Fritz Müller
DRIVER, VFIbr
“This year is our year!”
Fritz's attention flutters away as the stranger rallies the audience, desperate to convince even one person to have hope in their mediocre team.
The only vent in the hangar strains as it pumps out cold air. All that work and it still can't overcome the sweltering heat of hundreds of employees crammed into a too-small space.
Everyone struggles at VFIbr. The vent isn’t special.
Fritz claps at the appropriate places, but his thoughts remain with the air conditioning.
Did electricity bills factor into the cost cap? Would the team be able to build a better car if the leadership hadn’t demanded stifling suits and ties for everyone in attendance tonight?
Prolonged silence catches his attention, and Fritz blinks, eyes darting around the stage to the amusement of the audience.
“That’s our Freddy!”
Not one lap into the new season and Fritz has already fallen back into the role of aloof, bratty driver. After he specifically told himself to try to pay more attention this year.
Craig, his harried team principal, motions for Fritz to stand closer to the mic and give some sort of inspirational speech to the awaiting troops. It’s only his second season, but the team should know better than to expect too much from him in that regard.
He doesn’t have a problem with public speaking, but he hates false positivity.
Especially in English.
Fritz ducks his head down to reach the mic. Why is everyone in this country so short?
“It would be hard for us to be worse than last year,” he says, finally.
There are few scattered chuckles, but the general mood sours as murmurs spread throughout the crowd.
What else is he supposed to say? VFIbr made a whopping two points last season.
“Nowhere to go but up!” Craig cuts Fritz off, yanking the microphone stand out from under him.
Investors must be in the building. That, or the team is broadcasting this farce live to their fans. All three of them.
“Now, we have some very exciting personnel changes to announce. We were all sad to see Mauricio go—”
Fritz wasn’t. He couldn’t understand a word the man said. Clear communication is a pretty basic requirement for anyone hired to be his race engineer.
“—but I am so pleased to introduce… Henry!”
Scattered applause welcomes a bald, stocky man who scurries up the side stairs and across the stage.
He’s attractive, Fritz admits, shamelessly sizing him up. Sharp eyes, tan. He’s younger than race engineers usually are, thirties instead of forties. A hint of muscle stretches the sleeve of his suit when he reaches out to hold onto the microphone stand.
Nice to look at, but if Fritz can’t understand him, he’ll be subjected to another year of avoidable penalties and misunderstanding strategies.
“Thank you for the introduction, Craig. Hello, everyone!”
Henry gives another uplifting speech, but his version is much more technical. Fritz has never seen the man before, but he has obviously been busy in the background, learning everything he can about the capabilities of the new build.
His breakdown is thorough enough to convince even Fritz that this year's VFIbr might have a chance of escaping last place in the Constructors Championship.
Might.
The driver closes his eyes and tries to imagine dissecting each word at top speed over radio static. So far, so good.
When speeches finally wrap up, the crowd is encouraged to mingle. Fritz wouldn’t mind—he has an innate ability to disappear from these things for hours—but he’s assigned a PR chaperone. The woman bounces in place, just itching to jump into every conversation and shut him up.
“Friedrich!” Some hoity-toity man beckons him forward and Fritz drags his feet as he complies. “You won the Formation 2 Championship, did you not?”
“I did,” Fritz replies dutifully. “Also Form 3. Back-to-back years.”
“Fantastic.” The man holds his head higher, like he had anything to do with it. “VFIbr is lucky to have such a strong driver.”
Another fancy man butts in. “But you didn’t make a single point in your debut year? That has to be frustrating.”
“It is.” Frustrating isn’t a strong enough word. “I hope you will give us money to make a better car, since it is clear I am not the problem.”
The PR chaperone barks out a laugh and pushes him away from the men. “Oh Freddy… He’s just so funny.”
“I did not make a joke.” Fritz tries to bat off her hand, but she’s stronger than she looks. His attention is still on the sponsors who can change the car, when he missteps and stumbles backwards, bumping into a hard body.
Muscular arms steady him, standing him upright. “Careful, that’s my driver you’re tossing about.”
My driver?
“Henry!” The PR lady sounds relieved, her burden halved. “Can you watch Freddy? I need to do some quick damage control.”
“I do not need to be watched,” Fritz insists at the same time Henry replies, “Sure thing.”
They stare at each other in silence before Henry asks, “Do you prefer Friedrich or Freddy?”
“Do not call me Freddy.” The only thing worse than his team principal using the horrid name, is if his race engineer did. “Friedrich will do.”
“‘Will do’? Is there another option you’d prefer?”
“Most people call me Fritz.” Well, most of the people he likes. He’s not sure where he stands with Henry.
“Fritz.” Henry looks surprised. “I haven’t heard anyone call you that.”
“Then you should meet more people.” Fritz gestures to the room. “Go, mingle. I will mingle as well. We can compare notes.”
There’s an empty office on the third floor he can’t ignore any longer. Without his handler, he might be able to slip away.
“Actually, I was hoping to meet with you tonight.” Henry grips the crossbody strap of a brown leather bag he didn’t have earlier. “If you’re done here, we can find somewhere to talk?”
Well, it isn’t solitude, but it’s better than telling pretty lies to investors. “Fine. I know a room.”
His secret room has glass walls, so Fritz has never needed to flip the lights on. During parties, he likes to sit in the darkest corner, watch the clock on the wall tick by, and hope nobody finds him until after his contractual obligations are fulfilled.
Henry finds the switch, illuminating the room in terribly green fluorescent light. “You looked like you’d rather be anywhere but there.”
“Affirm.” Fritz plops down into a rolling chair at one end of the table. “I only want to race. This is the bad part.”
“And when you aren’t racing?” Henry settles himself at the head of the table, pointedly close to Fritz, despite the length of the room. From his bag, he retrieves a notebook and flips to a free page. “What do you do in your free time?”
“Simulator.”
Henry jots it down. “So you like simulator runs?”
“No more than the real thing, but much more than these stupid events.”
“These ‘stupid events’ are good for introducing yourself to sponsors.” Henry writes more notes, though he’s the one talking. “It can benefit you to get friendly with the people who spend the money. There are drivers whose entire careers are secure because they met the right person.”
“I let my driving do the talking.” Fritz won’t bend over for some investment banker who doesn’t give two shits about the sport.
“Your driving isn’t saying a lot at the moment.”
So much for liking his new race engineer. “I won the Formation 2 and 3 championships.”
“And made zero points on debut.” Henry finally sets his pencil down and looks up. “This sport has a short memory. Money talks.”
They’ve only just introduced themselves, but Fritz has heard enough. “This was…” He doesn’t like to lie. “I am leaving now.”
“You’re right, we should return to the party.” Henry packs up his little satchel, much to Fritz’s frustration.
There goes his plan to find another empty office. “You should keep writing in your little book.”
“I’d like for you to introduce me to your team,” Henry says, standing up. His hands find the bag strap again and hang there.
“My team?” Every person in the entire building is either employed by or investing in VFIbr. It’s not like they have Ferraro mechanics banging on the door, desperate to break into the too-hot factory and steal their secrets.
“Your engineers, mechanics, marketing—everyone on Team 34’s side of the garage.”
“Right.”
As they descend the stairs, Fritz searches the crowd. He recognizes the odd familiar face, but it’s been months since he’s seen his team and he can’t exactly place who they are. If Fritz doesn’t remember what anyone does, he certainly doesn’t know their name.
At the bottom of the stairs, Henry turns to Fritz expectedly. “Well?”
“Money talks,” Fritz replies. “I will speak to the people with money since they are here. You give me good advice so I use it.”
“Sure.” Henry’s lip pulls up with a hint of a smirk. “I’ll schedule some office hours with you this week, so make a list of requests. Anything you like in a race engineer—feedback preferences, pronunciations, anything—and I’ll try my best to accommodate.”
“Ich mochte dass du Deutsch sprichst.” If only more people spoke German. Life would be so much easier.
“Unfortunately for you, all radio communications must be in English. I tried to learn a little Deutsch, but I can’t promise to pronounce anything correctly. Danke?”
Fritz corrects him. “Danke.”
“Bitte?”
“Bitte.”
“That sounds exactly the same to me… How about guter Junge?”
Good boy.
On instinct, Fritz’s face flames. Obviously the Englishman has no idea what he’s saying. “There will be no reason to use that one.”
A dark look flashes across Henry’s face, something that could be mistaken as unprofessional.
“We’ll see.”