Page 11 of Dirty Air
“Last race I was twenty. This race I am eleven. Another nine places and next week I will be on the podium.”
She laughs, but Fritz held the fastest lap for seven laps. His purple sector two was still undefeated by the checkered flag.
They’re not point-winning statistics, but it gives him hope.
Madison finds Fritz after he’s changed back into his team kit. “The fans loved learning about your workout routine. We’re hoping to do something similar, but with food. Would you mind Arvid tailing you next Sunday?”
“Ah…” Fritz is supposed to say yes to everything, but he can see the red flags from a mile away. “My mother and sister will bein the paddock next weekend. You do not want a camera near them.”
“Oh!” Madison covers her mouth, like she’s embarrassed. “Because it's Germany, ofcourse. That’s fine, we can do it some other day.”
“They will not be here until Saturday, if I can do something before then?”
“I’ll get with the team and we can brainstorm some ideas.” Madison’s on her phone, typing out paragraphs. “We should film some German content, lean into the environment.”
“Wunderbar.”
Madison’s head pops up with unconcealed glee. “Do Germans actually say that?”
“Nein, not really.” It just makes Englishmen happy, for some reason.
Her shoulders droop and she returns to texting. “If you have some free time, you should watch the video. It’s actually pretty good—the fans love it.”
By the time he reaches his hotel room, Fritz is exhausted. He kept up a brave face for the cameras and his team, but alone, in a room he’ll never see again, he lets himself soak in his disappointment.
He pushed really hard today. If only he had something to show for it.
Fritz empties his pockets and collapses forward onto the bed. Unfortunately, he lands exactly where he tossed everything. His phone and wallet dig into his legs, and he groans into the mattress.
He’s sweaty and sticky and desperately needs a shower, but he also just wants a moment to sit with himself. To lay on the annoying protrusions and focus on feeling inside his body again.
His shoulders ache. His arms are cold. His shoes are tight.
Fritz zeroes in on every uncomfortable feeling until it drives him to action. He forces himself up and into the shower. It’s strictly perfunctory—a quick rinse to feel human again—and soon enough he flops back onto his bed.
He somehow lands on his phone again, the idiot, but he works up enough energy to dig it out.
Oh yeah—Madison asked him to watch the video they made. Well, he isn’t doing anything else.
After waiting for a slow update, he’s hit with a barrage of notifications. There are so many the app can’t even handle it—opting to show him ‘9999+’ instead of anything specific. It’s been a while, but Fritz can’t imagine tens of thousands of new followers, comments, and likes.
He ignores the red flag and opens the search page, when a suggested account catches his eye. It’s Henry’s. The profile picture is old and a little grainy, but it’s definitely a picture of his race engineer.
Fritz hits the “follow back” button immediately, on the off chance the app crashes and he loses his place.
It’s a normal personal profile. There are pictures of Henry playing basketball, fishing on a boat, a birthday celebration in a restaurant. There’s the occasional work post too—his last day at Ferraro, a few travel photos in the red polo.
For as helpful as the book was, Fritz feels like he’s been given a chance to peek into Henry’s real life.
He clicks through collections of group photos and tries to judge if Henry is dating any of the people in attendance. The organized man has tagged every person in every photo, and Fritz makes quick work of checking them all off.
So… Single? Perhaps?
Not that it matters—Fritz has a strictly professional relationship with his race engineer.
He pretends he doesn’t know what he’s looking for as hescrolls the grid faster, his eyes darting over rows of images. Shirt, shirt, sweater, shirt, shirt, suit, sweater. He’s several years back before he finally stops at skin.
It was taken so long ago that Henry was still trying to keep his hair alive, cutting it cropped short instead of the shaved bald he rocks now. He’s on a beach, his smile bright, but Fritz is drawn in by his wide chest. Hairy in the center, just how Fritz likes it. Sharp tan lines, which he finds endearing.
