Page 26 of Dirty Air
Fritz has absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.
So he isn’t.
By Imola, he has a sneaking suspicion Henry is.
Fritz didn’t realize how present Henry had been until he’s suddenly nowhere to be found. Where is he eating if not in hospitality? How did he get to the pit wall if not through the garage?
Henry’s at every meeting—everywhere he’s required to be—but he stays as far away as possible and he is never alone.
Any time Fritz tries to flag him down, Henry starts a Very Important Conversation with the closest person available, grabbing an engineer before rushing out of their meetings.
Whatever.
Fritz knows he doesn’t have anything to be embarrassed by. He’s even raced without being best friends with his engineer before.
It’s fine, he can handle it.
In Imola, he starts ninth, finishes ninth.
In Monaco, he starts eleventh, finishes eleventh.
In Spain, he starts twelfth, finishes fourteenth.
The stats don’t accurately reflect how hard Fritz fights, or the improvements his team makes every weekend. Unfortunately, the rest of the grid is just improving faster.
Still, it’s hard to taste sixth only to be shut out of the points for the rest of the season.
In France, he starts eleventh.
He does not finish.
Fritz catches a ride to the garage on the back of a marshal’s scooter. He stomps across to the pit wall before he removes his helmet and balaclava.
“Can we talk?” Fritz bites out. He knows there’s a broadcasting camera on him, but he can’t care.
“We’ll debrief after the race.” Henry doesn’t even look at him.
Fritz grabs the back of his stupid stool and swivels Henry towards him. “No, we are talking right now. Either here or in private. Personally, I do not care who hears our…Strategy.”
Henry’s nervous glance avoids his face, flicking over to the camera they’re both aware of before he nods. He takes his timepacking up his stupid little shoulder bag. Notebook in a specific sleeve, pencils neatly placed in their slots.
He even sets his laptop to sleep before shutting it. He usually just slaps it closed.
Fritz walks away without waiting. He dumps his helmet on some flat surface, hoping someone with a clearer head will find it and put it where it needs to go.
People bolt out of his way, and not even his father tries to stop him from storming into his driver’s room.
Henry follows soon after. He stands in the open doorway, as far away as he can while maintaining the illusion that they’re still in the same room. “I would like to preface this meeting by insisting the conversation should remain on the race itself.”
“Sure thing,” Fritz scoffs. It’s all interconnected, so why not? “Tell me—why did masturbating together kill our ability to talk?”
“Jesus!” Henry jumps inside and slams the door behind him. “I said?—”
