10. The Game Changer
The Game Changer
HAYES
D arren approaches with a phone in his hand, saying, “A voicemail. From your son.”
My heart stutters. August. My brilliant, sensitive nine-year-old who can explain quantum entanglement but struggles with playground politics.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Darren adds, which dials up my nerves another notch.
I stare at the phone, afraid. August wouldn’t call off-schedule unless something was wrong.
My mom is supposed to be handling everything—school drop offs, chess club, his dinosaur-shaped macaroni dinner on Wednesdays.
I haven’t talked to him in three days, the longest we’ve gone without speaking since. .. since Sarah died.
My finger hovers over the voicemail icon. Press play, and I take on whatever pain or worry August is experiencing. But he called. He needs me.
I press play.
“Hi Dad.” His voice is higher than usual, with that wobble that means he’s holding back tears. “I know you’re busy with the show and everything, but I just...” A pause, a sniffle. “I just wanted to hear your voice, I guess.”
My throat tightens.
“School was hard today. Liam said I was a robot again because I corrected Ms. Hanson about black holes. And I tried not to, Dad, I really did, but she was teaching it wrong, and now nobody will sit with me at lunch again.”
My stomach clenches, and I close my eyes, picturing him—glasses slipping down his nose, blond hair sticking up in the back where he never remembers to brush it, shoulders hunched under the weight of being different.
“And Grandma’s trying, but she doesn’t understand about Mom. Sometimes, I just miss her more than others.”
Yes. Sometimes it’s worse than others, and I bet it’s heightened now because I’m not there with him.
When life gets stressful, it makes her death feel like yesterday.
Just yesterday that Sarah got into her car to pick up August from T-ball.
Just yesterday since the drunk driver ran the red light.
But then, simultaneously, it also feels like eons of being both mother and father to our son.
August continues, “I put the pictures out, the ones from our beach trip we’d just had. Remember how Mom collected all those shells? I still have them in the blue jar.”
His voice cracks along with my heart, silently, deep in my chest.
“I think I want to go to the cemetery. Grandma says we should wait for you, but... but you’re not here.” Those four words stab like an ice pick. “You’re finding a new mom, which I told you to do, so it’s fine, but I just... I miss her, Dad. And I miss you. That’s all.”
I grip the phone so tightly my knuckles turn white. The room around me—the professionally decorated bachelor pad they’ve set up for filming my “candid” moments—seems to dissolve, replaced by the image of my son, alone in his room, trying to be brave while his world crumbles.
“Anyway, I should go. Grandma made lasagna. Which, sorry, but it’s better than yours.” There’s the ghost of a smile in his voice now, a brave attempt. “Love you, Dad. Hope you’re having fun with all the pretty women.”
The message ends. I stand frozen, phone in hand, as Darren’s voice echoes through the door. “Sorry, Hayes, but you need to be in hair and makeup in two minutes.”
I swallow hard. “I’m heading out now.”
The mansion, my date with Annabelle, where I have to spend two hours making small talk with a woman I barely know while my son sits alone with his grief and a jar of seashells.
I’m dying to call him, but I have to go, and when we wrap up shooting tonight, he’ll be in bed, even though Chicago is an hour behind. Dammit.
Darren opens my door. “Annabelle will be waiting by the firepit.” He approaches and takes the phone from my numb fingers. “She’s excited.”
“Okay.” I nod mechanically, bile rising in my throat. What kind of father am I, putting a TV show above my son’s emotional needs?
“Let’s go.” Darren taps his watch. “You’ll have to eat your dinner while you’re in makeup. Sorry but we’re running behind.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” We have to eat our meals before filming, even when it’s a dinner date and there’s food set out. It’s just for show—we’re not allowed to eat on camera because it sounds gross in the microphones, so all we can do is drink, usually champagne or wine.
I go through the motions. Let the makeup artist dab my face with powder.
Let the stylist adjust my collar. Eat my chicken wrap at record speed, then down the breath mints.
Let myself be led toward the firepit where Annabelle waits, her red hair gleaming in the flickering light, her face open and eager.
She’s wearing a simple sundress, her freckled shoulders bare under the evening sky. Any other time, I’d find her adorable and charming, with her Southern twang and surprising hidden talents. Now, she’s just an obstacle between me and my son.
“Hayes!” She jumps up, her smile wide. “I’m so happy you picked me.”
I force my mouth into a smile, hoping it reaches my eyes. “Your performance had heart.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” She gestures to the picnic spread out on a blanket beside the fire. “They’ve set us up real nice here.”
I sit beside her, going through the rehearsed motions of a reality TV date while my mind races frantically. August alone in his room. August at school, being called a robot. August at the cemetery, standing before his mother’s grave without me beside him.
“Hayes? You with me?” Annabelle’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
For a moment, I consider telling her the truth, but I don’t want to have August’s problems aired. Plus, she can’t help. None of these women can. They’re as trapped in this artificial scenario as I am.
“Sorry.” I reach for a glass of champagne I don’t want. “Just... looking at this amazing setup.” I take a sip of champagne that tastes strong. “Tell me more about your family. You mentioned siblings?”
Relief floods her face—an easy question, familiar territory. “Oh, honey, where do I even start? I’m the middle child of seven.”
“Seven?” I echo.
“Mm-hmm. Four brothers, two sisters, and me in the middle, trying to be heard over the chaos.” Annabelle laughs, the sound tinkling like wind chimes. “Growing up in that farmhouse was like livin’ in a hurricane. Never a quiet moment.”
As she talks, painting pictures of Southern family life—fishing trips and holiday dinners, pranks and squabbles—I nod and smile in all the right places.
But all I can think about is the quiet of our house when it’s just August and me.
The way he arranges his cereal by color before eating it.
How he still sleeps with the star projector I bought him after Sarah died, finding comfort in the constancy of constellations when everything else fell apart.
“My mama always said I was the peacekeeper,” Annabelle continues, wringing her hands. “Always tryin’ to make sure everyone got along. Guess that’s why I’m so good at reading people.” She pauses, studying my face. “Like right now, I can tell you’re a hundred miles away.”
I blink, surprised by her perceptiveness. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, I promise.”
“Is it your boy? August, right?” She reaches over, her hand soft on mine. “You must miss him something fierce.”
The simple acknowledgment breaks something loose inside me. “You got it. I really do.”
Annabelle’s eyes fill with understanding, making me wonder if maybe I’ve underestimated her. “Oh, Hayes. I’m so sorry. We can cut this short.”
I smile. “Thank you, but that’s not how it works around here. The show must go on, right?”
“To hell with the show,” she says, surprising me. “That boy needs his daddy.”
For the first time, I feel a genuine connection and attraction to Annabelle—as a human being who sees past the cameras and the contrived romance to what really matters.
“You’re right—I should call him,” I say, making a decision. “I need to end this early. I’m sorry.”
Instead of disappointment, I see acceptance in her eyes. “Damn right you should. Don’t be sorry. Some things are more important than phony picnics and TV shows. My daddy always said, ‘Family first.’”
“Your daddy sounds wise.”
“He has his moments.” She flashes a small smile. “Now go call your son, and don’t worry about me. I’ll just tell everyone you got food poisoning or something.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you, Annabelle. Truly.”
She shrugs. “Just make sure there’s time for me later.”
“I promise.”
“Go on now.”
I stand, impulsively leaning down to kiss her cheek in gratitude. She blushes, waving me away with a flick of her hand. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I walk away from the firepit, ignoring Darren’s frantic gestures from behind a nearby hedge.
Let him try to salvage his precious footage.
Let him threaten me with contract violations.
He’s got plenty to air with what Annabelle already said, and some things matter more than reality TV careers.
I tell him, “I’ll do my post date interview when I get back, okay.”
“Fine.” He groans.
The pathway back to my private suite winds around the main mansion, past the women’s quarters, through a garden designed specifically for “chance” romantic encounters. I move quickly, focused on getting back to my room where I can call August without cameras recording every word.
“Hayes?”
I nearly miss her, standing half-hidden by a flowering tree, the evening light catching in her dark hair. Brielle. Dressed in jogging gear and holding a packet of papers.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised.
“Reviewing my screenplay.” She steps closer, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my expression. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Something in her tone—the genuine concern, the absence of reality TV artifice—breaks the last of my restraint.
“My son,” I manage, voice thick. “He called. He’s struggling with his mother’s death, and I’m stuck here playing bachelor instead of being there for him.”
Without hesitation, Brielle takes my arm. “Your room? No cameras there, right?”
I nod, grateful beyond words for her quick understanding.
We walk in silence, her presence beside me a strange comfort.
When we reach my suite, I check carefully for cameras before letting us both in.
The producers aren’t supposed to film in here without my knowledge, but as Skye warned me, I’m not to trust Darren’s promises.
Once inside, Brielle, in leggings and a T-shirt, seems smaller, more vulnerable. But her eyes are steady as she sits beside me on the edge of the bed.
“Tell me the problem and we’ll come up with a solution,” she says simply.
And so I do. About his message, his loneliness. About my crushing guilt for not being there when he needs me most. About how trapped I feel between contractual obligations and parental duty.
“I should never have done this show,” I say, head in my hands. “What was I thinking? That August would be fine without me for weeks on end? I’m his father—his only parent. He should come first. Always.”
Brielle is quiet for a long moment, thoughtful. “What would happen if you left? Contractually, I mean.”
“Financial penalties. Potential lawsuits. Public humiliation,” I list grimly. “And that’s just the professional consequences. Darren knows about us—about St. Sebastian. He’s made it clear he’ll use that information if I don’t play by his rules.”
Her face pales slightly, but she nods. “So leaving would blow up your life and potentially mine. Staying means August faces his grief alone.”
“Some choice, right?”
“What if there’s a third option?” she says slowly. Then she leans forward, eyes bright. “Invite August onto the show. Let him meet the women. Turn it into a father-son episode.”
I blink, stunned. “You mean… bring him here, right now?”
“Exactly. You get a beautiful reunion, the press eats it up, ratings spike. Darren can’t say no—he’d be a fool to turn down ratings gold.” She taps her script-stained notebook. “’Bachelor Bonds with Son in Tear Jerking Special.’ Trust me, the headline writes itself.”
Hope surges through me. “He’d see my dates, see me in my element. It makes my son part of my world instead of stealing me out of it.”
Brielle smiles, her messy bun bobbing. “And you’ll have every producer begging you for more. You’re not abandoning the show—you’re upgrading it. Plus, you get to keep your son by your side, even if only for a few days.”
I can’t stop the grin. “That’s… that’s genius. Of course you thought of it. No one spins a story like you do.” My chest tightens with gratitude. She’s a screenwriter, yes, but more than that: she sees every angle, every heartstring.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “We’re a team, right?”
“Penguins huddle together in the cold. You and me—same thing.”
She laughs. “You’re never letting me live that down.”
“Not a chance. And I absolutely loved it.”
“Fair enough. Now call production. Pitch this. They’ll eat it up.”
I nod, pulling her into one last quick hug. “Thank you—for this. For seeing me.”
“You’re welcome,” she whispers. Then she’s gone, and I’m alone with my phone and a spark of something I haven’t felt since arriving at the mansion: excitement.
I go to the landline I have in my room, which only allows me to call the production office or 911, and my finger hovers over the call button.
Before I press it, I’m filled with a clarity I haven’t felt since arriving at the mansion.
Some choices define us—as parents, as partners, as people.
This is one of them. Whatever happens next—whether Darren approves August’s emergency visit or whether I have to leave, break my contract, and face the consequences—I know one thing for certain: I won’t let my son grieve his mother alone.
Not for fame, not for money, not even for the unexpected connections I’ve found with several of the women.
The line connects, and I take a deep breath, ready to fight for what matters most.