AGAINST THE RULES: their scentless omega-Chapter 57: Echoes of the past

The holding room buzzed with distant noise from the arena outside, muffled cheers, engines revving somewhere far off, the kind of restless energy that seeped through walls and settled under the skin. Timothy sat on the narrow bench with a tablet in his hand, eyes scanning the team list for the third time even though he had already memorized every name on it. His jaw tightened.

"Purple team?" he scoffed under his breath. "The group is already bullshit." 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

He tossed the tablet onto the metal table beside him, the sound echoing sharply in the small room. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a second before exhaling through his nose.

"But having to go against Bulldozer and Spike..." he murmured, voice lower now, more thoughtful. "That’s going to be a challenge."

In his mind he was already mapping routes, predicting movements, calculating how fast Spike would corner and how brutally Bulldozer would defend a flag. They weren’t just strong riders, they were walls. Crashing through them wouldn’t be easy, and Timothy hated obstacles he couldn’t immediately dismantle.

But thank God I’m not working with Hunter, he thought, a faint irritation crossing his expression. The very idea of sharing a team with him felt suffocating, too much pride in one space, too much silent competition even when cooperation was required.

Across the room, Mike lounged on the couch as if they were anywhere but a pre-tournament holding area. One leg was slung over the armrest, phone in hand, thumbs moving lazily over a game screen. The contrast between Timothy’s tension and Mike’s nonchalance was almost comical.

"I heard the red team is missing one top dog," Mike said without looking up. "Ethan, if I’m not mistaken."

Timothy’s gaze shifted slightly. "Red team... that’s where Hunter is," he muttered, more to himself than to Mike. The information settled in his mind like a chess piece sliding into place. Missing a rider meant imbalance, less coverage, fewer eyes, more blind spots.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocking as a thin smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Anyways, the real threat here is Hunter," he said. "The fewer the members, the better." His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried a quiet certainty, the kind that came from long-held grudges rather than momentary strategy. "As long as he loses this tournament, it’s good enough for me."

Mike finally glanced up from his phone, studying him.

"And then," Timothy continued, eyes narrowing slightly, "I would have finally beaten the Dastins in their own game."

It wasn’t just about winning a race. It never was. Beneath the calculations and team formations lay something older, resentment sharpened into ambition. The tournament was simply the battlefield he had chosen, and tonight, he intended to make every move count.

Mrs. Gray stepped into the holding room with her usual polished elegance, heels clicking softly against the tiled floor, posture straight, chin lifted. To anyone else she would have looked perfectly composed, the image of a supportive mother who had everything under control. But Timothy noticed the slight delay in her steps, the way her eyes seemed to scan the room without actually seeing it.

"Hello, Mother," Timothy said, rising slightly from the bench. "Are the preparations done? The last mechanic you hired had an emergency, so we had to look for another one last second."

He paused mid-sentence. Something was off.

Mrs. Gray was standing still, gaze unfocused, lips parted as if she had walked into the room and forgotten why she came. The noise from outside, the announcer’s voice, the distant roar of engines, didn’t seem to reach her at all.

"Mother?" Timothy called again, softer this time. "You alright?"

She blinked rapidly, like someone waking from a dream. "Huh? What? Oh... I-I’m alright." A strained laugh followed, too quick, too light. "I just... thought of too many things at once."

Her hand instinctively went to her purse, fingers tightening around the strap as if anchoring herself to reality. "Oh yes, the cleaners—I’ll call them, don’t worry."

Timothy frowned. "I was talking about the mechanic, Mum. Not the cleaners."

There was a brief flicker of panic in her eyes before she masked it with another smile. "Oh—yes, yes, that’s what I meant," she corrected hurriedly. "The mechanic is already getting started on your bike."

She stepped closer to him then, studying his face in a way she rarely did, like she was trying to memorize every feature. The curve of his jaw, the crease between his brows, the faint scar near his temple. Her expression softened, but there was something fragile beneath it, something that looked almost like fear.

"Make me proud, okay, son?" she said quietly.

Timothy straightened a little, surprised by the sudden tenderness in her voice.

"And just know..." Her fingers wrapped around his hand, squeezing tighter than necessary. "You will always be my son. No matter what the world might say or think. Always remember that. Got it?"

The words lingered strangely in the air. Not encouragement, assurance. Not confidence, pleading. Timothy searched her face, confusion knitting his brows together. Why would the world say otherwise? Why phrase it like a warning? He thought but never said it out loud

"...Got it," he replied anyway, giving a small nod.

Mrs. Gray exhaled, a breath she seemed to have been holding for far too long. Relief washed over her features, but it didn’t erase the tension in her shoulders. She released his hand slowly, almost reluctantly.

"Well, you get some rest and prepare for the game," she said, turning toward the door. "I’ll handle the rest."

She headed toward the exit, forcing her shoulders back into their usual confident line.

"Hey, Mike," she said as she passed.

"Hey, Mrs. Gray," he replied without looking up, thumbs still tapping rapidly against the screen of his phone, the flashing colors of the video game reflecting in his glasses. To him it was just another greeting, another adult walking by. Nothing unusual.

Behind him, Timothy lingered near the lockers, eyes fixed on the door his mother had just walked through. The echo of her heels still rang faintly in the corridor.

"That was weird..." he muttered under his breath. "I wonder if everything’s okay with her?"

He wasn’t used to seeing her distracted. His mother was the type who handled ten calls at once without missing a detail. Yet just now she had confused mechanics with cleaners, stared through him like he was transparent, and spoken in riddles. It left an itch in his mind he couldn’t scratch.

Outside the holding room, the hallway felt colder.

Mrs. Gray stepped away from the door and leaned briefly against the wall, her polished façade cracking the moment she was out of sight. She drew in a shaky breath, fingers trembling as she pressed them to her lips.

"That was close..." she murmured.

Close to what, she didn’t even finish the thought.

Her phone vibrated sharply in her hand.

She flinched.

For a second she considered ignoring it, pretending it didn’t exist, that the world inside that screen wasn’t waiting to swallow her whole. But the vibration came again, more insistent this time. She unlocked it with unsteady fingers.

’Unknown Number: Hello Rebecca.’

Her stomach twisted.

Another message appeared before she could even process the first.

’Unknown Number: I saw that the brothers will be in the event today.’

Her eyes widened. The hallway noise dulled into a distant hum, like cotton stuffed into her ears.

A third message popped up.

’Unknown Number: I wonder if I should give them a surprise reunion.’

Mrs. Gray’s heart dropped so violently it felt like she had missed a step on a staircase that wasn’t there. The screen blurred for a moment as dread pooled behind her eyes. Her grip tightened around the phone until her knuckles whitened.

No... no, not here. Not today.

Her gaze darted down the corridor instinctively, as if the sender might materialize out of thin air, leaning casually against a wall with that same mocking smile she remembered from the call. But there was no one, just staff members rushing by, racers walking toward the arena, the distant roar of engines revving up.

Normal life continuing, unaware that her past was clawing its way back into the present.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but she couldn’t type. Every possible reply felt like surrender. Every silence felt like provocation.

Another vibration. No new message, just the echo of the last one replaying in her mind.

Surprise reunion.

Her chest tightened. Images flashed unbidden, two boys standing on opposite sides of a field, glaring at each other with inherited pride and borrowed hatred, completely unaware of the thread that tied their blood together. A truth buried so deep she had convinced herself it no longer existed.

She swallowed hard, forcing her breathing to steady. The makeup on her face hid the color draining from her skin, but it couldn’t mask the fear pooling in her eyes.

"Not today," she whispered to herself. "Please... not today."

Yet the phone remained warm in her palm, the message glowing like a ticking clock she couldn’t turn off.