Page 10 of Dirty Air
Fritz unzips his race suit and lets the arms swing loosely around his waist. “What are you writing?”
Henry jumps. He’s cute when he’s startled. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
He probably thought Fritz would be off sulking in a corner somewhere, but that would be useless. It’s better to form a game plan on how he’ll actually finish the race next time.
“What are you making notes about?” Fritz already knows the footage is of his overtakes, he recognizes them like an out of body experience.
Henry shifts over, pulling Fritz by the waist so he can see the screen without falling off the narrow platform. His hand stays there, settling over Fritz’s fireproof shirt, where the race suit bunches up.
He explains the numbers—they’re just various trackperformance statistics—but Fritz’s attention keeps drawing away, towards the warm hand grasping his narrow waist.
Henry plays the video forward, backwards, forwards again. The cars aren’t actually thrusting, but they’re pushing into the frame, pulling out, pushing into the frame.
“See? It proves that you were the fastest through turns one, seven, and fourteen. Faster even than the Red Boars, who led these laps.”
“But my straights were slow.”
“That’s the unfortunate drawback of a car with so much downforce.”
“And I had to retire.”
The heavy hand squeezes him in reply. “Yes. Also unfortunate. But your pace was good—easily the top of the midfield.” Henry plays the thrusting cars again and Fritz has to tear his eyes away.
“Why is William’s car not retired?” It’s running fourteenth, but at least it’s still running. “Why is mine the only problem?”
“His RPMs are lower, so his engine isn’t overheating. Not yet, anyways.”
“So, if I want to finish the race, I have to drive slower?”
Henry half-spins his chair to face Fritz, both hands settling on the fireproofs, gripping like a vice. “Never.” He shakes the driver with his intensity, but at the same time, he looks almost defeated.
You might think you’re the only person who matters. That yours is the only dream getting crushed every weekend.
“We need to build a car that can handle you.”
Fritz starts twelfth in Korea, but picks up a puncture and another DNF.
I can’t have you throwing in the towel after a couple of bad weekends.
Fritz doesn't throw towels. He dusts himself off and makes a plan for next weekend.
Fritz fares better in Japan. He qualifies fourteenth, but he fights and defends until he’s eleventh through the checkered flag.
He grabs his water bottle before he’s dragged over to the press pool by his attendant.
A reporter flags him down immediately, which is new. “Hello, Friedrich. Marsha Lambgin with Channel Five Sports.”
“Hallo.”
“You were so close to the points this weekend! It’s nice to see you fighting out there on track.”
Fritz can’t help but smile. “Yes, we were close today. It feels good to be competing in the middle now.”
Even better to actually finish a race.
“Next up is your home race! Tell me, do you think you can bring home a few points forDeutschland?”
If she’s going to mangle the pronunciation so badly, she should just say ‘Germany’.
