Page 46 of Dirty Air
A fan account pops up, and it’s a screenshot of Fritz’s last post.Next week it will be champagne.
Fritz forgot he had posted that.
“Well, he did tell us,” the fan wrote as the caption.
Fritz stumbles out of bed and grabs the empty bottle of champagne from the bathroom. He holds it in front of his tv at roughly the same angle as the beer bottle and snaps a picture.
“I told you,” he captions it.
That’s enough internet for one night. Since he’s not expected anywhere until tomorrow afternoon, he turns his phone to airplane mode and rummages the desk for a room service menu. He’s gonna treat himself tonight.
The sun has pushed its way through the hotel’s heavy curtains by the time Fritz finally stirs awake.
He rolls over and checks his phone. After it connects to the hotel's wi-fi, the device vibrates under a barrage of texts and missed phone calls from PR, Marketing—even his friends and family. All of them warn him to check for reflective surfaces in the backgrounds of pictures he posts.
Wait.
Fritz pulls up the champagne picture from last night and pinches in. The black tv screen had mirrored his nearly-naked body to the camera.
At least he wore a towel?
His stomach grumbles as he pulls on a pair of jeans. There’s a restaurant on property he can probably charge back to the room, so breakfast first. Apologies can wait.
Fritz asks the host for their most private table, though privacy is probably impossible in such a small restaurant.
The man either knows who he is or he clocks the murmurs and stares, and he leads Fritz to the back without fuss.
He’s a one-man parade, and the other patrons turn to watch him with awe, their phones trained to his face. Fritz tries to keep his head up and forward, but it’s all a little ridiculous.
Fritz takes the chair across from the booth, facing the windows that overlook the streets. It’s bright enough outside that passersby don’t see him, just their own reflections as they continue on with their day.
A surprising amount of people are wearing team clothing—even after the race. Ferraro’s popular, so is Mercenary, but he also spots a few of his own fans milling about.
You don’t think you’re popular?He’s just some guy. Maybe his merch is just cheaper than most of the other drivers’.
Fritz hasn’t even opened the menu before someone interrupts him, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Mind if I join you?”
His invisibility facade shatters and Fritz sighs with resignation. This is what he asked for when he fought to be one of the twenty best drivers in the world. Still, it irks him to be touched by a stranger.
Fritz turns to politely ask the fan to leave him in peace, when he registers that the hand is attached to Sven Behringer.
“OH!” he exclaims, with absolutely no subtlety. Fritz shoots upright and motions for Mercenary’s team principal to take the window seat. “Yes! Here, please sit.”
“I was very impressed with you yesterday.” Sven unbuttons his suit jacket before sitting. Of course the stoic, modelesque older man is dressed to the nines, even at breakfast. “Veryimpressed. Your first podium and it’s a win? In a VFIBR, no less.”
Sven Behringer knows who he is.
Fritz stumbles out, “Th-Thank you, sir.”
The team principal helps himself to the only menu at the table while Fritz openly stares at him. When the waitress greets them, Fritz wishes he knew what kind of food the restaurant makes. “Water for me, please.”
“We’ll do a pitcher of mimosas,” Sven announces. “Extra strong, the boy likes champagne.” He smiles with a wink, and Fritz immediately flushes.
Sven orders the steak and eggs. Fritz can’t ask for the menu back and waste Sven Behringer’s time to read it, so he orders the same.
It sounds… protein-packed.
That’s what he’ll tell Dieter.
