Chapter 1 #2
“Like this isn’t a perfect opportunity to try new upper body and mobility exercises.” Dieter scoffs. “We’ll keep an eye on your progress, but the fracture looked very minimal. We’ll see what a German doctor says in four weeks.”
God, Fritz loves Dieter.
Media swarms them as soon as they’re back in the paddock.
“Let him breathe!” Dieter commands as he pushes back some of the more aggressive reporters.
“Do you think your injury could put a dent in your negotiations with Red Boar and Mercenary?”
Well, considering Fritz’s father received a text from Adam delaying their meeting to some undefined later date, it’s very likely.
When Fritz stops hobbling, microphones are immediately shoved in his face. “I wanted to show both teams what I could do this weekend. I am disappointed that this is how it ended, but accidents happen. It is a dangerous sport, and now I am going to focus on recovery.”
“What does recovery look like for you?”
“My doctor prescribed bratwurst, hamburgers, and schnitzel, so these will be my first priority.”
Dieter scoffs. “He’ll be training his upper body.”
“With schnitzel.”
Fritz stumbles his way to the VFIbr garage and sends Dieter into his driver’s room to collect his personal things. He doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, but when they’re spotted, they’re greeted with a round of applause and far too much hugging and back-patting for someone new to crutches.
A mechanic hoists Fritz up onto a counter, so everyone can take turns signing his cast without him falling over. As soon as the first dick is drawn, the rest of the free space is covered with them.
“Now no one will publish photos of it,” someone reasons, like they’re doing him a favor.
Fritz lifts his head for a dramatic eye roll and accidentally catches Henry’s eye.
For a moment, time stops. Overlapping voices fade to the background as Fritz flashes back to the crash site. The fear in Henry’s voice. The desperation from both sides to communicate across their disconnected radios—to let the other know everything will be alright.
Henry’s eyes break the connection, flicking down to Fritz’s cast. He frowns and the moment is gone, just as quickly as it started.
It’s strange not to say anything, so Fritz waves. The mechanics who were in the middle of talking to him turn, noticing Henry for the first time.
“I’ve never heard Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected freak out like that before.”
Henry huffs. “I will not apologize for thinking the worst. You saw the car.”
Elias likes to tease, so he pushes, “Well, he kept pressing the mic button, so he definitely wasn’t dead.”
“Yeah, well…” Even when he looks away, Henry is notably red in the cheeks. “Anything could have happened.”
Butterflies flutter in Fritz’s stomach as he chastises, “Do not pick on Henry.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy turns back to Fritz and pats his knee. “We’re all glad you’re okay, pretty boy. We’re gonna go egg Mercenary later, if you wanna come.”
Fritz laughs, pointing to his wrapped foot. “You just want me to get caught!”
It was a lot easier to lift Fritz onto the counter than it is to get him down. By the time he’s stable enough to stand, most of the guys have returned to what they were doing. Henry’s still there, still waiting.
“I just wanted to apologize in person.”
“For… what?” Fritz looks around. Dieter is still well within listening distance. So are some of the other guys, if they strain hard enough.
Henry isn’t stupid enough to talk about their relationship out in the open, right?
“For the directive,” Henry says. “The late note about the inside corner. If I had warned you earlier, you might not have crashed. It’s my responsibility—”
“Henry,” Fritz interrupts. “The crash was not your fault. I saw the footage—I don’t think I could have avoided it.”
“Still, I should’ve done better.” Henry looks down at Fritz’s penis-decorated foot cast. “How long are you out for?”
“The next two races, definitely.” Hopefully that’s all.
Though he’s obviously not in their conversation, Dieter still chimes in. “We’ll reassess during the break. You’ll have your boy back in the car in no time.”
Fritz can’t imagine what face he’s making. He isn’t Henry’s boy. He hasn’t been since Hungary.
“I’ll save you a seat on the pit wall,” Henry tells Fritz. “You’ll be able to see what I see and hear what I hear for a couple of races. Maybe it’ll help somehow?”
It beats twiddling his thumbs. “Yeah, I would like that.”
Despite his very, very bad broken bone injury, in Austin, Fritz is still expected to do everything he’d usually do during a race weekend. Meetings, interviews, training, marketing, more interviews—everything but drive.
It’s hell.
The only thing he has to look forward to is the meeting Adam rescheduled for after the race.
The VFIbr reserve driver is fine. He’s some fresh-faced Form 2 driver who is too-excited to show the world what he can do in a Form 1 car. Fritz gives him pointers between meetings and, in exchange, the kid opens doors for him and pulls out his chair.
Fritz remembers his own Formation 2 car well enough to prepare him for the difference. The VFIbr is faster, obviously, but also more sensitive. He tries to describe the difference in braking—to trust the brakes even when it feels like he’s going to fly off the road.
Whenever Fritz mentions brakes, the child pointedly looks down at his broken foot before nodding.
The kid has been sim racing and testing Form 1 cars since he was hired, so he’ll be fine even without guidance.
Still, since people tend to leave Fritz alone when they see the two of them huddled together, Fritz comes up with any excuse to stay close—even if he’s just describing what he ate that morning.
There’s a fear, buried deep inside of him, that the new kid will show up and blow everyone away, but it quiets after watching his practice runs. He barely qualifies nineteenth, and Fritz thinks even that is impressive for how poorly he drove.
That Sobber in last place must be terrible.
“You’re fidgeting.” Henry stills Fritz’s tapping hand. “Are you nervous for him?”
“I am more nervous about my car.” And Fritz is restless. It’s hard to follow through the motions of a race weekend without actually driving.
Fritz pulls his hands into his lap, but the energy travels through his body and down to his right leg, which bounces up and down on the stool’s footrest.
There’s much more chatter on the radio that he usually doesn’t hear. Sitting next to Henry, it’s a surprise that the race engineer is so quiet for almost the entire qualifying session—especially compared to the strategy engineer and mechanics. Even Craig chimes in more often than Henry does.
After the mechanics wheel the kid back into the garage, Henry pulls his headset down around his neck and asks, “So, what did you think?”
“Overwhelming,” Fritz answers immediately. “Horrible, if I am honest. How can you listen to everyone and sort through it all? Not to mention the graphs.”
Henry’s face falls. “I thought you’d like to see how we analyze information in real time. You always seem interested after the fact.”
“Sure, but—” Fritz gestures to the entire computer panel. “I cannot believe I thought you talked a lot. This is so much I could not keep up.”
“You think I talk a lot?” Of course that’s the part he focuses on.
“You are the only voice I hear for the whole race. Compared to me, yes. You talk a lot.”
Henry huffs. “You want a lot of information that I can't give to you without speaking. Maybe you talk too little.”
“I am too busy racing to chit chat. Besides, it sounds like you have enough going on.”
He doesn’t care about William’s Q2 laps, so Fritz picks up his crutches and hobbles across pit lane to check on his car the kid.
“How did it go?” Fritz knows how it went. P19 isn’t great, even for a new driver.
“You won a race? In that car?!” The kid points to it, as if anyone could be confused about which car he’s referring to. “That car right there?”
“Well, Theseus’s ship.”
“What?”
“I crashed the race winning car last week. You have a car with all new parts—we are just calling this my car.”
The kid will inherit his ten-place grid penalty to prove it, too, since they had to replace so much.
“Unbelievable.”
It’s a little silly that a Form 2 driver thinks Fritz's car isn’t up to his standards, but Fritz catches himself on the broadcasting screen. He makes sure to smile a little, to show any team principals that may be watching that he is a good sport, even to ungrateful children.
Sunday is excruciating. Fritz’s stupid body has so much race day adrenaline with no means to release it.
He avoids most of the reporters by venturing out to fan sections and taking pictures and signing things. Unfortunately, his mobility issues make him an easy target for mobs, and Priya ends up dragging him back to the paddock anyways.
Since Fritz is desperate for something to do, it’s early Christmas for the social media team.
Madison and Arvid follow Fritz through the garage as he hobbles around and explains what everyone’s job is. He rates their penis drawing abilities as well, but those parts will probably be cut out of the video.
Fritz tries various flavors of different sponsors, though his feedback might be too honest to post. They ask him a lot of ‘this or that’ questions that he might’ve ruined by saying “there are positives and negatives to both” too often.
They dress him up in various holiday outfits, though some of the holidays have already passed and the rest are months away.
When it’s finally time for the pre-race meeting, Fritz is all too grateful. He hastily swings himself into the meeting room before anyone else arrives.
Fritz watches the race with Henry again. Even with the amount of things he’s done for social media, he’s still shaking with pre-race energy.
“Did you have a red boar?” Henry asks, eyeing Fritz’s limbs.
“I cannot convince my body that we are not racing today.”
“If you don’t sit still, I have half a mind to tie you up.”