Dirty Air (Formation #1)

Chapter 1

I am studying.

Most race engineers would be happy to hear that I take my job seriously.

Most race engineers would think you were trying to steal their jobs.

Go to sleep.

We can review tomorrow morning.

This morning.

Several hours from now.

Jesus Christ.

Fritz catches Henry on the way to the canteen and backtracks so he doesn’t lose him. He’s in the middle of reiterating the texts that Henry never responded to when the race engineer stops him.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Actually, no.” Fritz takes another long swig from his can of sugar free Red Boar. It tastes like how battery acid looks, but Fritz will take whatever works.

“You shouldn’t actually drink that stuff, you’re an athlete.”

“It’s good luck for today.”

“What is it with you this weekend? Do you have family ties to India I don’t know about?”

It’s probably supposed to be a secret, but Fritz is practically vibrating with excitement. “My dad and I are meeting with Adam Stone today, after the race. If I do well? If I get a good start and defend against the Ferraro? I could be signing a Red Boar contract tonight!”

That wakes Henry up. He gathers Fritz into his arms and squeezes, lifting him off the ground. “I knew it! I knew that seat was yours. I’m so happy for you—you deserve it.”

Fritz laughs and kicks his feet out. “Put me down, I have not signed anything yet! Bitte, bitte, bitte!”

When Henry sets him down, they wheeze, smiling as they stare at each other. This isn’t just Fritz’s victory, it’s Henry’s too. They’re in this together—they accomplished this together.

I think we should stop what we’re doing.

And then the moment is gone. For a split second, Fritz’s heart hurts, but he swallows and looks somewhere over Henry’s shoulder.

He’s a professional. Strictly professional.

Fritz overtakes Thomas at the start, but the Ferraro is ahead of him again by the first straight. Still, even fifteen laps in, Fritz keeps up with him. He’s hanging around two seconds behind, in the dirty air, just waiting for any mistake that will allow him to steal fifth again.

A Mercenary has caught up to them, but Fritz is good enough to juggle both his defensive strategy and offense.

“Defend your inside at turn four,” Henry’s voice crackles in his ear.

There’s a hard jolt, and just a split second where Fritz can’t see the road anymore, before his car slams into a barrier.

“Repeat… … okay?”

“Yeah, I am fine,” Fritz answers. He definitely blacked out for a moment—he can tell by the piercing migraine. He also wants to vomit, which can’t be good.

“Fritz, please… need… you’re okay…”

“I am okay, I am just dizzy,” Fritz says louder, forcing the mic button down again. His eyes finally adjust enough to notice that his steering wheel is cracked all the way down the middle. The light flickers quickly, but the screen is unreadable.

“Fuck.” He tries pressing the button harder. “I am okay, I am okay,” he repeats, trying to get something through so his family doesn’t think he’s dead. “I am okay.”

Everything is dark and he feels gravity too strong in his face. He must be upside down. Not completely—he’s leaning a little more to his left—but enough to be uncomfortable.

There are people outside the car. They’re muffled like he’s been buried.

“If… hear … medi… way… wait… car…”

Of course he’ll wait in the car. There’s not much else he can do, to be honest. His helmet is strong, but his head’s already been injured enough without the weight his body dropping on it.

The hiss of fire extinguishers is always terrifying, but they quiet quickly, which is a relief.

“Are you alright?” someone calls.

“Yes!” Fritz answers as loud as he can. “Please tell my team I am okay, my mic is broken!”

“We’re going to flip the car back over.”

Even with the warning, when the car starts rocking, Fritz squawks in surprise. He braces himself but hisses when a pain in his left foot screams back at him.

Fuck.

They say you know when you’ve broken a bone. Well, Fritz knows—he’s broken a bone.

He’s temporarily blinded by daylight as the car rocks further. Once the car is settled back upright, the blood drains away from his face and back into the rest of his body.

The marshals rush to check on him while someone sprays the front of the car with the extinguisher again.

“I broke something in my foot,” Fritz shouts through the padding of his helmet. He passes his broken steering wheel to the first person he sees, and points to the basic area where his foot is.

“Can you stand up?”

Fritz tries, relying on his right leg, but yelps and sits back down. “Not without help.”

The halo makes for an awkward hold, but Fritz is pulled out of the car enough to get his legs up under him and sit on the edge of it. Once he’s able to, he swings himself around.

The medical team brings out a stretcher, but that’s just excessive and a little demoralizing.

Instead, Fritz opts to hang on to a marshal and hop his way over to the ambulance.

The crowd in the nearby stand roars all at once, and Fritz looks up to see himself hobbling on the broadcast screen. Hopefully it means his family will know he’s alright.

He attempts to wave, but it’s too hard to coordinate, so he focuses his efforts on hopping and hoping that he hasn’t just blown his chances of racing for Red Boar next season.

The doctor confirms it—Fritz broke a bone in his foot.

Acute metatarsal fracture, like it’s just a small inconvenience and not something that will take him out of racing for a minimum of six weeks.

There’s a long break coming up, but he’ll still miss several races because of it.

Dieter’s already there by the time the doctor tells him the news. Luckily, the performance coach can keep a cool head and be rational under pressure. Unfortunately, he brought Fritz’s father with him.

The older man takes the news even worse than his son does, grabbing his phone and stomping out of the room. Each heavy footfall seems pointed, considering how long it’ll be before Fritz can freely stomp around again.

“How was the rest of the race?” Fritz asks, ignoring his father’s tantrum.

“I have no idea.” Dieter shrugs. “I left as soon as I saw you hobbling. Wanted to be sure I was here for the information.”

“Thanks.” Fritz releases a shaky breath. No matter how much he rags on him, Dieter’s a pretty decent friend. “Could have left my dad at the paddock, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Dieter huffs a laugh. “I was just relieved to see you out—it looked really bad.”

“What actually happened?”

“I have a video if you—?”

They watch as the Mercenary catches his rear tire on the inside of the turn. Almost immediately, the car rolls over itself before slamming against the tire barriers. The whole thing is done in less than three seconds.

“Jesus.”

“They didn’t show it at first,” Dieter says, pocketing his phone again. “You just dropped down the list when the red flag popped up.”

“Yeah, they do that.” In case he dies.

“The entire garage was silent—it was terrifying. There’s usually a lot of noise in the headphones with everyone talking at once, but the feed was cut to focus on Henry calling out to you. Every time you didn’t answer, everyone thought the worst.”

“I did answer,” Fritz grumbles.

“I know.” Dieter musses up Fritz’s hair. It’s probably sweaty and disgusting, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m glad this is the worst of it. You live to race another day!”

“Even if that day might be weeks from now.”

The doctor pops back in to wrap his foot, and Fritz finally gets a look at it. It only looks bruised—albeit, a little more swollen than a regular bruise should be. Maybe they’re making a big fuss about nothing and it’ll heal sooner than expected.

Fritz is still wearing his race suit, the tight fireproofs clinging to his skin underneath. The area is swollen enough to be uncomfortable, and the cuff of the ankle strangles his foot. “You can cut the leg off.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Dieter chastises.

“The leg of the race suit.”

It’s not like Fritz will need it again any time soon.

When the cast is finished and the doctor excuses himself, Dieter whips out a marker and signs the front of it. “I’m the most famous person you know, after all.”

“Oh yeah? What have you done?”

“I trained a Formation 1 driver.” Dieter adds extra flourishes under his signature, taking up more space. “I made him eat vegetables and now his neck is enormous.”

The medical center gives Fritz crutches, but nurses wheel him to the front of the building while Dieter calls the team for a ride back to the paddock.

Fritz has no idea where his dad has run off to, but he can figure himself out.

The medical center is tucked away pretty well, but there’s a small group of fans and photographers outside who cheer once they see Fritz. Their phones and cameras raise at the same time.

The transition from wheelchair to crutches isn’t as bad as Fritz thought it would be, though he hates that he has an audience to watch him stumble with it.

Despite his dickishness, Dieter helps as best as he can, laying a bracing hand on Fritz’s back, just in case he slips.

It takes a few steps to understand the timing and when to lift, but Fritz figures it out by the time he reaches the crowd.

The fans all talk at him at once with the odd random happy screaming. It doesn’t help the migraine, but the general consensus is that everyone’s happy he’s okay.

Fritz signs a few items and leans over for selfies with people until the team car arrives. It takes some maneuvering to climb in, but he’s grateful when the sliding door of the van shuts out the noise.

“You’re a good person, Fritzy.” Dieter manages the crutches, shoving the long poles over the armrest and into the footwell of the seat in front of him. “Not every driver stops for fans. Breaking a bone is a pretty good excuse to be a little bit of an asshole.”

“Nah.” Fritz doesn’t need to mention that having any fans at all is still a new experience for him. “Besides, greeting fans is all I’ll be good for over the next six to eight weeks.”