Page 71 of Dirty Air
“I knew it.” Dieter exhales and shakes his head. “And I don’t even know the guy that well. How has no one else noticed? There has to be some sort of rule about fraternizing with coworkers.”
“It’s a big company,” Fritz grumbles. “Lots of people are together. Even married.”
“Are any of them thedrivers, though?”
Fritz received a talking-to when he first started. They cautioned him about getting too friendly with the marketing team specifically—the team mostly composed of women.
It’s not Fritz’s fault that they didn’t mention the men. “There is nothing in any contract or rule book that says we cannot.”
“Youchecked?”
“Would it be better if I got fired?!” Fritz’s employment statusdirectly affects Dieter’s, after all. He should be glad Fritz is so thorough.
“You need to stop. Whatever it is, you both need to stop. I can’t be the only one who notices.”
“We already stopped.” Fritz pads into the room and throws himself backwards on the bed. “He wants nothing to do with me ever since Sven’s breakfast.”
“Because he’s…jealous?”
“No. He was afraid to be outed.” There’s no use in explaining all of this. It’s over—that’s the part that matters. “He has moved on, so I move on. We are just coworkers now. Professional.”
“Hmm.” Dieter perches on the edge of the bed, pulling a leg up and staring down at Fritz. “I mean—again, youshouldn’tdo it—but he has definitely not moved on. You haven't either, but I think you already know that.”
Fritz groans and tosses his arms over his face. It’s hard to pretend it doesn’t fill him with some amount of hope.
Fritz definitely has a problem with cars appearing behind him, but they can’t surprise him as easily from in front.
He overtakes enough to even out his losses and ends the race P12. It’s not his best showing—not by far—but it’s an obvious improvement from the day before.
“Are you happy with your race today?”
“I am.” Fritz smiles at the downtrodden reporter. “Yes, I am very happy. I hope by next week my foot is even stronger, that I qualify even better, but it was a good race out there.”
It wasn’t the answer the reporter expected. “Do you think that Red Boar is happy with your race?”
“I think the top teams have bigger things to worry about than a midfielder recovering from an injury. They are busy fighting for the championships.”
“Do you think Red Boar might’ve even made a mistake? Signing you when your teammate is consistently faster?” He must be British. Only the British think William is any good.
“Consistently?” Fritz repeats. “Like, over the last three races? Two of which I did not participate in?”
“Are you afraid to answer the question?” the reporter taunts. “Did Red Boar make a mistake?”
“Yes.” Fritz can’t help but smile. “Red Boar made a big, giant mistake. Why would they ever sign the only driver on our team who has won a race or stood on a podium? You should have warned them beforehand! Now they will be stuck with me for the next two years.”
Fritz’s PR handler scolds him for giving the media something to run with, but stupid questions deserve stupid answers.
After the post-race meeting, Fritz catches Henry and invites him to dinner with him and Dieter.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he explains, surprisingly nervous. “We can go wherever you want. All of that training really helped me on track today.”
“I’m so sorry,” Henry replies, tugging at his bag’s strap. “I actually can’t. I—I have a meeting tonight.”
“It is okay, we can wait for you.” Fritz isn’t hungry yet anyways. “You still have my hotel room number? We can meet there.”
“No, I mean, it’s a dinner meeting. You should celebrate without me. Order something Dieter will hate for you to eat. You deserve it, you worked so hard.”
“Okay.” A dinner meeting. So, like, a date. Fritz tries really hard to control his voice. “Maybe next time, then?”
