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Simultaneously everything and nothing had changed. Now the world knew that Fabio was an omega but there he was still doing his routine: taking his hormone balancing shot and taping his chest. Occasionally he would wear scent blocking patches for his own comfort but not feeling the full need with his secret now being out and no longer concealing the mark that identified him as an omega.
Theoretically he should no longer be taping his chest, especially while riding, and not taking the unnecessary hormone shot but when he tried to skip these steps he didn’t feel like himself. It gave him a feeling that made him want to crawl out of his skin making him so viscerally uncomfortable. He couldn’t properly explain the feeling to anyone.
Due to the sudden new information of his actual dynamic, he was being forced to have a new in depth check-up before the start of the MotoGP season separate from the standard physical done beforehand.
Fabio was trying his hardest to ignore the anxious feeling creeping back up on him. What if they asked him questions he didn’t know the answer to due to his lack of knowledge of his own freaking dynamic? What if they forced him to stop his shot and his taping? The only things he still held onto because they made him feel like himself.
Fabio didn’t think he would ever be ready but the appointment crept up on him, obscured by the thought of going racing again.
The clinic appointment loomed. He could almost feel the sterile, cold air of the room, the unspoken judgment from the doctors and staff. The questions they would ask, their clinical detachment as they examined every detail of his body. Fabio knew it was necessary, but the thought of being seen in that way, truly seen, made him feel small. More exposed than he was while racing.
He absentmindedly brushed his finger over the mark on his wrist. The diagnosis, the labels, the need to fit into a mold that wasn’t truly his—it was all so much more than the intense racing on track.
He regretted not going home to his parents over the break but he just couldn’t face his father and see his reaction to Fabio breaking the one rule he had set.
He restlessly fell asleep, his prior thoughts still swarming in his head ahead of his appointment the next day.
He got up slowly, as if he could delay the inevitable. The familiar rituals still felt like a comfort even though they were reminders of the layers he still hid behind. He grabbed his hormone shot from his bag and injected himself, his movements mechanical. His hand lingered for a moment afterward. He was back in the rhythm—taping his chest. The adhesive felt too tight this time, like it was suffocating him. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. It was the only thing that kept him from feeling completely untethered. His body, his identity, everything was in flux.
After dressing, Fabio stood in front of the mirror, his eyes tracing every part of his body hidden by his baggy clothes as anxiety gnawed at him.
The doctors had a job to do, but Fabio couldn’t help but imagine them asking intrusive questions. What if they pushed him to stop his hormone shots or insisted that he couldn’t race with the taping anymore? His stomach churned just thinking about it.
When he finally arrived at the clinic, the place looked exactly as he had imagined—sterile, clinical, and a little too quiet. The receptionist greeted him with a polite smile, asking him to sit down in the waiting area. The air felt thick, every tick of the clock amplifying the tension in the room. Fabio kept his head down, trying to ignore the soft murmurs of other patients. His nerves were bubbling over, and every little sound felt like it was piercing him.
He knew the doctor he was going to specifically dealt with MotoGP riders so she should be in theory more understanding of his situation but he couldn’t help but worry.
He was led back to a room where he was directed to sit at while he waited for the doctors. Invasive equipment surrounded him, allowing his nerves creep up.
The door opened again and one doctor entered. She was a woman in her forties, her expression calm and professional. She introduced herself, but Fabio barely registered their names. All he could focus on was the fact that he had no control over the situation now.
The doctor, Dr. Bianchi, sat down across from him, her gaze steady but kind. "We’re here to make sure everything is in order for the season ahead," she said in a soothing voice. "We’ll be doing a few checks based on your omega status. Just a precautionary measure, nothing to worry about."
Fabio nodded stiffly, but his stomach twisted. He had no idea what they meant by ‘precautionary measure.’ He knew what it was like to be a rider in the public eye, constantly under scrutiny, but now, the pressure felt different. This wasn’t just about racing anymore- it was about him, his body, his identity.
She started to go over some basic questions. "Have you been taking any medication we should know about?” he asked, his pen poised over his notepad.
“Ah yes just a hormone balancing shot once a month,” Fabio could hear the wobble in his own voice.
Dr. Bianchi asked, “Could you please take your hoodie off for me?”
Fabio reluctantly agreed, bracing himself for a reaction to his taped chest.
She hummed, “And the chest taping?" Dr. Moretti asked next, her eyes soft but watchful. Fabio could feel the tension building inside him, the question he had been dreading.
He cleared his throat. "I still tape it. It’s-" He stopped himself, unsure how to explain why it was necessary. Why it felt essential even though, theoretically, it wasn’t anymore.
Dr. Bianchi’s gaze softened, and she nodded understandingly. "I’m sure it’s a personal choice, Fabio. But we do need to make sure that you’re not experiencing any physical strain or harm from it. That’s all. There’s no judgment here."
Removing the tape, he was glad he chose to wear a hoodie because there was no way he was properly putting it back on before leaving.
She felt around and asked him a few more questions before ending with, “Now please tell me you aren’t racing like this.”
Fabio nervously chuckled, “I have been.”
Dr. Bianchi gave him a disappoint look, “Look Fabio, I know taping your chest is a personal choice. However, I cannot in good conscious let you race while like that. It is unsafe while exercising and that means riding.”
Fabio’s heart sank as the words hit him, sharp and unyielding. Unsafe while exercising. His mind scrambled, trying to latch onto something, anything, that could help him explain why he had to keep taping his chest, why it was the only way he felt comfortable. But the words caught in his throat, and all he could do was stare at Dr. Bianchi, waiting for her to say something that would make it all feel less real.
She sighed softly, her expression serious but not unkind. “Fabio, I understand that you’ve been through a lot, and I know that this is a very personal matter. But as your doctor, I cannot allow you to race with that kind of restriction on your body. The tape might cause more harm than good over time, especially with the high-impact nature of MotoGP racing. We need to figure out an alternative that will work for you and your health.”
He could feel the pit in his stomach deepen, the rush of panic rising like bile in his throat. Alternative? What did she mean by that? He couldn’t just stop. He couldn’t-he didn’t feel like himself without the tape, the shot, the routine that had been drilled into him for years. His identity felt too fragile to let go of anything right now.
“I… I don’t know what else to do,” Fabio mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt like he was on the edge of something, a precipice where everything he had built his life around might come crashing down.
Dr. Bianchi leaned forward, her tone gentle but firm. “I’m not asking you to change everything overnight, Fabio. I just need you to understand that your body deserves care, too. If there’s a physical reason you feel the need for the tape, we can explore options. But you can’t keep using something that could hurt you long term. We’ll work together to find something that fits. There are other methods, other solutions.”
Fabio shook his head, trying to hold onto his composure. “But I need it. I can’t- without it, I…” He trailed off, unable to articulate the sensation that gnawed at him, the unease that gripped his chest whenever he thought of not taping himself.
“I know it’s difficult,” Dr. Bianchi said, her voice calm and reassuring. “I really do. But this isn’t just about your racing career, Fabio. It’s about your health in the long run. We’ll take it step by step. I’m here to help you with that.”
He nodded, though every instinct in him screamed to run, to retreat into the comfort of his old routines. But he couldn’t ignore the truth of what she was saying. His body, his health, had to come first, even if it meant stepping into the unknown.
“Okay,” he finally managed, his voice tight. “I’ll try.”
Dr. Bianchi smiled softly. “Good. That’s all I’m asking for right now. We’ll figure it out.”
The check-up continued with basic physical tests, measurements, and blood work. The time passed slowly, each second stretching longer than the last. She continued asking him more questions about his hormone shots and overall well-being. He tried to focus on what she was saying, but the words felt distant, as though he were listening through a fog.
When the check-up was finally over, Fabio stood, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. He had agreed to let go of something that had been such a part of him for so long, and now he wasn’t sure what he had left to hold onto.
Dr. Bianchi handed him a small prescription and some notes on what they could try next. “I’m going to connect you with a specialist who can guide you through managing your dynamic in a way that’s healthier for your body and your career. Let’s work together to make sure you’re both safe and at your best, okay?”
Fabio nodded slowly, though his mind was already swirling with questions he didn’t know how to ask.
“Thanks,” he muttered, unsure if he meant it yet. But there was no turning back now.
As he left the clinic, the cold air outside felt different than usual. It wasn’t just the physical sensation of the weather- it was the realization that something inside him had shifted, and he couldn’t go back to how things were. He wasn’t sure what the future would look like, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a choice.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward finding himself again.
But as he walked to his bike, the familiar hum of the engines in the distance, a thought nagged at him: Would he ever feel whole if he couldn’t embrace all of who he was? He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to keep racing forward, one step at a time.