Page 57 of Dirty Air
Fritz tries, relying on his right leg, but yelps and sits back down. “Not without help.”
The halo makes for an awkward hold, but Fritz is pulled out of the car enough to get his legs up under him and sit on the edge of it. Once he’s able to, he swings himself around.
The medical team brings out a stretcher, but that’s just excessive and a little demoralizing.
Instead, Fritz opts to hang on to a marshal and hop his way over to the ambulance.
The crowd in the nearby stand roars all at once, and Fritz looks up to see himself hobbling on the broadcast screen. Hopefully it means his family will know he’s alright.
He attempts to wave, but it’s too hard to coordinate, so he focuses his efforts on hopping and hoping that he hasn’t just blown his chances of racing for Red Boar next season.
The doctor confirms it—Fritz broke a bone in his foot.
Acute metatarsal fracture, like it’s just a small inconvenience and not something that will take him out of racing for a minimum of six weeks.
There’s a long break coming up, but he’ll still miss several races because of it.
Dieter’s already there by the time the doctor tells him the news. Luckily, the performance coach can keep a cool head and be rational under pressure. Unfortunately, he brought Fritz’s father with him.
The older man takes the news even worse than his son does, grabbing his phone and stomping out of the room. Each heavy footfall seems pointed, considering how long it’ll be before Fritz can freely stomp around again.
“How was the rest of the race?” Fritz asks, ignoring his father’s tantrum.
“I have no idea.” Dieter shrugs. “I left as soon as I saw you hobbling. Wanted to be sure I was here for the information.”
“Thanks.” Fritz releases a shaky breath. No matter how much he rags on him, Dieter’s a pretty decent friend. “Could have left my dad at the paddock, though.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Dieter huffs a laugh. “I was just relieved to see you out—it looked really bad.”
“What actually happened?”
“I have a video if you?—?”
They watch as the Mercenary catches his rear tire on the inside of the turn. Almost immediately, the car rolls over itself before slamming against the tire barriers. The whole thing is done in less than three seconds.
“Jesus.”
“They didn’t show it at first,” Dieter says, pocketing his phone again. “You just dropped down the list when the red flag popped up.”
“Yeah, they do that.” In case he dies.
“The entire garage was silent—it was terrifying. There’s usually a lot of noise in the headphones with everyone talking at once, but the feed was cut to focus on Henry calling out to you. Every time you didn’t answer, everyone thought the worst.”
“I did answer,” Fritz grumbles.
“I know.” Dieter musses up Fritz’s hair. It’s probably sweaty and disgusting, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m glad this is the worst of it. You live to race another day!”
“Even if that day might be weeks from now.”
The doctor pops back in to wrap his foot, and Fritz finally gets a look at it. It only looks bruised—albeit, a little more swollen than a regular bruise should be. Maybe they’re making a big fuss about nothing and it’ll heal sooner than expected.
Fritz is still wearing his race suit, the tight fireproofs clinging to his skin underneath. The area is swollen enough to be uncomfortable, and the cuff of the ankle strangles his foot. “You can cut the leg off.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Dieter chastises.
“The leg of therace suit.”
It’s not like Fritz will need it again any time soon.
