Page 47 of Dirty Air

When the waitress leaves, Fritz asks, “Should my father be here for this?”

Sven takes his time—unfolding his napkin and placing it delicately in his lap—before he answers, “No need for managerial talk. I just wanted to have a conversation. Hate eating alone.”

“Right.” Fritz relaxes, even in his disappointment. It’s silly of him to think this could’ve been something more.

“Have you given any thought about what you'd like to do next year?”

“Um…” Like, in Formation 1? Or outside of it? Is he asking about Fritz’s vacation plans?

Sven must sense his confusion. “Yes, I am asking about teams. Are you loyal to the Red Boar ladder? Or are you, perhaps, keeping your options open?”

The waitress returns with their drinks, and Fritz uses the excuse to chug half his water and calm himself down. It might only be a breakfast-appropriate talking point, but this sounds like one of those casual conversations that can make or break a driver’s career.

Fuck, he’s so glad he’s not hung over.

Sven pours him a mimosa from the large pitcher, casual as ever, as he waits for a reply.

“I am not loyal,” Fritz says, carefully. “Not to Red Boar.”

“Excellent.”

“But I am still signed with VFIBR for next year.”

“Red Boar might make a fuss, but we’ve bought drivers out of contracts before.” Sven takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Try it, it’s very good.”

Fritz does, but not because he was told to. Oh, it is very good. He tries to think of anything but drinking it off of Henry’s body.

He fails.

Champagne, sweat, cock, shower, cum.Fuck, don’t get hard in front of Sven Behringer.

“Red Boar doesn’t believe in VFIBR. It’s such a shame, too, because they’re squandering talent. How are you supposed to compete with the top of the field if you aren’t working with the budget—with theworkforce—of a top company?”

He pauses like he’s waitingfor an answer.

“I cannot?”

Sven nods. “You just can’t. At Mercenary, we can guarantee you a competitive car—something you haven’t had since Form 2.”

The food arrives, and Fritz downs his flute, suddenly parched.

Mercenary. Fritz has been in the Red Boar junior program for so long, he hadn’t considered it. When he sees himself winning, he always imagines himself wearing navy.

But Fritz looks good in black too.

Sven smiles as he pours him another drink and tops off his own. “A toast?”

Fritz automatically raises his glass, though it seems like a silly thing to do during breakfast.

“To the first ever VFIBR race winner.”

They clink, and Fritz takes a cautious sip. He has a terrible feeling that they’re being watched.

“Oh, I can’t forget.” Sven chuckles, but it sounds calculating somehow. “There’s also the most obvious reason you’d be such a good fit at Mercenary.”

The team principal takes a bite of his steak, chewing slowly, just waiting for Fritz to take the bait.

“Obvious?” He does.