Chapter 1 #3
Fritz is shocked frozen by the visual. Champagne-drenched clothes in a different lifetime. His arms bound in front of him, while Henry runs his fingers down his spine.
“That’s more like it.” Henry turns back to the screen, satisfied. How could he say something so cruel? Didn’t he know what effect he still had on his driver?
After only a few seconds, Henry whips his head back. “I didn’t mean—!” His mouth hangs open, his eyebrows further up his bald head than Fritz has ever seen them. “I'm so sorry, Fritz, I just meant—”
“Forget it.” Fritz isn’t fidgety anymore. All of the energy he’s ever had flees his body in one fell swoop, leaving nothing but a shell.
If Fritz wants to win, if he wants to keep working alongside Henry, he needs to stay professional.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s only whispered, but there's so much emotion buried behind it, Fritz's eye prickles. So much for his ego, for his attempt to always appear unaffected.
He shrugs it off, really casually, like they’re just some normal coworkers who haven’t seen each other’s cocks. Coworkers who don’t know how the other sounds when he comes, and certainly not how he tastes.
The graphs on the screen make much more sense when everyone races at the same time, but it also becomes harder to track each car. Henry talks the child through a couple of mid-level passes and showers him with praise like he’s God’s gift to racing.
It’s extra stupid because the kid loses time by not sticking to the race line, by braking before he needs to, by fucking hesitating before leaving the pits. He is definitely not an ‘amazing work’ type of driver.
Thankfully, Fritz’s headset doesn’t come with a microphone attachment.
Henry touches Fritz’s arm to get his attention, and then taps the screen. It’s a graph showing tire deg. He presses the microphone and says, “Watch your tires, especially the front left.”
A distorted “copy” comes through the ear piece.
Henry looks at Fritz pointedly. “You should say ‘copy’ more, so I know that you’ve heard me.”
“I am too busy being a good, fast driver to waste my time like that.” Fritz makes a note of it anyways.
Henry just snorts.
“If we are recommending comments, you should praise me more for doing the bare minimum.”
“Don’t be jealous, it’s his first time racing a Formation 1 car.”
Fritz scoffs. “I am not jea—”
“Shh, I’m engineering a race.” Henry smirks like an asshole and turns back to engross himself in data.
Fuck, it sucks how sexy he is. It’s not fair how effortless he makes it all look. How can he consume, digest, and spit out information like it’s nothing? How can he juggle the noise coming through the headphones with the information on the screens and the feedback from the kid?
It makes Fritz want to climb under the table and suck him off.
He’ll stay professional, but he really, really doesn’t want to.
The kid finishes the race P17. Not a bad result for people used to mediocrity. Still, Fritz congratulates him afterwards. A pat on the back and everything. At least, if Adam doesn’t want him after all of this, Fritz will definitely still have his job in VFIbr.
William seems to actually like the kid, which proves how bad he must be. Fritz isn’t the only driver benefitting from a show of how difficult the car is to run.
Red Boar won again, so Fritz waits next to his father for Adam’s call. It’ll probably be a while—the team principal is front and center on the broadcast, standing in the middle of the crowd waiting for the podium celebration.
“Whatever he offers, we need to take it,” his father says in hushed German. “There is no Mercenary deal. It’s Red Boar or you race in VFIbr again next year. You do not want to be stuck here.”
Well, maybe Fritz didn’t want to drive the VFIbr car, but looking around the garage, he doesn’t mind being here. Working with these people.
Oh God, he’s gotten soft.
“Yes, sir,” Fritz replies.
Hopefully he’ll be able to keep some of his dignity during the meeting. He doesn’t want to have to beg for the Red Boar seat.
His dad grasps onto a book of all of Fritz’s assets—his social accounts, his sponsorship deals, his merch sales for the year. Compared to last year, when he had exactly nothing to his name, Fritz has to admit it all looks rather impressive.
Henry’s words smack him in the face. If you want Red Boar to notice—
Of course he was right. When has Henry ever not been right?
The phone rings and the Müller men watch it for a couple of beats, waiting so they don't seem too eager. As if Adam didn’t already know he has the upper hand. When his father accepts the call, Fritz leans in closer and tries to listen.
“Alright. Yes, we can do that. Red Boar in five minutes. Yes.”
Fritz understands that his father is likely just trying to be accommodating, but he must’ve forgotten that it’s a sprint to get down the entire paddock in five minutes. Even with both legs.
“Run ahead,” Fritz tells his father. “I’ll catch up as fast as I can.”
The older man takes one look at his son’s penis-covered cast before bolting out of the garage. He’s more agile than Fritz would’ve expected.
When Fritz finally hobbles over to Red Boar, he's disappointed but not surprised. Of course the men wouldn’t wait around for him.
Every photographer and passing fan takes a picture of Fritz standing outside the Red Boar area, confused on what to do and where to go next.
It’s a miracle that Lucas finds him when he does. He’s still dripping champagne, and Fritz has some strange Pavlovian urge to lick it off.
That’s probably not a good idea.
“Adam’s office?” the reigning champion asks.
“Not a well-kept secret, I guess.”
Lucas nods his head over towards the garage and leads Fritz, slowly, through the turns. “Not really. But I asked for you, so it might still be a secret to some people.” He waves at a few navy-clad workers who watch Fritz with curiosity.
“You asked for me?”
“I didn’t want to give my seat to any asshole, you know?” Lucas explains. “I had high hopes for you last year, but yeesh. Not one point? Glad you figured that out.”
Fritz disappointed his hero. Super. “Why does it sound like you are the one making the decision, instead of Adam?”
“Because it’s written into my contract. When I retired, I wanted to have a say in who got my seat.” Lucas admits so with a shrug, like it’s not the most batshit thing Fritz has ever heard. “I’m one of the majority shareholders of the team—didn’t you know?”
Fritz shakes his head. “I do not pay attention to politics.”
Lucas laughs. “You really should. Try not to be too intimidated by Adam during negotiations—you’re already confirmed, so ask for things. Personally, I like flying private.”
Fritz scoffs. “I do not care how I get to the track as long as I am in a fast car.”
“Bigger hotel suites, fancy private chef… Go in there and ask for anything you want—within reason. The board can still fire me before my retirement, which would negate the contractual obligation, but they seem happy enough with you. Makes my job easier, anyways.”
He trots up a set of stairs and waits patiently at the top as Fritz tries to navigate his way to Adam’s temporary office.
Lucas opens the door and holds it. After Fritz stumbles inside, he calls out, “Take care of him, Adam” before leaving.
The men are glancing through the portfolio when Adam looks up and says, “This is all very impressive.”
“Thank you,” Fritz replies, falling into the empty seat without any grace.
“Your father and I were just discussing what you’d like in your contract. Most contracts outline fan appearances, sponsor obligations, simulator time. Do any of these things make you uncomfortable?”
“No, sir,” Fritz replies, dutifully. There is very little he wouldn’t suffer through for a top-level car. “I have something I want to add, though.”
Not a bigger seat on a plane or a bigger hotel room. If Fritz could ask for anything in the world, there’s only one thing he wants. His father burns a hole in the side of his skull, but Fritz looks only at Adam.
“Add?”
“I would like to retain Henry as my race engineer.”
Adam purses his lips, silent for a moment before replying, “I can’t promise I can make that happen.”
“Henry is in my contract, or I am not signing it.”
Confirmed. Fritz is confirmed. He has to repeat it in his head so he doesn’t back down.
“Can I speak to my son in private?” his father asks Adam.
“No, no, we don’t need to do that,” Fritz answers for him. If he’s alone with his father he’ll lose his nerve. “I want Henry in my contract.”
If Fritz could be included in Lucas’s contract, it’s not crazy to imagine another person can be attached to his. Besides, a race engineer's salary has to cost less than a private jet… right?
“What if he says no?” Adam leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I would never draw up a contract that could be voided because of a third party.”
“Offer him the job for every year I am a Red Boar driver. A contract for as much as—or more than—Lucas’s current race engineer makes. If he turns it down, I will accept a replacement.”
“And what will Gary do in the meantime? Work at VFIbr? He is our most senior race engineer.”
“Yes,” Fritz answers plainly. They are squandering talent, Sven had said. Well, maybe a Red Boar race engineer can help.
Adam is silent, so Fritz is silent. He trusts Lucas. Fritz doesn’t mind silence, and it definitely doesn’t intimidate him.
“Alright,” Adam says with a frustrated exhale. “But I’m knocking a million off your base salary.”
Fritz asks his father, “Is the base salary over one million?” He’s willing to do a lot for a good car, but he doesn’t work for free.
“He offered twelve,” his father replies. “Eleven now, thanks to your pet engineer.”
“You won’t be mad when I am winning races. There's bonuses there too.”
His father huffs in anger. Fritz is definitely getting a talking-to after this.
“I should learn German,” Adam says. “Frustrating as shit, Lucas does the same thing to me. Anything else?”
“How long is the contract for?”
“Two years to start.”
Fritz nods. It’s better than a single year—easier to prove himself. Look at the difference between his two years at VFIbr.
“If that is all, I’ll have the lawyers draw up a contract for you two to sign by next week.”
Fritz lets out a shaky exhale. It’s actually happening. He’s actually going to become a Red Boar driver. “And the contract for Henry?” He can feel himself push the limits of this conversation, but he needs to know.
“After the break.”
Fritz is okay with that. When he shoots upright to shake Adam’s hand, he only stumbles a little bit.
“You should watch the race with us next week. Meet the team, get to know them better.” Adam’s handshake is firm, and it feels like something is being carved in stone. “Welcome to Red Boar, Friedrich.”
By Mexico, Fritz hasn’t officially signed his contract yet, but Lucas still drags him around the garage and introduces him to his team.
Crutch-bound, Fritz can tell that he’s a bit of a nuisance, especially on race day, but Lucas is patient and his team seems used to his antics.
After about three introductions, the faces and names and jobs all blend together and Fritz can’t remember a thing. He’ll definitely need pictures to study again—maybe he can ask Henry to make another book.
That is, if he even wants to work with him.
There are almost twice as many people as he’s used to, and the garage is a flurry of activity. No one gives Fritz more than a passing glance as he’s introduced, but that’s fine. It’s better for them to stay focused on the race.
When the tour’s over, Lucas drops him off in the visitors’ area with a set of bystander headphones. Fritz has never felt so out of place in a garage before.
A celebrity he’s never heard of stands next to him and takes selfies with her headphones. She’s wearing an impractically short, tight dress, and a camera is parked on her for cut-away shots during the broadcast.
A couple of serious men in suits stand against the wall and talk low—they might be investors. Maybe mafia. Fritz doesn't know which he'd prefer.
Instead, he settles himself between the average-looking people donned in Red Boar apparel.
“Nice to meet you,” an older woman welcomes him in German. She has a bit of a northern accent.
“You too,” Fritz replies, though they haven’t exchanged names. It happens sometimes, since people know who he is, but it doesn’t make the exchange any less strange.
She inches closer and stares up, dissecting him. “You are very tall, especially for a driver. Skinny.”
Well, she is very short, especially for some old lady. Not skinny. “Ja.”
She tsks. “It’s the stupid weight restrictions. My Lucas is short, so he gets to eat, but it is not healthy to starve the young ones.”
My Lucas. Oh. Now that Fritz thinks about it, Lucas does have a bit of a twinge when he speaks German.
“You are Lucas’s mother?”
She nods. “I heard he has chosen you for his car. A nice German boy.”
Fritz isn’t usually described as nice, especially not by other drivers, but he’ll take the compliment when he can. “Yes, he’s a great man. One of my heroes, actually.”
She hums like it isn’t new information. Lucas is everyone’s hero, but especially the German kids. “That’ll be you one day.”
“I can only hope.”
Lucas starts on pole, like usual. Did he ever get tired of being first? Or did he still feel that rush, the thrill of the win, even after so many times?
Fritz hopes he'll get to find out.
The garage almost empties for the start of the race, and Fritz makes himself look busy by taking out his phone. He’s got two missed calls and several missed texts from Henry.
Fritz’s stomach drops when he opens the text thread.
Hey, where are you?