okay, not after this, but the mongoose on the other end of the phone line wouldn't hear it, and in the end the two wound up laughing over some old jokes. N'duk even offered to fly out and see him, but Crosby said that wouldn't be necessary. He had a race, that afternoon, and he could always focus on that, he said.

So now he sat, ready in his racing suit, helmet at his side, and staring at the newspaper in his paws. Anger turned to sadness, and sadness to rage, until at last Crosby felt a fire within him he had never truly felt before. He knew he was a great driver, and the chance to even be a professional F1 driver was amazing, but this fire went beyond that. He didn't want to be a great driver, he wanted to be a great man. Throwing the newspaper in the trash, he snatched up his helmet and stormed out of the air-conditioned ready room.

"Get it ready, I'm doing time trials," he said to his pit crew.

"Sure thing, lover-boy," the crew chief said with a smirk.

In a heartbeat Crosby was on him, snatching him up by the scruff of his shirt. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

The crew chief appeared surprised, but quickly regained his composure and smirk as he replied, "What, hoping for a kiss? Tough luck, kid."

Snarling, Crosby shoved him back and shouted, "I said get the d*mn car ready!" Not waiting for a response, he stormed off to the driver's seat where he tugged on his helmet and climbed in. "Now!" he roared.

It was a side of the genet none of the pit crew had seen before. Previously he'd been all smiles and mild-mannered, but now, now that Crosby was gone, replaced by a serious driver. There were no more jokes as they readied his car, and as soon as it was set, Crosby stormed off the line, intent to burn as much fuel as he could in an effort to find himself once more on the track. But even as he rounded hairpin corners and went flat-out on straights, he didn't feel the rush that he had before. In some strange way, he wished he could be racing on foot across the hardwoods again. In that instant, he knew what it was that he truly wanted, and put on an extra burst of speed.

The world thought they knew who Crosby Sutters was, now, but they were wrong. He'd show them the real Crosby. He'd show them whether they liked it or not.