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How do you survive as an omega in a sport obsessed with ruthlessness, aggression, and eliminating all potential vulnerability? How do you operate in a career where personality and public appearances matter just as much as physical performance to make a living? How do you keep a secret from the constant social media surveillance scraping out every crevice of a driver’s personal life?
Sonny Hayes knows. He had learned ages ago that hiding a secret this apparent in a career so invasive required two main safeguards.
The first was painstaking adherence to precautions— scent blockers, heat suppressants, scheduled time off to deal with heats when suppressants became a medical risk, iron supplements and disguised vitamins— the works. Until this identity, “Sonny Hayes, beta and proud!”, became a second skin, a costume that fit so well, it might’ve seemed legitimate until you got close enough to detect the sweet scent of pheromones smothered by the gland patch.
That was the second safeguard, just as vital: distance. If people got too close, they were susceptible to picking at the cracks in his walls and asking too many questions, noticing too much. If nobody cared about him, nobody would care enough to find out. Sonny had lived and nearly died by that motto for the past five decades, ever since he’d started hiding his secondary gender.
While he isn’t sure exactly how Ruben has tracked him down to this shabby laundromat shower off the coast of Florida, he persistently ignores him as he scrubs off. Ruben, to his own credit, is courteous enough to avoid looking at him while he’s showering, even though the shower wall covers all the way up to Sonny’s chest.
“You will be paid handsomely, if that’s what you are worried about. The team may be struggling, but we have more than enough money to pay our drivers’ salaries,” he continues.
Sonny chuckles dryly. “It’s not about the money, Ruben.”
“Then what exactly is it about, my friend?”
Sonny pushes his sudsy hair back from his forehead and shoots him a look. Ruben knows, of course. He’s known Sonny was an omega since he stumbled into his cooldown room by accident back in ‘93, when they were racing together at Lotus. Sonny had been sticking on his scent blockers, and had cursed Ruben out of the room, hoping he wouldn’t realize what he’d walked in on. He almost thought he’d gotten away with it and Ruben was none the wiser— except a month later, Ruben covered for him when he accidentally left one of his patches out, by attributing it to a girlfriend (even though everyone knew most of his flings didn’t wear blockers). He continued to cover for Sonny whenever he slipped up in those early days, in the nineties when sexism in Formula 1 was even more rampant than in the present. Initially, Sonny couldn’t help but be wary of him- Ruben had very little to gain from covering for Sonny when he could’ve easily run Sonny out of the sport instead. Over time, however, Ruben had kept his lips sealed, and it became clear that he wasn’t waiting to blackmail or take advantage of Sonny. A tentative partnership had sprouted between the two, and they stayed in touch for years even after the crash in Jerez split them apart.
“Either way,” Ruben continued, fingering the hem of his blazer sleeve, “I have a contract written up for you. You will receive a chance to race in the big leagues again— and adequate privacy for as long as you work for me. Of that, I give you my word.” Ruben paused, letting Sonny register the solemnity in his words.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, old friend. What more could you want?”
And Sonny thinks, we really have sacrificed everything for this sport, haven’t we? Pushing sixty years old and no mating bond, no children, not even a pack of platonic bondmates.
What’s one more risk for the chance to drive? What’s one more sacrifice for an old partner?
Against his better judgement, Sonny moves into an apartment adjacent to the APX GP headquarters within a month to begin his formal training on the new car. His driving partner, Joshua, is a brash, reckless young alpha. He immediately pegs Sonny as competition based on his playboy reputation, his aggression on the track, and his cocky attitude. Their introduction is icy at best, and Sonny can hardly blame him. He’d be resentful too if some codger with nepo privileges swooped in and tried to run him out of his career. Not that that’s Sonny’s intention, but he understands how it must look. Sonny avoids Joshua whenever possible, and his avoidance starts to seep into his interactions with the rest of the team. Although they’ve been mostly kind, Sonny routinely declines team bonding activities through force of habit and keeps interactions brief and brusque. He insists on spending most of his downtime in his van or doing car research, and the team leaves him his distance.
Between mutters behind his back and dirty looks, though, Sonny can tell the team’s getting tired. It probably doesn’t help that most of them are alphas— omegas are extremely rare in Formula 1, even in the garages— and tensions already run high with this crowd by necessity. To act as cohesively as they do, he imagines they must have to get along pretty well. Sonny has to give them an inch, at least.
One of the race strategists, Hugh— a freckled, timid beta who looks like he can’t be over twenty-five– surprises Sonny by being the first to push him on the matter.
“We- the team, I mean, are going out for drinks tonight to wind down. You barely come to team events, so- I mean- we’d love it if you’d join us. To get to know you better. Is all I’m saying.” Hugh’s cheeks are pink, but he doesn’t back down.
Sonny has to respect the kid for calling him out, even though he’s stammering by the end of the confrontation.
“Sure,” Sonny says, holding firm eye contact so his acceptance isn’t seen as submission. Hugh blinks. “Wait, really?”
Sonny shrugs. “Yeah, why the hell not? Count me in.”
By the time Sonny starts to remember why the hell not he doesn’t do these things, it’s too late. The team gathers in the lobby of the hotel they’re staying at this week. The lobby is bright and clean: polished surfaces, velvet couches, and the mingled scents of expensive cologne and muted pheromones surround them. Joshua sneers at Sonny from the bar, radiating contempt. Sonny adjusts his sunglasses and bites back a sneer.
He doesn’t need yet another alpha in his life who thinks he doesn’t belong here.
The team is scattered around the lobby. Their persistent chatter rises into a cacophony as more of them gather. Sonny looks for a friendly face, but they’re all talking to each other, and he doesn’t know them well enough to barge in. Between the overwhelming scents and harsh sounds, Sonny has a growing headache. He wishes he was back in his apartment, taking a soothing ice bath or a long nap. He’s starting to regret accepting Hugh’s invitation.
From behind, an arm slips around Sonny’s shoulders and he bristles. Then, he catches the subtle scents of cigar smoke, bourbon, and a faint whiff of engine oil— it’s only Ruben. And easily, warmth seeps through Sonny’s muscles and his hackles lower. Despite his stubborn independence and defensiveness, it surprises him how relieving Ruben’s support feels.
He had forgotten what it felt like to have someone in his corner. To trust in someone to comfort him without treating him as weak.
Ruben places a warm hand on the small of Sonny’s back and shoots him a questioning glance. Sonny nods once, an unspoken understanding: I’m fine (now that you’re here).