Glad you’re okay. - Henry #3
“I remember the jolt, a little of the spin, and then the marshals. Oh, and the radio, but I don’t know how much of that I might have missed.”
“Your brain is trying to protect yourself. That’s why you’re lifting even when your conscious mind wants to win.” Henry plays the video again at full speed. “Pattern recognition in your mind wants to connect any sudden movement with the accident, so it can stop it from happening again.”
Fritz watches the screen as it loops again. Then again.
“We’re not going to heal your brain in one night—that would be impractical—but exercises like this will help you relearn how to race, even if your subconscious doesn’t want you to.” Henry nods to the waiting screen as it counts down the final seconds. “You should try it again.”
They do try it again. And again. Fritz can actually feel the improvement by the seventh or eighth round, but they call it quits at one a.m., citing his need to sleep before the race.
Before Henry leaves, he squeezes Fritz’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you. You’re working so hard to get back out there—it’s commendable. World Champion behavior if I’ve ever seen it.”
The Greatest Driver in the World, but Fritz shakes the thought away. “Thanks,” he says, lamely. “Thank you for always pushing me to be better.”
“Anytime.” Henry waves goodbye to Dieter and lets the hotel door fall closed behind him.
Dieter’s face is stern when Fritz turns back around. “Did you two fuck?”
“No!” Fritz sputters out. “Wh-why would you even ask that??”
“I knew it.” Dieter exhales and shakes his head. “And I don’t even know the guy that well. How has no one else noticed? There has to be some sort of rule about fraternizing with coworkers.”
“It’s a big company,” Fritz grumbles. “Lots of people are together. Even married.”
“Are any of them the drivers, though?”
Fritz received a talking-to when he first started. They cautioned him about getting too friendly with the marketing team specifically—the team mostly composed of women.
It’s not Fritz’s fault that they didn’t mention the men. “There is nothing in any contract or rule book that says we cannot.”
“You checked?”
“Would it be better if I got fired?!” Fritz’s employment status directly affects Dieter’s, after all. He should be glad Fritz is so thorough.
“You need to stop. Whatever it is, you both need to stop. I can’t be the only one who notices.”
“We already stopped.” Fritz pads into the room and throws himself backwards on the bed. “He wants nothing to do with me ever since Sven’s breakfast.”
“Because he’s…jealous?”
“No. He was afraid to be outed.” There’s no use in explaining all of this. It’s over—that’s the part that matters. “He has moved on, so I move on. We are just coworkers now. Professional.”
“Hmm.” Dieter perches on the edge of the bed, pulling a leg up and staring down at Fritz. “I mean—again, you shouldn’t do it—but he has definitely not moved on. You haven't either, but I think you already know that.”
Fritz groans and tosses his arms over his face. It’s hard to pretend it doesn’t fill him with some amount of hope.
Fritz definitely has a problem with cars appearing behind him, but they can’t surprise him as easily from in front.
He overtakes enough to even out his losses and ends the race P12. It’s not his best showing—not by far—but it’s an obvious improvement from the day before.
“Are you happy with your race today?”
“I am.” Fritz smiles at the downtrodden reporter. “Yes, I am very happy. I hope by next week my foot is even stronger, that I qualify even better, but it was a good race out there.”
It wasn’t the answer the reporter expected. “Do you think that Red Boar is happy with your race?”
“I think the top teams have bigger things to worry about than a midfielder recovering from an injury. They are busy fighting for the championships.”
“Do you think Red Boar might’ve even made a mistake? Signing you when your teammate is consistently faster?” He must be British. Only the British think William is any good.
“Consistently?” Fritz repeats. “Like, over the last three races? Two of which I did not participate in?”
“Are you afraid to answer the question?” the reporter taunts. “Did Red Boar make a mistake?”
“Yes.” Fritz can’t help but smile. “Red Boar made a big, giant mistake. Why would they ever sign the only driver on our team who has won a race or stood on a podium? You should have warned them beforehand! Now they will be stuck with me for the next two years.”
Fritz’s PR handler scolds him for giving the media something to run with, but stupid questions deserve stupid answers.
After the post-race meeting, Fritz catches Henry and invites him to dinner with him and Dieter.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he explains, surprisingly nervous. “We can go wherever you want. All of that training really helped me on track today.”
“I’m so sorry,” Henry replies, tugging at his bag’s strap. “I actually can’t. I—I have a meeting tonight.”
“It is okay, we can wait for you.” Fritz isn’t hungry yet anyways. “You still have my hotel room number? We can meet there.”
“No, I mean, it’s a dinner meeting. You should celebrate without me. Order something Dieter will hate for you to eat. You deserve it, you worked so hard.”
“Okay.” A dinner meeting. So, like, a date. Fritz tries really hard to control his voice. “Maybe next time, then?”
Henry’s smile at least looks apologetic. “Sure. Next time.”
After a disappointing dinner with Dieter, Fritz lays out on his hotel mattress. He’s dressed down in a t-shirt and sweatpants, watching his fucking commercial again on the local station, when someone knocks furiously on his door.
Fritz is pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to deserve vitriol. Maybe a team member left a part when they moved the sim racer out?
When he checks the peephole, he’s surprised to see Henry, of all people, on the other side of his door.
Guess the date didn’t go so well. Fritz tries to hide his excitement before peeking the door open.
“What is this?” Henry accuses, shoving a stack of papers in his face.
“I do not know.” Fritz usually does everything online. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen an actual stack of papers. “What is it?”
“It’s a contract to work at Red Boar!”
Fritz opens the door wider and steps aside to let the older man in.
Henry stomps over to his empty desk and drops the papers. “Adam fucking Stone himself asked for a meeting. And he bought me steak. And he just handed this to me like it wasn’t a Red Boar contract. And I got steak juice on it!”
“But it still counts, right?” Fritz asks, a little confused. “Why are you upset? You do not have to sign it if you do not want to. Or did you want one without steak juice?”
It isn’t Fritz’s fault it has steak juice on it.
“I don’t care about the steak juice! Why did I get a contract?” Henry presses. “When Red Boar has race engineers with decades of experience? With maybe four times my knowledge? Why does Adam Stone even know my name?”
Fritz is almost ashamed to admit, “Because I want to race with you.”
“Because you—?” Henry takes a deep inhale and lets it out slowly. “I don’t deserve this contract, though. I don’t belong up there.”
“What do you mean?” Fritz laughs. He understands his own trepidation, but he’s never worked at the front of the grid before. “You were a race engineer for Ferraro. Of course you belong up there.”
“I—” Henry stops and looks away, towards the ugly hotel art hanging above Fritz’s bed.
“You were a race engineer for Ferraro,” Fritz repeats.
“Yes. I was.” Henry shifts in place. He’s still dressed up for a nice dinner—button up, slacks, dress shoes. The confident outfit seems at odds with his wariness. “But it wasn’t exactly my job.”
“What was not your job?”
“Um, race engineer.” He visibly gulps. “I did do it, but I was just filling in for someone else. An actual race engineer. On paternity leave. For a few races.”
“But your—” Fritz gapes. “A few races?! Not even a whole season?”
“Because my voice was the clearest over the radio.” Without his bag to hold on to, Henry fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve.
“You lied to me? Why?!” There was no reason to—Fritz would’ve worked with him, top team or not.
“No! No, I never lied to you, Fritz, I promise.” He just didn’t tell the whole truth. “I told you I worked for Ferraro and I did. For years, I swear. I just… never corrected you when you assumed what job I had.”
Well, that makes everything okay then, doesn’t it? “Then what did you do? Besides substitute race engineer?”
“I was a performance engineer. Before that I was in strategy. I don’t actually care where I live—I moved to VFIbr because I saw a better opportunity to move up. Race engineers don’t retire every day.”
Henry nearly collapses onto the edge of the bed. “I had it all planned out. If I worked hard, I could learn quickly and move up to a better team in five to eight years. Retire in another twenty-five. Live somewhere warm. Maybe back to Italy—non lo so.”
“Why not tell me?” Fritz perches next to him. The mattress creaks with his weight. “Why did you let me think you were a race engineer?”
“Wanted to impress you.” Henry shrugs. He sounds defeated, almost. “Craig knows, of course. And Adam.” Finally, he turns to look at Fritz. “I don’t deserve this contract, though. I’m sorry.”
He looks exactly like how Fritz felt that day in the Red Boar garage. When the pressure seemed insurmountable. When all of his accomplishments felt like he was only taking credit for other people’s work—for Henry’s work.
“I don’t deserve my contract either.”
“That’s different.” Henry throws himself back with a flourish and he nearly bounces on the mattress. “You just have imposter syndrome. I actually am an imposter.”
Fritz lays back as well. He turns to face him, but Henry continues to stare ahead, at the empty ceiling. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay.” Fritz repeats. “I did not make a single point last year—it was like my formation lap. You only had a couple of races last year, that was your formation lap.”