Page 14 of Dirty Air
“Yes! Please! Um, here?” She holds out her arm, so he can sign the sleeve of the sweater.
Fritz takes her arm in hand, pulling the fabric taut for a smooth surface. He puts extra effort into making sure his stupid autograph is legible, since sometimes his34s look a little too much like89s.
“Also, I made you this—” It’s a bracelet. Definitely handmade, with beads that spell out ‘Fritz #1’.
He immediately slips it on. “You forget I am number thirty-four? That is okay. This will be true one day.”
When people realize there’s a Formation 1 driver standing still, a crowd gathers around the girl.
“We need to go,” Fritz’s handler says, tugging his arm.
But Fritz is stronger than he looks. “What is your name?”
He takes his VFIBR hat off, and waits for her response.
“Nicole! Um, N-I-C?—”
After copying down the spelling, Fritz writes ‘thank you’ on the rim and signs it before settling it on her head.
“I made this for you,” he says, smiling at his own joke before the handler wins and he’s dragged away from the fan area.
In FP1, the engineers seem pleased with the wing modifications they’ve brought. Fritz pushes, pumping out a couple of solid one-lap times and testing the tire compounds.
It’s a cliché, but the German circuit really does feel like coming home. Fritz belongs amongst the curves of this road—on the track that is second nature to him.
On an out-lap, his eyes flick to the stands he used to sit in. Who knows, maybe there’s a too-tall German child up there right now whose life will change over the course of the weekend.
After Fritz parks, he still has enough energy to knock out a few ‘explain this function of the car’-type videos for the social team, both in English and in German. The German version is much more detailed, but since he doesn’t know some of the words in English, he dumps the translation duties onto Elias.
“He’s a mechanic, so he’ll know what I mean,” Fritz says, pointing to the man shuffling through the tape drawer. “And if I got anything wrong, maybe he can fix it in post.”
Fritz silently watches the people of the paddock from the window of hospitality as he pokes at his lunch. He startles when Henry kicks out the chair next to him and falls into it.
“Glad I found you. I have some numbers we can go over before second practice.”
Henry has a full tray of food balanced on his laptop.Sauerbraten, of course, since catering likes to sneak in a bit of regional cuisine. It smells much better than the salmon and brown rice Fritz is subjected to, and the driver stares at the plate with envy.
Henry doesn’t notice. “Thought you’d be with your family. Aren't they here this weekend?”
“My mother and sister will be here tomorrow, but Father only attends race days.”
“It’ll be nice to meet them.” Henry has already met Fritz's father, but the man is not exactly familial. “Maybe they could tell me some embarrassing stories. I’m sure you were a cute kid.”
“They do not speak English.” It’s a lie, but Fritz can’t imagine having the man he jerks off to meet his sister. “Can I taste your food?”
Henry slides his plate over as he opens his laptop, pulling up the data from practice. Fritz’s own utensils are fishy, a taste that would sour the gravy, so he borrows Henry’s fork.
It’s been months since Fritz has tasted gravy and he relishes it, closing his eyes and chewing for longer and necessary. He cares far too much about racing to throw away his food plan, but thissauerbratenis good enough to consider it.
“You’re moaning,” Henry murmurs.
Fritz finally swallows. “I miss flavor.”
“Alright, alright, before Dieter hunts me down.” Henry pulls his tray back and stares at it. “I thought I grabbed a fork.”
“Oh, yes, here.” Fritz licks the utensil clean, savoring the last few drops of gravy, before relinquishing it. “I did not want to get fish in your food.”
Henry’s still watching him, though he already has the fork in his hand. Maybe he has a thing with germs?
