Page 20 of Dirty Air
“You didn’t know?” Henry guesses, deflating. “I’m sorry, I thought it could be what the meeting was for.”
Fritz shakes his head. “No, that was about—” Was he allowed to talk about sponsorships? Well, everyone will know soon enough if the advertising works. “I got a sponsorship. Big one—car placement and race suit.”
Henry lights up. “That’s fantastic! Was William there too, or?—?”
“No!” Fritz smiles, squeezing Henry’s shoulders where he’s still holding him. “No, they just want me. They’re paying twenty million pounds, just forme.”
“That’s—!” Henry pulls him forward into a back-breaking hug.
Fritz laughs, his excitement bubbling over. “Hey, that is my driving back!” Still, he doesn’t struggle—he’s enjoying himself too much.
Henry’s thick arms are rock hard as they encircle him. His hands lay flat against Fritz’s skin, with one spanning his shoulder blade and the other wrapping around to his waist.
Fritz is tall enough that his arms naturally fall around Henry’s shoulders, his own hand cradling the back of the engineer’s bald head.
He can’t help it, Fritz rubs the shaved skin.
“Hey.” Henry says, pulling back enough to look Fritz in the eyes but not letting go. “That’s my engineering head.”
With a smirk, Fritz rubs it again. “As opposed to…?”
A sudden knock at his door and the two snap apart. “Time for warm-ups!” Dieter calls through the wall before wandering off.
Fritz is going to fire him. He’s going to fire him so hard.
“I’ll let you go, then.” Henry says, backing up towards the door.
What else was Fritz expecting? Henry is his race engineer, for fuck’s sake. Still, his “Ja, okay,” reply is tinged with noticeable disappointment.
“I’m happy for you, Fritz. Proud, even.”
Fritz forces a smile. “Thank you.”
When Henry leaves, he passes Fritz’s mom and sister with a polite nod. The women are all smiles for the race engineer, but when they turn back to Fritz, they wear matching worried expressions.
He doesn’t want to talk about it, so he jogs away. “Sorry, I have to go warm up with Dieter!”
The man’s good for something, at least.
Standing on the track, Fritz tries to temper his excitement, but he looks up at the bleachers and the frenzy claws its way back up again.
His family’s in the garage. His friends are in the hospitality suite. His countrymen are watching from the stands, screaming for him.
New sponsor, starting in the points, retirement rumors, home race.
Fritz needs to do something bigger than jumping in place—maybe he could run around the circuit for a couple of laps. He has enough energy to keep up with the safety car, no doubt, but he might lose the race if he starts it on foot. In the end, he settles for jogging in place.
He waves at the crowd one last time before climbing into the cockpit. There’s a helmet, balaclava, and earplugs between him and the outside world, but it sounds like they return his excitement with cheers.
“Radio check, check.”
“I am going to win today.”
“Loud and clear.”
Fritz eases the car forward at the start of the formation lap and tries to get a good read of the cars surrounding him. The team strategy is to charge down the middle, but even in the formation lap, the Mercenaries ahead of him are bucking aggressively.
The last thing Fritz wants is to join a personal fight.
