Page 21 of Dirty Air
“I will go with plan B.”
“It is the safest option.”
Not the fastest. Fritz can read between the lines. “Copy.”
Henry can be disappointed with him, but Fritz trusts himself. The track conditions are good, the car is good, his reflexes are good.
When the lights go out, Fritz darts to the outside. He doesn’t wander too far off the race line, just enough to squeeze past a car into the first turn. He battles through the second, the third. It’s three laps before the field spreads out enough to breathe.
“Status?”
“That’s P6. Good job on the start.”
Fritz whoops, hoping he didn’t accidentally press the microphone. He’s chasing a Ferraro and there’s a McLean in his mirrors. “Where are the Mercenaries?”
“Parker pitted for a puncture. Gomez is six point two behind. They collided at the start.”
There’s a poignant pause and Fritz smirks. “Say it, Henry.”
“I have no problem admitting you were right.” And yet he still doesn’t say it.
“I am waiting.”
“Gap ahead, two point eight. Behind, one point seven. Push now.”
The McLean gives him a good fight, but Fritz defends and keeps his sixth-place position until he boxes. It’s a tight window, but his team nails the stop, sending him back out in two seconds.
On his fight back to the front, Fritz dances with the Ferraro again. He’s ahead through the corners, but falls back through the straights. They overtake a couple of midfield cars on older tires together, shooting back up the ranks until Fritz is sixth again.
He laps a Sobber, which is a new experience. Usually Fritz is the one receiving the blue flag.
“Keep this pace. Final lap.”
He spots the finish line up ahead. His team is on the fence, shaking whatever limbs they can fit through the gaps and screaming their faces red.
“That’s the checkered flag and P6. Congratulations, Fritz, that was a brilliant drive. I’m sure you can hear the garage.”
Last year, Fritz had planned what he’d say when he finally earned his first points, but the only sound that leaves his body is the deepest, most guttural scream he can muster.
Poor Henry. That fed right into his headphones.
Despite the ongoing domination of the top four teams, Fritz has wrestled his way into contention. He doesn’t just finish in the points, he finishes as a real, actual threat for the first time in his Formation 1 career.
“Wunderbar!” he shouts, laughing. “The team deserves every point and I am sorry I could not deliver last year. Mama, Papa, even Ella, thank you. Henry,thank you. Next time we will win. Tonight, I will buy the champagne.”
Fritz pulls up to parc ferme and almost steals the steering wheel in his excitement. There’s a few white-clad VFIBR mechanics waiting for the car, and he throws himself against the first one he sees.
“Took you long enough!”
“Mega drive, Fritzy!”
“That’s our boy!”
Everyone pats his helmet, and Fritz is laughing, but also crying, trying to half-hug, or at least smack, some of his team.
After he’s weighed, Fritz is pulled into interview after interview. He’s never had so many reporters asking for his time, but half of them are in German, so it's possibly just the location.
“How does it feel to finally earn your first points? And on your home track as well! We saw your family’s reactions, they must be so proud.”
