Page 62 of Dirty Air
Hopefully he’ll be able to keep some of his dignity during the meeting. He doesn’t want to have to beg for the Red Boar seat.
His dad grasps onto a book of all of Fritz’s assets—his social accounts, his sponsorship deals, his merch sales for the year. Compared to last year, when he had exactly nothing to his name, Fritz has to admit it all looks rather impressive.
Henry’s words smack him in the face.If you want Red Boar to notice?—
Of course he was right. When has Henry ever not been right?
The phone rings and the Müller men watch it for a couple of beats, waiting so they don't seem too eager. As if Adam didn’t already know he has the upper hand. When his father accepts the call, Fritz leans in closer and tries to listen.
“Alright. Yes, we can do that. Red Boar in five minutes. Yes.”
Fritz understands that his father is likely just trying to be accommodating, but he must’ve forgotten that it’s a sprint to get down the entire paddock in five minutes. Even with both legs.
“Run ahead,” Fritz tells his father. “I’ll catch up as fast as I can.”
The older man takes one look at his son’s penis-covered cast before bolting out of the garage. He’s more agile than Fritz would’ve expected.
When Fritz finally hobbles over to Red Boar, he's disappointed but not surprised. Of course the men wouldn’t wait around for him.
Every photographer and passing fan takes a picture of Fritz standing outside the Red Boar area, confused on what to do and where to go next.
It’s a miracle that Lucas finds him when he does. He’s still dripping champagne, and Fritz has some strange Pavlovian urge to lick it off.
That’s probably not a good idea.
“Adam’s office?” the reigning champion asks.
“Not a well-kept secret, I guess.”
Lucas nods his head over towards the garage and leads Fritz, slowly, through the turns. “Not really. But I asked for you, so it might still be a secret to some people.” He waves at a few navy-clad workers who watch Fritz with curiosity.
“Youaskedfor me?”
“I didn’t want to give my seat to any asshole, you know?” Lucas explains. “I had high hopes for you last year, butyeesh. Not one point? Glad you figured that out.”
Fritz disappointed his hero. Super. “Why does it sound like you are the one making the decision, instead of Adam?”
“Because it’s written into my contract. When I retired, I wanted to have a say in who got my seat.” Lucas admits so with a shrug, like it’s not the most batshit thing Fritz has ever heard. “I’m one of the majority shareholders of the team—didn’t you know?”
Fritz shakes his head. “I do not pay attention to politics.”
Lucas laughs. “You really should. Try not to be too intimidated by Adam during negotiations—you’re already confirmed, so ask for things. Personally, I like flying private.”
Fritz scoffs. “I do not care how I get to the track as long as I am in a fast car.”
“Bigger hotel suites, fancy private chef… Go in there and ask for anything you want—within reason. The board can still fire me before my retirement, which would negate the contractual obligation, but they seem happy enough with you. Makes my job easier, anyways.”
He trots up a set of stairs and waits patiently at the top as Fritz tries to navigate his way to Adam’s temporary office.
Lucas opens the door and holds it. After Fritz stumbles inside, he calls out, “Take care of him, Adam” before leaving.
The men are glancing through the portfolio when Adam looks up and says, “This is all very impressive.”
“Thank you,” Fritz replies, falling into the empty seat without any grace.
“Your father and I were just discussing what you’d like in your contract. Most contracts outline fan appearances, sponsor obligations, simulator time. Do any of these things make you uncomfortable?”
“No, sir,” Fritz replies, dutifully. There is very little he wouldn’t suffer through for a top-level car. “I have something I want to add, though.”
