Page 34 of Dirty Air
“I am losing grip.” On more than just his tires. “I need new tires, it is too dangerous out here.”
“Manage your tires.” Henry’s voice is just a crackle compared to the rain pounding against Fritz’s helmet. “I repeat, stay out. Stay out.”
He’s good at managing his tires, but most of the drivers ahead of him have already boxed. Fritz can tell his pace is slowing as the car ahead of him inches further and further away.
“Tell me the plan.” It’s a stupid request, since everyone can listen to their radio, but he needs to know. “I am in mode six.” The absolute worst. “I slide when I brake for the turns.”
He’s third on the grid, but he’s virtually eighth—probably closer to ninth or tenth since Henry hasn’t updated him.
Was his team waiting for the rain to let up? Fritz saw the forecast, it’s supposed to rain all day. Maybe they’re hoping the other teams switch to a two-stop.
The second-place car ducks into the pitlane and Fritz yells in frustration. “Please, Henry!”
“I'm sorry Fritz, but give us three laps. Just hang in there for three more laps and we’ll pull you in.”
Then why not now? Why is he being forced to run in the rain on nearly bald inters? How could?—?
His dash lights up red and his stomach drops.
“Red flag,” Henry confirms. “Line up in pit lane, they need to repair the barrier.”
“Who crashed?” Fritz panics and looks around, as if he could see anything but a wall of horizontal rain. “Are they okay?”
It takes too long for Henry to answer, “The Americans. Both are out, walking and unharmed, but they damaged the barrier pretty badly.”
The timing was too perfect to be an accident. “You knew. You knew they would crash.”
“They had been fighting back and forth, staying within three tenths. It was a strong possibility.”
“Unbelievable.” Fritz sucks in a breath when he pulls into the pit lane, driving the full distance of it. There is only one car ahead of him. “No, seriously, this is unbelievable.”
His team drags out the tent, erecting it over the car, and Fritz lets out a shaking sigh of relief when the rain smacking against his helmet finally quiets. He peels his hands off the steering wheel, his fingers cold and stiff, and sits in the car for a moment.
Lucas is directly in front of him, just like he said he’d be. When he pops out of his car, Fritz scrambles to join him.
Lucas fiddles with his gloves as he walks, but he stops when he registers which car is parked behind him. The next moment, he’s in Fritz’s space, embracing him like they hadn’t talked for the first time ever yesterday.
“I didn’t think you’d actually be able to do it!” Lucas smacks the side of Fritz’s helmet a few times and sounds truly excited.
“You promised me a tow?”
“Of course,” Lucas laughs, cocking a hip. “I make good on my promises, especially if you can defend against the Ferraro for me.”
He nods to the bright red car parked behind them. The French one, Fritz thinks. Not that he’s had much experience racing either of them.
“Visibility might be shit with the spray—” Lucas wanders over to the corner of the VFIBR tent, sheltering from the downpour. “But you’ll have a bit of traction in my wake, something to help with grip in the corners.”
“Also your dirty air.”
“That would matter more at top speed.” Lucas shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but I kept sliding through the corners. The water flow was a much bigger problem for my tires. How was your visibility?”
Fritz tries to soak up everything he can. He’s actually strategizing with Lucas. Strategy. With a three-time world champion.
“You don’t have any podiums yet, do you?”
“Not one.”
“Today’s the day. German one-two. It’ll be a first for me as well—I’ve never had another German to celebrate with.”
