Page 31 of Dirty Air
Fritz’s nipplesaresensitive and he notices the rub of fabric against them, even in his normal shirts. It’s distracting, to say theleast, but he catches Henry staring when he should be paying attention during meetings and feels powerful.
P9 again, two more points.
He asks the social team to send him the full copy of the ice bath video from last year and they do so without question. Fritz air-shares the file during the post-race meeting and Henry’s phone chimes with the notification. He learns what edging is later that night.
P8, four points.
Henry starts their call differently. He waxes poetic about Fritz’s drive, his skill, his future in the sport. It’s one thing to hear him say “Fritz is the greatest driver in the world” in some interview with a stranger, but another thing entirely to hear him say “You are.” Fritz comes in his fist, sobbing.
P10, one point.
Henry slips Fritz a small bottle of lube after the race and he’s half-hard during his press duties. He’s taken men before, but there’s something more intimate in the way Henry talks him through opening himself up. Fritz comes, brushing against his prostate, imagining his fingertips are Henry’s.
P11, no points.
For every race, half of the drivers won’t earn points. Still, Fritz is frustrated with himself. His new normal is earning points and clawing his way up the driver’s championship ladder. He can’t let it go so easily.
He texts Henry.
Not tonight.
Understood.
There’s a knock at his hotel door and it’s stupid how quickly his heart flutters. As if Henry would show up at his room after Fritz had explicitly asked to be left alone.
He checks the peephole and he can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed that it’s a member of the hotel staff.
“Sorry, I think you have the wrong room,” Fritz says, opening the door. “I did not order anything.”
“Friedrich Müller? I have a gift for you, from a member of your team.”
The man holds out a six pack of that stupid zero calorie beer and Fritz erupts in barking laughter. Such a stupid,stupidgift, but at least he’ll be able to drink without reprimand tonight.
“Hang on.” Fritz pops back into his room and fumbles through the bills in his wallet. The cash is worth at least double what the beers are, but it's worth it tonight.
Fritz climbs into bed with the full six pack and a bottle opener. Thankfully, they’re already cold. He pops the cap of one and takes a large gulp before he turns on the tv.
It takes a few minutes, but sure enough, his stupid commercial starts up again. He toasts the screen, snapping a picture and texting it to Henry.
The reply is immediate.
I hear it’s so good you can’t tell it has no calories.
Or maybe the original is so bad you cannot tell when they take out the flavor.
Henry laugh reacts and Fritz feels victorious, somehow.
Fritz likes the picture, so he uploads it to his socials and captions it, “Next week it will be champagne.”
It looks silly and low quality when his feed refreshes and it uploads between the high-gloss images the other drivers post, but this feels more like Fritz than any close up picture of his eyes in a helmet.
Somewhere in the city, Madison is probably cursing the facthe never uses the professionally shot photos collecting dust in his media folder.
Another pull of the shitty beer and Fritz's dick gives an interested twitch.
He sighs and tries to think of anything but Henry. His stupid body can’t understand they’re taking a break this week. The race is over, he’s in bed—obviously he must be hard.
His cock stiffens as he watches a cooking show in a foreign language. He jerks his dick languidly, exploring himself as he sucks down his beer.
