Page 37 of Dirty Air
Fritz continues to defend against the red car, but on a late lunge, the Ferraro oversteers and slides off the track. He manages to correct it, wrangling the car back onto the circuit, but the mistake pushes him back, out of Fritz’s mirrors.
He breathes a little easier.
“Last lap,” Henry warns. “Feel free to apologize to me and the team whenever you like.”
Fritz sees a new opportunity, not at turn sixteen, but right as Lucas catches up to the back of the field.
The blue flagged cars don’t move out of the way fast enough for the race leader, so Lucas leaves the race line and hits slick road. As he corrects his oversteer, Fritz seizes his chance. He dive-bombs on the inside, passing both the lapped car and Lucas.
His heart thuds even faster than the car, his adrenaline through the roof as he cuts to defend on the next turn.
“Apology accepted.”
Henry sounds smug as shit, but Fritz can’t care. For the first time ever, Friedrich Müller is leading a Formation 1 Grand Prix.
“Bring ‘er home.”
Easier said than done.
Lucas is immediately on his ass. He has to fight off the Ferraro along with suffering through Fritz’s water spray, but the Red Boar is definitely faster than the machine Fritz is working with.
After the last turn, it’s a long straight shot to the finish—Fritz’s weakness.
Lucas pops off the race line, challenginghim to a drag race.
Fritz floors it with reckless abandon. If he ends up second, or even third, it’ll be fine. A podium is still a podium, and it’s still a better result than he ever could’ve hoped to achieve at the start of the season.
But hereally.
Wants.
That.
Win.
He has no idea whether he’ll be able to brake in time for the first turn, but he can’t care about that yet. Lucas’s car is in his peripheral, neck and neck with him, but Fritz keeps his full focus on the finish line.
Once he crosses it, Fritz has just enough presence of mind to brake before the first turn. Lucas pulls ahead, leading him through the cool down lap, but Fritz has no idea if he passed before or after the finish.
“Who won?!” he radios in, slowing through turn four. Shouldn’t someone have told him by now?
“The computers say it’s you, but it’s such a fine margin, we’re waiting on photo proof.”
Lucas slows down ahead and Fritz pulls up next to him. Fritz expects some sort of angry fist movement or a middle finger, but he’s pleasantly surprised to see a little wave. He waves back and the duo laps the circuit together.
Like Schrödinger’s race result—without confirmation, both of them have won. Either way, it’s a German one-two.
“Friedrich Müller, you’ve been officially announced as the winner of the British Grand Prix.”
There’s too much to feel, so Fritz bellows into the microphone. That’s the second time he’s ruptured Henry’s eardrums this year, but he’ll pay for new ones if he has to.
“Well done, Freddy!” Craig is always too-peppy, but now he sounds on the verge of tears.
Fritz can’t blame him. “I want everyone to know that this was for Gregor. He was with me in this car today—we won this one together.”
“For Gregor,” Henry repeats.
Fritz parks his car in front of the P1 sign, accidentally pushing it back a couple feet. It’s fine, it didn’t fall.
