Page 66 of Dirty Air
“No, no. It’s okay, I understand,” Henry says in a hurry. “I felt the same way at Ferraro. Like I was being stared at by a thousand people who expected perfection. Like they hoped I would fuck up, so they could take my place.”
“Ja!” Fritz gasps. “Yes, just like that.”
“But you’re different, Fritz.”
Goosebumps break out along his skin as the driver swallows.
“I see it, Adam sees it, your millions of followers see it. You can’t accurately compare yourself to the top field drivers when all you’ve ever driven is a VFIBR. Even if you do—remember that this team has never won a race before. Ever. Even when Lucas was here.”
Fritz scoffs. “Lucas never drove with VFIBR.”
“He did. All Red Boar drivers start in their sister team.” There’s a tapping sound, an eraser keeping time against that sillynotebook.“It was called Boarro Rosso or Racing Boars or something else at the time, but he was definitely still in this garage.”
Fritz wipes at his eye. He didn’t even realize it was wet. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I’m sure he had a hero he didn’t think he’d be able to replace either. It’s okay to feel this way, but don’t pass up an opportunity to drive a better car just because you don’t have equitable data.”
Fritz snorts, perking up. “Of course you would mention data.”
“It’s what I do best. Like how you drive best. Don’t count yourself out—you’ll need that confidence when you suit up again.”
Fritz sniffs and takes a deep breath. “Thank you for this.”
“Anytime.” Henry sounds almost fond. “Though, I guess this will be someone else’s job next year.”
“Yeah.” Fritz tries his best not to sound too disappointed. “I guess.”
It’s already a well circulated rumor, but the confirmation that Fritz will take Lucas’s seat next year hits the second day of the break.
He receives a barrage of messages and congratulations, but he’s too distracted by Dieter’s horrible physical therapy plan to pay them any mind.
After only four weeks, Fritz finally gets his cast removed. It only gives him a week and a half of break to train his foot again, but both the doctor and Dieter seem confident in his ability to get back in the car.
“If it was a contact sport, I’d advise against it. But since you are only racing, and because it’s your left foot instead of your pedal foot?—”
Fritz doesn’t know where to begin. He whips his phone out of his pocket, determined to show the doctor exactly which crash hehobbled away from, before Dieter gathers him up, thanks the doctor, and hurries them out the door.
“You should have let me show him.” Even without the cast, Fritz still has to use the crutches until he can safely walk again. His foot is both strangely lightweight and a lot colder now.
“It’s my job to make sure you leave with medical clearance. Do you know how many offices I had to call to find someone who doesn’t watch Formation 1? Or know who you are? Your ego is not worth more than your ability to race, right?”
Fritz grumbles an affirmative as he reluctantly climbs into the passenger’s side of Dieter’s car. When he's better, Fritz will gift his trainer an entire day of driving lessons. The first several hours will be about how to stay on the road.
He won’t mention it until he’s back on his feet and able to run away.
Fritz’s first time walking through the paddock after the break is a shock, even compared to his race win. Photographers gather in bulk, their cameras all pointed towards him. The sound of their shutters all snapping at once is like a gnat flying too close to his ear.
They’re probably just happy he’s no longer hefting around the penis-covered cast.
Fans and collectors seem drawn to him in bigger waves, some of them already forcing Red Boar merch forward. Fritz tries to sign as much as he can, grateful to have access to both of his hands again.
He’s greeted by both Red Boar and VFIBR employees, though he doesn’t have any clue who the Red Boar ones are.
The weirdest part, though, is this feeling that the other drivers arelookingat him. Both midfield and top drivers—people whonever bothered to notice or care about him before—seem to be sizing him up.
“Because you’ll be their competition next year,” Henry concludes as they work during their traditional strategy lunch.
“But they did not care after I won.”
