Page 2 of Dirty Air
The driver closes his eyes and tries to imagine dissecting each word at top speed over radio static. So far, so good.
When speeches finally wrap up, the crowd is encouraged to mingle. Fritz wouldn’t mind—he has an innate ability to disappear from these things for hours—but he’s assigned a PR chaperone. The woman bounces in place, just itching to jump into every conversation and shut him up.
“Friedrich!” Some hoity-toity man beckons him forward and Fritz drags his feet as he complies. “You won the Formation 2 Championship, did you not?”
“I did,” Fritz replies dutifully. “Also Form 3. Back-to-back years.”
“Fantastic.” The man holds his head higher, like he had anything to do with it. “VFIBR is lucky to have such a strong driver.”
Another fancy man butts in. “But you didn’t make a single point in your debut year? That has to be frustrating.”
“It is.” Frustrating isn’t a strong enough word. “I hope you will give us money to make a better car, since it is clear I am not the problem.”
The PR chaperone barks out a laugh and pushes him away from the men. “Oh Freddy… He’s just sofunny.”
“I did not make a joke.” Fritz tries to bat off her hand, but she’s stronger than she looks. His attention is still on the sponsorswho can change the car, when he missteps and stumbles backwards, bumping into a hard body.
Muscular arms steady him, standing him upright. “Careful, that’s my driver you’re tossing about.”
My driver?
“Henry!” The PR lady sounds relieved, her burden halved. “Can you watch Freddy? I need to do some quick damage control.”
“I do not need to be watched,” Fritz insists at the same time Henry replies, “Sure thing.”
They stare at each other in silence before Henry asks, “Do you prefer Friedrich or Freddy?”
“Do not call me Freddy.” The only thing worse than his team principal using the horrid name, is if his race engineer did. “Friedrich will do.”
“‘Will do’? Is there another option you’d prefer?”
“Most people call me Fritz.” Well, most of the people he likes. He’s not sure where he stands with Henry.
“Fritz.” Henry looks surprised. “I haven’t heard anyone call you that.”
“Then you should meet more people.” Fritz gestures to the room. “Go, mingle. I will mingle as well. We can compare notes.”
There’s an empty office on the third floor he can’t ignore any longer. Without his handler, he might be able to slip away.
“Actually, I was hoping to meet with you tonight.” Henry grips the crossbody strap of a brown leather bag he didn’t have earlier. “If you’re done here, we can find somewhere to talk?”
Well, it isn’t solitude, but it’s better than telling pretty lies to investors. “Fine. I know a room.”
His secret room has glass walls, so Fritz has never needed to flip the lights on. During parties, he likes to sit in the darkest corner, watch the clock on the wall tick by, and hope nobody finds him until after his contractual obligations are fulfilled.
Henry finds the switch, illuminating the room in terribly green fluorescent light. “You looked like you’d rather be anywhere but there.”
“Affirm.” Fritz plops down into a rolling chair at one end of the table. “I only want to race. This is the bad part.”
“And when you aren’t racing?” Henry settles himself at the head of the table, pointedly close to Fritz, despite the length of the room. From his bag, he retrieves a notebook and flips to a free page. “What do you do in your free time?”
“Simulator.”
Henry jots it down. “So you like simulator runs?”
“No more than the real thing, but much more than these stupid events.”
“These ‘stupid events’are good for introducing yourself to sponsors.” Henry writes more notes, though he’s the one talking. “It can benefit you to get friendly with the people who spend the money. There are drivers whose entire careers are secure because they met the right person.”
