Page 28 of Dirty Air
That doesn’t sound like it’s over. Fritz smiles victoriously as he rubs that stupid bald head.
“This seat taken?” Henry sets his tray down next to Fritz in hospitality. “I have the data from practice this morning, if you’d like to take a look.”
Of course he would. Fritz hadn’t known how useful their breakdowns were until Henry started avoiding him. Still, he doesn’t want to draw attention to their fragile truce, so Fritz moves his own tray out of the way, and doesn’t utter another word.
They discuss simulation data over lunch,tire data during upper body workouts, historical track data while they’re group stretching.
After four race weekends without a trace, Henry finally makes up for lost time.
A ninth-place finish is two more points than he made last year. Fritz accepts congratulations from the team principal, his garage, reporters, random fans, but it’s still so far from what he knows he can achieve.
Food Plan Approved room service feels like a suitable enough punishment, and Fritz keeps the hotel tv on for background noise as he furiously reviews everything he did wrong on a lap-by-lap basis.
He has only just cut into his barely-seasoned chicken breast when the television plays a familiar jingle that haunts him everywhere he goes.
“Which bottle do you prefer?” the lady in the commercial asks. She’s a voiceover actress hired later, the actual producer didn’t sound nearly as peppy.
“There is a difference?” It’s so obvious that commercial-him is hung over. Why did they let him record anything like that?
“One of these beers has zero calories.”
“Zero?” Commercial Fritz looks between the bottles in his hands. “One of these is no calories? Which one?”
“It’s that one.”
He takes testing gulp, likes it, then upturns the bottle and finishes the whole thing in a single movement. “Do I get more of that?” He asks the producer. “Because you sponsor me? If I give you my address, will you send?—”
The commercial cuts him off before he can rattle off the address to his apartment. A cheeky tagline under the logo declares “Both Athlete and Athletic Trainer Approved.”
The beer wasn’t even that good, but Fritz had been so hung over that any amount of cold liquid felt heaven-sent. Now he has a pallet of zero calorie beers in his apartment, along with a signed contract for three more years.
The commercial is played in every single host city during every single race weekend. It’s just his bad luck that Fritz happens to be in those same cities at those same times.
He’s still picking at his tasteless chicken, watching better commercials with actual actors, when his phone vibrates with a call.
“Hallo, Henry.” Fritz is still chewing, but Henry’s heard him in more embarrassing positions. “If you start talking numbers to me, I might hang up. Not in the mood.”
“I was actually hoping… you might be in the mood for something else?”
Fritz swallows audibly. He can’t tell if there’s a certain vibe to the question or if he’s just some horny, needy kid. “I could be in the mood for a lot of things. Things that are not numbers.”
“It’s not… strictly professional…”
Oh fuck, that’s the magic word. Fritz fumbles the remote, desperate to switch the tv off.
“…but I’ve thought about what you said and, well, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s actually happening. TV off, food forgotten, Fritz wrestles his trousers off before climbing into bed. “Ja, yes, go on.”
“And that stupid commercial keeps haunting me,” Henry groans and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “You deepthroat that fucking bottle. I can’t believe it hasn’t been censored! And it’s everywhere! Twenty million quid and they still have money left over to broadcast it worldwide?”
Fritz sits with his back to the plush headboard and strokes himself slowly while Henry rants about his commercial. MaybeFritz likes the beer after all. He should drink a few of the bottles sitting in his entryway.
“You’ve already started,” Henry accuses. “You’re touching yourself right now.”
“Keep complaining about how sexy my commercial is.”
“Stop.” A command.
