Puck

Chapter 1

Puck has a date with a croissant. It’s not a long one.

They only have five minutes before they have to go back to filming interviews with Homewreckers contestants, and they’ve ignored a flurry of pings on their walkie already.

A stale pastry swiped off the craft services table will have to pass for lunch today.

But just as they’re about to take their first bite, a production assistant with a worried look on his face approaches Puck’s perch on the veranda.

“You’re, uh, Puck, aren’t you?” the PA asks.

“Right you are!” Puck chirps back condescendingly.

This kid will have to toughen up if he wants to survive here; he’s already sweating through his shirt, probably from nervousness as much as the summer heat.

One of the first lessons Puck learned when they started seven years ago was to never wear white at work.

This guy—awkward, maybe about twenty-three, hair hidden in a red beanie except for the hint of a beard he’s scratching—must have just started because anyone who’s worked at the Homewreckers mansion longer than a day could pick Puck out of a lineup while blackout drunk.

It doesn’t take long for new hires to hear legends about the lead producer’s prowess, and almost everyone gets the talk about Puck’s pronouns on day one.

Only a few have ever dared disrespect them.

Why risk one of the best jobs in Atlanta TV production by insulting the show’s second-in-command?

No, amid a turbulent ocean of reality concepts that briefly bob above the surface before sinking just as quickly, Homewreckers is solid earth, a long-running series with a surefire premise: Bring in five couples for a “relationship retreat,” only to reveal that the sexy singles who once threatened to break up those pairings are going to live with them, too.

The show crams the faithful partners, the cheaters, and the tempting free agents all into one house, with the goal of inflicting as much emotional damage as human rights legislation permits. And viewers can’t get enough.

For ten years now, couples have come on Homewreckers to “put their love to the ultimate test,” as the promos put it—and for most of that decade, they have met their match in the form of a nonbinary English major with a buzz cut.

On Puck’s first season in 2018, back when they were a lowly PA themself, they broke up all five couples on the same night with their idea to hook the cheaters up to heart rate monitors during a cocktail party.

At first, Puck’s predecessor resisted the idea based solely on its provenance, telling them that they should be “sorting props somewhere” instead of offering input.

But Ron overheard the exchange, backed Puck’s idea, and the rest was history.

The numbers didn’t lie. Once the faithful partners saw the cheaters’ pulses rise as the paramours walked in, even the most committed relationships crumbled.

Since that first stroke of genius, it’s been nothing but promotions, perks, and pay raises for Puck.

And while they haven’t managed to replicate their 100 percent success rate since season five, their decision to add hidden cash incentives has more than paid for itself in streaming ratings.

Break up a couple? The temptress receives a thousand dollars.

It’s shocking how much the contestants will do for so little money.

The diehard fans who populate the Homewreckers subreddit have started to catch wind of Puck’s payment scheme, despite all the NDAs the contestants have to sign, but most viewers will never interrogate how the show is made so long as the result is the same: chaos.

“Ron sent me to get you,” the PA tells Puck. “He told me to say that you need to come work your magic.”

Puck rolls their eyes. They take their time pulling apart a piece of croissant, popping it in their mouth, and chewing, knowing they might not get to eat again until the night crew takes over.

Ron could actually try to do some showrunning once in a while, but why bother when Puck’s around?

That’d be like hiring a Michelin-rated chef to watch you make a turkey sandwich.

God, Puck would kill for a turkey sandwich right now.

“Will I find the king on his throne?” they ask, folding up the half-eaten pastry in its wax paper before shoving it into their pants pocket.

“Um …” The PA looks confused, and more than a little grossed out by Puck’s slovenliness.

“The boss,” Puck clarifies. “Is he in his trailer?”

“Oh, no, he’s at the video village by the pool. Monica and Jason aren’t reacting to Erica sunbathing right next to them, and I think he’s freaking out.”

This is the kind of communication that will get this kid somewhere.

You don’t tell Puck what Ron said; you tell Puck what Ron is thinking, and you know what Ron is thinking because you can read his face like a book.

Now Puck can spend the forty-second walk around the Homewreckers house coming up with a solution to Ron’s problem—and that’s all the time they need.

Jason is scared of his girlfriend, and rightly so: Monica, one of the most faithful women to ever come on the show, shoots lasers out of her eyes whenever Erica, the woman Jason cheated with last year, so much as blinks in his direction.

A sufficiently cowed Jason has largely behaved himself for the first two weeks of filming.

He even kept his composure when Erica recreated the whipped cream bikini scene from Varsity Blues at Ron’s urging.

Puck’s reminder that none of the contestants was old enough to remember that movie had gone unheard.

Hell, Puck was only four when it came out, and at thirty, they are far from the youngest person on the crew anymore.

Puck had already been cooking something up for the Jason-Monica-Erica storyline, but if the head honcho wants to press the panic button now, they know exactly what to do.

There are simpler and more sanitary ways to a man’s heart besides putting dairy near someone’s vagina.

Also, Jason is probably wearing swimming trunks right now, which makes this impromptu scheme especially delicious.

After gliding up next to Ron in the tented video village set up on the back lawn, Puck quickly assesses the situation.

Over by the pool, one camera crew is capturing footage of Erica suntanning on her stomach, while a smaller crew remains trained firmly on Monica and Jason as they lie on adjacent chaise lounges, determinedly holding hands across the gap between them.

How sweet. Alas, the lovefest won’t last long.

“Let’s get Jess out here, please,” Puck orders to no one in particular, knowing one of the underlings will scurry off and fetch the contestant for them.

“Hello to you too,” Ron says, adjusting the bill of the Dodgers ballcap he never seems to remove, still clinging to his Angeleno allegiances even after all these years in Georgia.

“You are aware Jason cheated on Monica with Erica, right? Not with Jess. We’re dying out here, Puck. We need some action.”

You’d think Ron would have learned by now not to second-guess his own salvation. Besides, when is he ever out here in the middle of the day? Isn’t it about time for his afternoon winddown? A Scotch and a nap would do him some good.

“You wanted magic?” Puck says. “Then let me pull a rabbit out of my hat.”

Only they can get away with talking back to the top brass like this; anyone else would get thrown off set for insubordination. Ron obediently hushes up and pretends to consult a clipboard that probably has nothing but doodles on it.

While Puck waits for Jess to be delivered, they scan various monitors set up around the video village.

Jason isn’t even glancing in Erica’s direction, even though the sunlight is kissing her skin just right.

Little beads of sweat are forming on the back of her thighs.

The string of her swimsuit bottom is so thin it almost looks like she’s bare-assed.

And still, Jason is clinging to Monica’s hand like he’d float off into space if he let go.

“What’s the ETA on Jess?” Puck asks, only to find that Red Beanie Boy has reappeared with the missing piece: Jess Sandusky, twenty-four, a physical therapist from Akron, Ohio, and most importantly for Puck’s purposes, an absolute babe, even by absurdly high television standards.

Sadly, Jess has ascertained that she’s the hottest girl on her cast—and she acts like it.

“Did you need me for something?” she huffs.

“Oh, hi!” Puck greets her with an enthusiasm that should be suspicious. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

Contestants like Jess sometimes get cute about their contracts, acting like they’re being held captive even though they’re free to leave at any point—so long as they can afford to fend off life-ruining litigation from Hollywood’s meanest lawyers.

“You always have a choice,” Puck lies, then adds, “Hang on just a second—”

Jess looks annoyed while Puck pulls the new PA aside.

Good. Let her fume. It’s important to reinforce the power dynamic once in a while, and Puck does, in fact, need to whisper a few urgent instructions to the gofer.

There are a lot of delicate components in this hastily formed plan of theirs, but Puck is in the mood to show off.

Ron doesn’t get to interrupt croissant time without suffering the consequences.

After the PA nods and scurries away, Puck turns back to Jess, ready to level with her. “So, listen,” they begin. “Erica over there mentioned to me that her back was feeling a little tight …”

Puck knows the ulterior motive here will be immediately obvious to someone as savvy as Jess, so there’s no point trying to be subtle.

“And let me guess: You think it’d be a good idea for me to give her a massage right in front of Jason?” she asks, already catching wise.

“Bingo.”