Page 7 of Dirty Air
“But…” Fritz closes his eyes and exhales. “I will be better in the future. I would like to participate this year.”
Henry smiles at him, obviously pleased, and Fritz turns away. What does he care whether or not his race engineer ispleasedwith him?
“I’d like to understand more about his audience,” Henry addresses the room, flipping to an empty page in his notebook. “What sort of feedback does VFIBR get when you post him? Let’s start with the negative.”
Madison, the social media manager, is like a deer in the headlights. Her wide, dark eyes bounce between Henry and Fritz from across the table. “I could email you a sample.”
Email is too obnoxious when they’re all in the same room—especially if she’s just trying to spare Fritz’s feelings. “No, I should hear this. Please, continue.”
Madison has a clipboard that clings desperately to a stack of papers. She tucks a lock of wavy brown hair behind her ear before she flips through them, reading comments out loud. “‘He doesn’t want to be there.’ ‘He just complains.’ ‘He shouldn’t have such a big head if he can’t make a point.’ ‘He’s an embarrassment to racing.’Um, it’s just more like this.”
“Wow.” Fritz tries not to laugh, but a chuckle escapes. “These are all from the same person?”
“No, they’re—uh—they’re different people.”
“Oh, good. I thought ‘this person must be my former lover.’” Fritz knows he has a serious popularity problem, but how muchfree time do strangers have? “And you have to read all of these? I am sorry.”
“It’s fine!” she’s quick to reply. “Even if you were super popular, you’d still get comments like these. Don’t worry about it.”
Fritz definitely wasn’t going to worry about it, but Madison seems nice, so at least working with her in the future doesn’t seem quite as daunting.
Henry hums. “More than the driving comments, I want to focus on the notes about his attitude. I’m assuming those were on the video prompts? Probably the question-and-answer ones?”
“Correct.”
That makes sense. Those are the only ones Fritz can actually stomach enough to record. Still— “I do not understand the point of asking me my favorite color. What does it have to do with racing?”
Madison explains, “They’re humanizing. They make you seem more relatable—like someone to root for.”
At the same time, Henry says, “You don’t have to understand. It’s her job to know what’s best and it’s your job to do what she asks.”
That fucker.
The marketing team sucks in a shocked inhale, but Fritz focuses his glare on Henry.
He stares back, daring Fritz to disagree. The edge of his mouth quirks up, ruining the illusion of stern control.
It’s all just a game to him, but Fritz is willing to play. Anything to get into a better car.
Fritz turns back to Madison when he announces, “I will be better at the video shoots.”
He clenches his jaw as the marketing team quietly stares at either him or Henry. None of them dare to disrupt whatever is happening.
Henry doesn’t seem bothered. “Excellent, moving on. Let’s look at the positive comments. What do people like about him?”
Fritz sits up a little straighter. There’s so much for people to like—his humor, his driving, his ability to deepthroat. He lifts his chin, expecting praise.
“He is…” Madison clears her throat and specifically avoids his face when she says, “Well, he’s attractive.”
“What?” Fritz asks, deflating.
She’s just lying to be nice.
Fritz is tall—one of the tallest drivers Form 1 has ever had—standing at 6’3. In order to keep to the minimum weight, he keeps trim. It’s sad and unappealing, the way his bones and tendons poke through his skin.
His blond hair has lost its childhood sheen, and he looks more like a starving vampire type than an attractive man.
He’s always envied bulkier men, robust men. Lumberjack types. Someone with muscle and a little fat rounding out their rough edges.
