Page 8 of Dirty Air
Someone like Henry.
“Although William has more followers,” Madison continues. “Last year, the VFIBR post with the most interactions was Friedrich’s ice bath.”
“My what?” Fritz asks the videographer he’s sitting next to, but Arvid avoids his questioning look.
Henry scrolls the page again, and dozens of posts flash on the big screen as he scans over them. “I must’ve missed that one.”
When Madison stops him, Henry plays it, increasing the sound on his laptop.
It’s nice for someone else to look mortified for once, and the entire room grimaces as the Fritz on video sinks into the cold water and moans. He curses in German, his mouth falling open as he lays his head back and exposes his throat.
Obviously no one in the marketing department spoke German, or they would have cut the sound.
“I can see why it was popular.” Henry coughs and writes something on his notepad. He’s quick to press mute as the video automatically replays.
It’s Madison who has to say, “The comments are divided between the visual and the audio.”
Henry opens the comments and scrolls, reading. “‘Can someone who speaks German translate what he says at the end?’This one says,‘He feels split open on frosty’s icicle dick.’”
Henry whips his head back to Fritz, who laughs.
“Well? Write that down. Fucked by ice dick.” Fritz points to Henry’s notebook, but receives a stern glare. “What?I did not know I was video recorded. I would have translated if someone had asked me.”
Madison clears her throat. “From there, it’s basically a bunch of people saying he’s funny.”
“I am starting to like social media.” Fritz could stand to read a few more compliments about his humor and charm, but Henry closes out of the post before he can.
“I think we can move on.”
They make a plan to film non-intrusive things—workouts, car prep, and other shots that don’t rely on Fritz having to speak too much English.
Before they leave, Madison promises not to embarrass him again.
“It is okay, I do not embarrass easy.”
After his fastest lap time is deleted for track limits, Fritz starts the Australian GP at the back of the grid—a measly seventeenth.
He doesn’t mind the setback because, for the first time in over a year, he feels fast. The car is powerful underneath him, a beastaching to be unleashed and ridden hard. He thrums with excitement to see what he can do against the rest of the pack.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet next to the car, Fritz shakes out his limbs one last time.
“Radio check, check,” Henry’s voice crackles in his earpieces.
Fritz answers, “Radio copy, copy.”
“Remember your modes. Update after formation lap.”
He’s on mediums, but Fritz weaves extra rough during the lap, like he’s warming hards, to get some of his excess energy out.
He parks and squints to see the lights. He’s so fucking far away. “Mode Negative One.”
“Excellent.”
Lights out and Fritz slides up three places when the field bunches. He’s fourteenth by the end of the first lap.
“Good start.Point six ahead.”
Fritz has to defend harder through the straights, keeping the Andes he passed behind him, but he absolutely destroys the corners. He trusts his brakes enough for a late lunge and overtakes a Sobber on the inside.
