Page 38 of Dirty Air
Unbuckling himself and stumbling upright, Fritz’s legs shake as he climbs to the top of his slippery car. It’s still raining, but he’s fought too hard for too long not to stand at the top of the world.
He pumps his fist above his head, then draws both hands to his sides and screams so loud the fans at the other side of the track can probably hear him—even through his helmet.
Climbing down happens with much more caution. When he’s on stable concrete, he takes off, launching himself into the sea of white and blue uniforms. He’s already airborne before he considers whether anyone is prepared to catch him.
Thankfully they are. His top half is hoisted above the crowd, where everyone tries to smack him or pat him, and his bottom half is tossed in the air in waves, like a tide.
His team could break him in two for all he cares. He’ll never be happier than in this moment.
They set him back down on the correct side of the barrier, but not without smacking his helmet a few more times. Fritz walks the line and tries to touch as many people as possible and thank everyone he can.
When he reaches Henry, Fritz embraces him, nearly lifting the older man up and over the barrier.
“Put me down!” Henry shrieks.
Immediately, he becomes much lighter, and Fritz laughs as his crew lifts the race engineer up from behind.
Fritz steps back to remove his helmet and whips off hisbalaclava. The rain hasn’t let up at all, but now he feels invigorated by the water pelting against his face.
“Come with me,” Fritz says in a rush. “Accept the trophy for the team.”
“Craig will accept it for us.” Henry musses up Fritz’s quickly dampening hair, a soft smile playing on his lips.
“But this isyourwin—I want you there.”
Henry just shakes his head fondly as someone ushers Fritz away from his team, leading him over to the scale.
Once he’s been weighed, Lucas gathers him up into a hug. He’s much,muchshorter, but he sure has a pair of arms on him.
“If I was going to lose this one to anyone, I’m glad it was you.”
Fritz doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just holds his idol closer.
Lucas guides them to their stands and sends a half-hearted wave up at the audience.
Fritz finally places his helmet on the pillar that holds his hat, water, and watch. He knows how this goes, he’s seen it so many times before, but this time, the pomp and circumstance is for him.
This is his moment.
The Ferraro is interviewed first—the French one, Fritz was right.
Though Thomas is speaking into a microphone, the battering of the rain is so loud that Fritz can’t hear him.
“Before my lock up,” Lucas asks, almost huddled next to Fritz. “Were you always going to pull one over on me? You looked very happy for second place when we talked at the stop.”
“My race engineer knocked some sense into me.”
Lucas tsks. “I saw that fight on the broadcast. Looked almost like a lovers’ quarrel. So passionate.”
Thankfully it’s Lucas’s turn to interview next. Fritz has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that.
Thomas and Fritz have nothing in common except the race, so they discuss it. The Frenchman seems extra irritated about Lucas’s deal, but impressed that Fritz managed to pass in the VFIBR.
When it’s his turn at the mic, the crowd erupts in cheers. It’s a little surprising, considering he’s not one of the hometown heroes.
“You’re very popular today.” Even the announcer seems to have a hard time believing it.
“I am grateful for the support,” Fritz replies, turning and waving to the audience. He’s immediately distracted by the screen. “Fuck, that was close.”
