Page 23 of Dirty Air
Fritz laughs. “You just want to use my face to skip the line.”
“Also your money.”
It takes almost no effort to convince Fritz, but before he says a blanket goodbye to everyone taking the bus back, he’s clapped on the shoulder.
“You did a hell of a job today,” Henry says. “Our car isn’t that good yet, that was all you.”
“So much for winning races.”
The hand gripping his shoulder tightens. “We’ll get there. You’ve got something really special—this team is lucky to have you.”
“You are the one I am lucky to have.”
Fritz misspoke. He meant to say the team.
But he doesn’t take it back. It’s just out there, hanging in the space between them.
“Fritz! C’mon!”
With a gentle pat, Henry lets him go. “Stay safe,” he says before climbing onto the bus.
Fritz wants to follow him, but he turns and joins the rowdy group as they stumble down the road.
At the club, Fritz buys a table and pays the cover for everyone else in their party. He doesn’t recognize a couple of the faces who sneak through the door, but the more the merrier.
They hit the minimum fast—shots with friends, shots with Team 34, shots with a fan wearing a shirt with Lucas’s face who asks Fritz for a selfie.
PR will have something to say about all of the phones pointed at him, and Dieter will berate him about all the alcohol he’s consuming, but first points only happen once in a career. He’d bestupid not to get smashed in a country that’ll still understand him when he forgets English.
Fritz isn’t dancing anymore, he’s draped over the couch at the table he paid for, nodding off to the repetitive thump of the bass. There are familiar voices around him, and they seem to be having fun, so he snoozes for a minute.
The next moment, Fritz jolts awake. He's coherent enough to understand he’s in a car and that he should definitely not throw up, no matter how much he wants to. When they park, he wrestles the arms holding him up until he’s free to vomit into a bush.
His mouth is sour, but his stomach feels immediately settled, which is an improvement.
The arms hoist him upright again and soon all the contents of his wallet are spread out over a counter and someone tries to convince a hotel staff member to tell them which room he’s supposed to be in.
“Thirty-four,” Fritz repeats.
“There is no room thirty-four,” someone answers in frustrated German.
The next moment, he’s alone on his bed, on top of his covers and still fully dressed. His phone is plugged in, so that’s nice, and he checks the time to make sure he’s not running late to his sponsorship photoshoot.
It’s one in the morning.
How is it only 1 a.m.? They left the restaurant around ten. How did he have an entire party, pass out, and return to the hotel so quickly?
Has Fritz completely lost his tolerance? His ability to party?
It feels like Dieter’s fault, somehow.
Fritz sets an alarm for the photoshoot and reminds himself to be grateful that he didn’t miss it. Rolling onto his back, he stares at the ceiling.
He doesn’t want to change clothes. He doesn’teven want to get under the covers. He’s still wearing shoes and the air conditioning blows at his uncovered arms. He can handle all of that, but God, his mouth is disgusting.
Fritz stumbles into the en suite and immediately forgets why he’s there, grasping the counter for stability. The air is too warm where he breathes and too cold everywhere else.
He doesn’t even like shots. Why’d he take so many shots?
