Page 4 of Dirty Air
“That is a stupid question.” Wait, Englishmen don’t like that word. “I mean, I want to win. Every driver wants wins.”
“Wants to win,” Henry recites, almost mockingly, as he writes it down.
“Not that I think it is possible in VFIBR,” Fritz adds. The pencil pauses. “In this car, I just want to prove to Red Boar that I am worth moving up. When I have a good car, I will win.”
“So technically, youdon’twant to win.” Henry pointedly upends his pencil, erasing the previous line. “You want a promotion.”
“I do not hear a difference.” It’s just a difference of pronunciation, likedankeorbitte. “You cannot be serious to think?—”
“Listen, if you won't fight to win in the car you have at your disposal, I’m not sure this partnership will work out after all.”
“You don’t—? Wait.” Fritz won’t be fired by the first race engineer he actually likes. “VFIBR earned two points last season. Theentireseason.”
“It’s a new season.”
“Our car can’t win—it isshit.”
“Cars can be fixed. Attitudes can’t.” Henry looks up, pinning him with those piercing eyes. “If you’re a loser, you’ll stay a loser.”
Fritz scoffs. “I am not aloser.”
“You didn’t score either of the points this team earned last year, yet you’re still asking for a promotion.” Henry closes his laptop with a snap. “Loser behavior. There’s no reason for Red Boar to take notice of you.”
Fritz slams his fist on the table. “Shut up! I am a fuckingwinner. I belong on the top step.”
“That’s better, you’re getting there.” Henry eyes Fritz’s fist, still on the table, before shuffling through his bag. “You need to get more fight in you and keep it up the entire year.”
“I can keep it up.”
The double-entendre doesn’t escape his notice.
Henry powers through. “Every single race is a new chance to win. I can’t have you throwing in the towel after a couple of bad weekends.”
“I do not throw towels.”
“Backfield drivers get lost to history because they lose hope. Don’t quit before the season even starts.”
“I am notquitting.”
“Good.” Henry retrieves a spiral-bound book from his bag and slides it over. “I made you this.”
“What?”
With leftover frustration, Fritz flips through the book, vaguely recognizing some of the people in the pictures. It’s all in English, so his eyes pass over the text without digesting anything but the odd ‘engineer’ title.
“How good is your English? On a scale from one to ten. Be honest.”
Fritz can admit he learned English later than some of the other drivers. He wanted to study his car, not languages. He can disassemble and rebuild an engine, but sometimes the numbers from eleven to fourteen confuse him if he doesn’t count them out first.
“Maybe a six,” he says, raising a hand and a thumb. “If it is not this many, then I must be a five.”
“Thought that might be the case.” Henry takes the book, flips it over, and slides it back. “Translated it to German as well. Sentence structure might be off, but hopefully it’s still digestible.”
Fritz scans the first page again. It’s styled the same as the English side, but it’s a lot easier to immediately comprehend. He skims the first profile before thumbing through the pages. “This is my team?”
“You should know them.” Despite calling his bluff, Henry sounds soft, not condescending. “As your race engineer, I’ll still be your go-between. Tell me if anything feels wrong at any moment, or if you prefer one setting over another, but this is stillyourteam.”
Each profile has a name, job title, short bio, and what their goal is for the year. Most people want to move to Red Boar, but Fritz is surprised at how many people on his team are actually hoping to win.
