Glad you’re okay. - Henry
Your seat’s getting cold.
Nobody’s seen you all day. Are you okay?
Sorry, ignore the calls. Just saw you on tv. Have fun over at Red Boar!
Fuck.
It’s fine. Fritz is an adult, he’s allowed to watch the race from wherever he wants.
Fuck—no. He fucked up. He should’ve told his team he would be over at Red Boar today. They shouldn’t have to find out from the broadcast.
Fritz immediately redials, but cancels the call when he thinks better of it and texts.
I am so sorry.
Adam invited me to watch from this garage.
I will be cheering for VFIbr in secret.
Henry’s out with the rest of the VFIbr crew on the track, helping the kid get situated before the race. Still, Fritz stares at his phone, hoping for a response. Hoping for something that will absolve him.
Glad you’re okay. - Henry
Why does it hurt so much?
Fritz hasn’t watched a race from his own garage, but it’s intimidating to be on the sidelines at Red Boar. There are frustrated shouts of “COME ON!” when Lucas is overtaken, and simple “There you go”s when Lucas regains his position.
Any time Fritz passes someone in a VFIbr, a band of divine light illuminates his garage and a choir of angels sings.
Red Boar is a high-pressure, high-intensity environment—but that’s expected for a top field team. They’re not fucking around, they’re winning championship titles. And Fritz will be expected to perform as such.
It’s a rush when Lucas’s team pulls a sudden surprise pit stop, forcing every other driver to adjust their strategy. He pops out of the pitlane behind William in the VFIbr and, even on new tires that haven’t completely warmed yet, Lucas still has the engine strength and know-how to power past him.
Lucas overtakes the rest of the midfield like he’s conducting a symphony. He glides between the other drivers, half of whom don’t even defend when they see the Red Boar gaining in their mirrors. It’s not worth the tire deg to fight a losing battle.
Fritz tries to pay attention to Lucas’s race engineer, to hear what Lucas is hearing, but all it does is make his phone burn hotter in his pocket.
Is it presumptuous to think Henry would still want to race with him? Would Henry be willing to change teams—to upend his entire life again—to continue racing with Fritz? Or did Fritz’s unrequited crush make for the most embarrassing contract clause in existence?
Would Fritz have to relive the same rejection year after year?
Lucas wins by just over twelve seconds, and his mother invites Fritz to stand at the receiving line with her.
He gestures to his cast. “You go ahead, I’ll watch it on TV.”
The kid was lapped, so his placement is set in stone. P16. Not bad for a beginner. It was about Fritz’s average his rookie year.
Henry would probably prefer him—someone bright eyed, eager to win, and happy-go-lucky. He has a long way to go, but Henry could get him there. He managed to work with Fritz, after all.
Is Fritz making a mistake? Is he just some rookie with a good team getting shoved up the ranks faster than he can handle?
Red Boar isn’t his home, it’s a win-hungry cult that takes even Lucas’s level of talent for granted.
The only reason anyone is interested in Fritz is because of the British GP win, but Henry orchestrated that. If Fritz had his way, he would’ve boxed far before the red flag. He would’ve been lucky to finish in the points.
Fritz doesn’t deserve Lucas’s seat—it’s too big of a role to fill. Too big for some other German driver to just waltz in and claim. Too big for some inexperienced, stupid, big-headed—
Thankfully, the garage is empty. Everyone else is too busy celebrating to notice him. Fritz shoves himself against a corner. Hiding away, behind a mound of equipment, he calls Dieter.
“Hello?”
“I cannot do it,” he breathes out.
“Fritz?” That’s not Dieter’s voice. “Are you okay? What can’t you do?”
Fritz looks at his phone screen to confirm, but of course it’s Henry. He forgot about the missed calls at the beginning of the race—he’d just redialed his most recent contact. But once he starts, he can’t stop talking.
“Red Boar. It is too much, too big. They expect to win every single time. I have only won one race, and even that was a fluke! Everyone here will hate me if I sign, I cannot do it.”
There’s a clatter in the background of the other line, and Henry doesn’t fully cover the phone’s microphone when he says, “Go without me. Family emergency.”
“I am sorry.” Of course, Fritz must be interrupting the after-race engineer meeting, “I did not mean to call, but I panicked.”
“No, no. It’s okay, I understand,” Henry says in a hurry. “I felt the same way at Ferraro. Like I was being stared at by a thousand people who expected perfection. Like they hoped I would fuck up, so they could take my place.”
“Ja!” Fritz gasps. “Yes, just like that.”
“But you’re different, Fritz.”
Goosebumps break out along his skin as the driver swallows.
“I see it, Adam sees it, your millions of followers see it. You can’t accurately compare yourself to the top field drivers when all you’ve ever driven is a VFIbr. Even if you do—remember that this team has never won a race before. Ever. Even when Lucas was here.”
Fritz scoffs. “Lucas never drove with VFIbr.”
“He did. All Red Boar drivers start in their sister team.” There’s a tapping sound, an eraser keeping time against that silly notebook. “It was called Boarro Rosso or Racing Boars or something else at the time, but he was definitely still in this garage.”
Fritz wipes at his eye. He didn’t even realize it was wet. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I’m sure he had a hero he didn’t think he’d be able to replace either. It’s okay to feel this way, but don’t pass up an opportunity to drive a better car just because you don’t have equitable data.”
Fritz snorts, perking up. “Of course you would mention data.”
“It’s what I do best. Like how you drive best. Don’t count yourself out—you’ll need that confidence when you suit up again.”
Fritz sniffs and takes a deep breath. “Thank you for this.”
“Anytime.” Henry sounds almost fond. “Though, I guess this will be someone else’s job next year.”
“Yeah.” Fritz tries his best not to sound too disappointed. “I guess.”
It’s already a well circulated rumor, but the confirmation that Fritz will take Lucas’s seat next year hits the second day of the break.
He receives a barrage of messages and congratulations, but he’s too distracted by Dieter’s horrible physical therapy plan to pay them any mind.
After only four weeks, Fritz finally gets his cast removed. It only gives him a week and a half of break to train his foot again, but both the doctor and Dieter seem confident in his ability to get back in the car.
“If it was a contact sport, I’d advise against it. But since you are only racing, and because it’s your left foot instead of your pedal foot—”
Fritz doesn’t know where to begin. He whips his phone out of his pocket, determined to show the doctor exactly which crash he hobbled away from, before Dieter gathers him up, thanks the doctor, and hurries them out the door.
“You should have let me show him.” Even without the cast, Fritz still has to use the crutches until he can safely walk again. His foot is both strangely lightweight and a lot colder now.
“It’s my job to make sure you leave with medical clearance. Do you know how many offices I had to call to find someone who doesn’t watch Formation 1? Or know who you are? Your ego is not worth more than your ability to race, right?”
Fritz grumbles an affirmative as he reluctantly climbs into the passenger’s side of Dieter’s car. When he's better, Fritz will gift his trainer an entire day of driving lessons. The first several hours will be about how to stay on the road.
He won’t mention it until he’s back on his feet and able to run away.
Fritz’s first time walking through the paddock after the break is a shock, even compared to his race win. Photographers gather in bulk, their cameras all pointed towards him. The sound of their shutters all snapping at once is like a gnat flying too close to his ear.
They’re probably just happy he’s no longer hefting around the penis-covered cast.
Fans and collectors seem drawn to him in bigger waves, some of them already forcing Red Boar merch forward. Fritz tries to sign as much as he can, grateful to have access to both of his hands again.
He’s greeted by both Red Boar and VFIbr employees, though he doesn’t have any clue who the Red Boar ones are.
The weirdest part, though, is this feeling that the other drivers are looking at him. Both midfield and top drivers—people who never bothered to notice or care about him before—seem to be sizing him up.
“Because you’ll be their competition next year,” Henry concludes as they work during their traditional strategy lunch.
“But they did not care after I won.”
“You’re still just in a VFIbr. Next year you’re going to be consistent competition.”
“Blaming the car?” Fritz tuts. “What happened to ‘I will not work with you unless you try to win every race’?”
“I’m optimistic only when it benefits me,” Henry replies, simply. “But, realistically speaking, you aren’t much of a threat to the front in a VFIbr. Not in the way you will be next year.”
There’s an uncomfortable amount of ‘you’s in this conversation. Not a lot of ‘we’s. “Have you talked to Adam Stone?”
“No?” Henry cuts into his chicken breast. What’s the point of eating with someone who chooses a driver-appropriate meal? “Should I? Want me to give your new race engineer some pointers?”
Fritz’s face flames. Henry probably isn’t talking about anything sexual, but the longer he’s silent, the more awkward it feels. “No, I was just wondering.”
At least Henry hadn’t turned the job down yet. That has to be a positive. Still, if it takes any longer, Fritz feels like he might go insane with it.
He buries himself in the track conditions report and tries not to wonder what Henry will decide when the choice is presented to him.
Fritz is out in Q1. P16.