Page 33 of Dirty Air
That strikes a nerve, for some reason. “Could say the same for you.”
Lucas smiles—it looks like a taunt. “I heard you asked about me afterwards. You want my seat that bad?”
Fritz shakes his head. “A German should win this weekend—I’m rooting for you.”
“Not yourself?”
“I can cheer for two drivers.” Fritz scoffs. “Heard you asked about me as well. Afraid I’ll take your seat?”
“Germany should win this weekend. I’m rooting for you as well.”
Fritz can’t help it, he laughs. Rain might be ‘thegreat equalizer’but his car is still parked in the very last garage.
Lucas must know it’s a long shot. Still, he says, “If you can get to the front, I’ll give you a tow.”
They’re supposed to be rivals, but not tomorrow. Not on the anniversary. Not when, for the first time in ten years, it’s storming again.
“I’ll meet you at the front, then,” Fritz declares, like it’s something he has control over.
Lucas smiles and pats his shoulder before he’s called away byFritz’s own team. They crowd around the champion, everybody clamoring to take selfies with the legend.
Fritz tries to temper his envy.
Lucas has been his hero ever since he was a kid flying through karting ranks, but Fritz can’t ask for a picture or an autograph now that he’s his competition.
It’d be neat to have one, though.
After the race day team meeting, William hangs back to walk with him. They don’t usually chat, so Fritz is caught off guard by his presence.
They don't really have anything in common except racing for VFIBR. They probably never will, unless Fritz starts posting shirtless selfies.
When William smiles, it only accentuates how unsettling it is to be around him. “Heard Lucas stopped by the garage yesterday. Must’ve just missed him.”
“Yes.”
William waits a moment for Fritz to elaborate, before pushing again. “Did he have any advice? Anything you’d like to share?”
Only that a German should win. Since it doesn’t sound pertinent to William, Fritz replies, “No.”
William studies him, frustration bubbling just under the surface. “Did he mention retiring?”
“No.” Feeling kind, Fritz offers, “He took selfies with my crew.”
“Did you get one?”
“Too intimidated to ask.”
“Yeah, I would be too.” Finally, something in common. “Okay. Well, good luck out there.”
Fritz isn’t the one starting fourteenth. How good could luckbe, coming from William? Still, he parrots a lame “Good luck” back.
The sky opens above the circuit and releases Hell during the race. It’s safer for Fritz to keep the dirtied peel-offs on his helmet, to allow the wind to force the grime and droplets away, then to take either of his hands off the wheel for a single moment.
Visibility is shit, even more so when he’s within DRS of the car in front of him. The spray kicks up right into his line of sight, and he can’t even tell what color the car he’s tailing is.
Henry keeps assuring him that the rain isn’t hard enough to red flag the race, but Fritz is blind and running on instinct and it’s impossible to suppress the voice in his head that reminds him that people die in this sport.
On days exactly like today.
