Page 12 of Dirty Air
He has less of a belly in the picture, which is disappointing, but it only makes Fritz more intrigued by what the modern version of Henry could be packing.
Scrolling back up to the top, he clicks on the most recent post. It’s a video by some car magazine that promises ‘an inside look at the man behind the driver.’
Fritz plays it and he’s immediately disappointed that it’s just a normal sit-and-answer-questions interview.
“Why did you leave Ferraro? And what drew you to VFIBR, a team that struggles to make a single point?”
“I was looking for a new challenge.”
What a stupid answer. Such a stupid, PR-approved answer.
Henry talks a little bit about moving back to England, but Fritz ignores the words of the answer to focus on the sound. The recording is eerily similar to how Henry sounds in his earpiece. It has a hint of static, like he’s a little too far away—just out of reach.
If Fritz closes his eyes, he could almost imagine sitting in the car as Henry explains to the interviewer what a race engineer actually does. It’s probably interesting, everything Henry says is interesting, but Fritz doesn’t want to do the mental work to translate it all.
Especially if it’s going to be another PR-approved answer.
His own name catches his attention, and Fritz opens his eyes to see Henry smile.
“I’m excited to work withhim. From what I’ve seen, he’s an incredible driver—a generational talent. I think he’s going to do amazing things.”
Fritz’s face is red hot, and he warms his cold fingers against his cheeks as he turns up the volume.
“Even though he didn’t score a single point his entire rookie season?”
“He just needs a competitive car,” Henry insists. “It’s far easier to make a better car than to make a better driver. He’s won championships—he obviously knows how to drive well. If anything, I think his lack of points is a sign of failure from VFIBR, not from him.”
Fritz can’t believe what he’s hearing, how passionately Henry is defending him.
From his position on his stomach, Fritz shifts his weight from his elbows back to his pelvis, tampering down on his thickening cock.
He can’t get hard from a PR video of his race engineer. He won’t.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t been bought out of his contract by a stronger team,” Henry continues. “With all due respect to VFIBR, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
Henry looks sheepish. “Anyways, yes. I’m eager to get started.”
“What do you think about Freddy’s notoriously callous attitude towards his previous race engineer? Are you prepared to handle such a hothead after working alongside more experienced drivers?”
“At the risk of getting fired before I even start, wouldn’t you be frustrated as well? Trying to prove that you’re the greatest driver in the world with a car that can’t keep up?”
Fritz inhales with a soft gasp.
“—prove that you’re the greatest driver in the the world with?—”
He drags the play bar back again, his pulse throbbing. His skin is too warm in the freezing room.
“—you’re the greatest driver in the world?—”
Just one more time.
“—the greatest driver in the world?—”
Fritz is tired. Exhausted, really. Delusional, probably. He pauses the video and exhales before rolling over.
It’s not weird of him to like praise, most people like praise. He untucks his towel and lets it fall open. Who doesn’t want to be told they’re the greatest at something? The greatest driver in the world?
