2
Freezing. Why was the studio always freezing? IT insisted the desks would overheat if the system was ever switched off. So the work stations were all ice cubicles of a morning.
Blake curled her hands around her long black. Lukewarm. Bitter. The communal kitchen’s finest.
On the other side of the studio glass, Chelsea was no doubt three coffees in, headset on, colour-coding the whiteboard with the show’s plan.
Sam was already at the panel, adjusting faders and checking levels on the music openers for the show.
He was by far the best panel op she had ever worked with.
He was quick, he understood the nuances of the show, and often gave her the ‘out’, the final funny line in a talk break.
Blake had offered a quiet, ‘You good?’
Morgan, focused on her task, nodded once.
Blake hadn’t dared press further. She’d driven away wondering if she was being a responsible parent. The question sat heavy in her chest, mixing with the usual pre-show nerves. Was Morgan ready for this level of independence?
Blake wasn’t sure if she was proud or heartbroken.
She flicked through the shared rundown on her screen, eyes darting without really absorbing anything.
The promo competition was locked for 6.40, a $50k giveaway.
It felt cruel to dangle such a big prize before an audience where only one person could win and so many desperately needed it.
At the top of the rundown, Chelsea had left a note, clipped and colour-coded as always: ‘Watch Mack. He’s coming in hot. ’
Of course he was—that smug bastard could smell blood in the water from three suburbs away.
The airlock doors clunked open a beat before six.
Mack burst through like he expected applause just for showing up. He was muttering to himself again, that weird brand of pre-show psych-up he called ‘getting in the zone’ but that sounded more like a man stepping out on stage for a TED talk.
‘All right, big guy. You’ve got this. Confidence. Swagger. Smile like the mic’s already on.’
Blake didn’t even glance up. ‘You know we can all hear you, right?’
‘Manifestation,’ Mack said, loud and proud, as he collapsed into his chair with the grace of a hungover Labrador. ‘Look it up.’
He stretched theatrically, arms flung wide. His spine cracked like bubble wrap.
‘No Morgan today?’
‘She has deemed herself capable of catching the tram to school,’ Blake replied, still scrolling.
‘Still. Second day of a new school. Thought you might want to actually be there.’
She looked up. ‘I was there yesterday.’
‘Yeah, briefly,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Long enough for a photo op, I guess.’
Sam’s hand hovered near the cue fader. Blake didn’t rise to it. Not yet.
‘Hey, you’ve got a second date lined up now,’ Mack added, his grin widening. ‘Maybe after a midweek root, you’ll finally unclench.’
The ON AIR light blinked red. Sam hit the button. And the mics were live.
‘Good morning, legends!’ Mack’s voice boomed through the mic. ‘It’s six-oh-one on your Tuesday, and you’re waking up with Mack and Blake, the show powered entirely by bad decisions, over-caffeination, and Blake’s deeply questionable love-life.’
‘Nice to know who I am in this relationship,’ Blake replied, her tone deceptively light.
Here we go again. She rolled her shoulders once, trying to shake it off. It didn’t work. It never did.
She caught her reflection in the studio glass.
One minute into the show and she was already playing defence.
She could hear the texts pinging in already.
Friends, strangers, old colleagues she hadn’t spoken to since 2018, all buzzing about her love-life like it was a subplot on reality TV.
It was exhausting, being everyone’s breakfast entertainment and emotional trainwreck in one early morning package.
‘Oh, we know you,’ Mack continued on air. ‘You’re the woman who turned date night into a sauce-slathered murder scene and still scored a callback.’
‘Because some people find my brand of chaos exceptionally endearing. Or they have no standards. Either way, I’m not complaining.’
Behind the panel, Sam tapped the monitor. MESSAGE FROM PRODUCER: Phones already lighting up. Insta poll trending. Meme’s viral.
Behind the glass, Chelsea held up her phone like someone directing air traffic. Blake squinted. Her face stared back, photoshopped next to Osher Günsberg onto a Bachelorette promo, baguette in hand. The title: ‘Carbs & Chaos Edition.’
‘For those playing along at home,’ Mack announced, ‘our executive producer has just revealed a beautiful meme of Blake as Australia’s next Bachelorette.
Standing next to Osher Günsberg, holding a baguette instead of a rose.
It’s disturbingly well done. And it’s live on our socials, along with the poll question: ‘Should Blake Go on a Second Date?”
Blake groaned into the mic, dragging a hand over her face. ‘I hate how good that is.’
She really did. Probably Britt’s handywork—the show’s social-media guru had a gift for this stuff.
She’d nailed the font, the rose petals, even the slightly dazed expression Blake apparently made when caught off guard mid-bite.
Was it weird to feel exposed and flattered at the same time?
Only Blake could manage so much emotional whiplash before 6. 30 am.
‘Poll’s sitting at thirty-nine per cent “send her”,’ sixty-one per cent “save her”, Mack announced proudly. ‘I voted twice.’
‘Fraudulent behaviour tracks,’ Blake said.
‘And after seven,’ Mack continued, ‘we’re taking your second-date ideas. Axe-throwing? Couples’ pottery? Romantic cheese-making?’
‘Nothing with sauce,’ Blake added. ‘Or expectations.’
‘No expectations? No fun,’ Mack shot back. ‘My only expectation is you might throw him a bone in hope of date number three.’
Blake rolled her eyes at the mic, deadpan, and the phones lit up harder.
Sam cued the next track. As the music faded up, the ON AIR light dimmed.
Blake rose from her chair with quiet purpose.
She turned for the door, a fraction too fast, and the airlock swung back slower than expected.
She caught the edge of it with her hip and steadied herself against the frame.
She could feel Mack’s smirk behind her like static.
The hallway outside felt ten degrees colder. Her skin tingled, not just from embarrassment, but that cold, familiar jolt of being caught off guard on air.
Chelsea was already there, headset around her neck, clipboard in one hand, steaming mug in the other.
She had that particular brand of controlled efficiency that only producers mastered: slick back bun, matching linen two-piece, and fingers marking beats on her clipboard like she was conducting an invisible orchestra.
‘You’ve been through worse,’ Chelsea said, her tone so measured it almost passed for calm.
‘What about that time you went home with a guy only to find out he collected classic troll dolls, and rather than taking the piss you got the city to help him find the rare 1989 Halloween Frankentroll—inadvertently admitting that you’d shagged a guy who collects dolls from forty years ago. ’
Blake let out a breath that stuttered halfway out. ‘Nawww, Timmy Troll Man, he was actually really sweet. I know we’ve been through worse, Chelsea. I just didn’t think I’d have to keep bracing for it in my own studio, you know? Mack’s relentless today.’
Chelsea didn’t disagree. ‘He smells momentum. Nothing he loves more than a pile-on.’ She tilted her head, studying Blake. ‘Though if we’re being honest, you walked right into that one. The sauce thing? Pure gold.’
‘I’m just trying not to be the psycho ex on a rom-com blooper reel.’ She felt it. The dishevelled woman with sauce trauma and a preteen at home, cast as the comic relief in her own life.
Chelsea stepped closer, her voice lowering. ‘Yes, Mack’s a dick. But this city loves you. Let them in a little.’
‘I did yesterday,’ Blake muttered. ‘Now there’s a meme with my face, a baguette, and Osher Günsberg.’
‘You look great in a rose ceremony.’ Chelsea glanced at her watch. ‘Besides, engagement’s up forty per cent since yesterday. Steve’s practically orgasmic.’
Blake huffed out a reluctant laugh, then winced. ‘I can’t believe people are already calling and we haven’t even thrown to it yet.’
Chelsea nodded towards the producer bay visible through the hallway window. ‘Britt’s already fielding calls. You’re trending on TikTok for saying garlic bread is emotionally high-risk.’
‘I stand by that.’
Chelsea held out her mug in a peace offering. ‘The audience love, love. Have a big gulp. We go live again in twenty seconds.’
Blake took the cup gratefully, her shoulders still tense but a little straighter. ‘Okay. Let’s do this.’
She stepped back into the studio, pulse steadying as she eased into her chair.
Through the glass, the producer desk buzzed with controlled chaos.
The hotline was lit up with a full board of calls.
Britt was everywhere at once, fielding calls while frantically gesturing at two street teamers to get their headsets on and jump on the phones.
‘Shit.’ Mack stared, jaw slack. ‘Look at those calls.’
Chelsea’s voice crackled through the producer desk mic into their headphones. ‘Callers from as far out as Geelong. The whole city is tuning in.’
Sam’s hand hovered over the live fader. ‘Ready when you are.’
The ON AIR light flared red. Mack’s voice slid back into performance mode.
‘We play fresh hits. That was SZA and ‘Saturn,’ for anyone manifesting their way through the week. Don’t worry, we’ve got you.’
He grinned into the mic. ‘Up next, Melbourne, your turn to play Cupid. We’re talking second dates: romantic, ridiculous, mildly traumatic? You pitch it. Blake’s next date is in your hands.’
Blake leaned forward, voice dry. ‘Can’t wait.’
Mack flicked through the prep sheet. ‘Let’s see…blindfolded pottery, speedboat dinners, tandem goat yoga. Yep, this is gonna be good.’
‘And yes,’ Blake added, ‘I’m deeply regretting letting Chelsea run that Insta poll.’
Mack leaned in, still grinning. ‘All right, let’s do this.’
Sam hit the live fader.
‘You’re on with Mack and Blake!’ Mack said. ‘Who have we got here?’
‘Craig from Sunbury,’ the voice came through. ‘Go-kart racing. Loser buys dinner.’
‘I like a man confident enough to let me lap him,’ Blake said.
‘Let’s hope he’s insured,’ Mack added.
‘Line two, Eli from Coburg.’
‘Okay, hear me out,’ Eli said. ‘I’ll take you out. Real date. I don’t mind if you spill the spaghetti, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.’
‘Oh, I’m not picking that up,’ Blake said. ‘Eli, are you asking me out?’
‘Worst case, I get memed.’
‘Well,’ Mack said, ‘if Fettuccine Guy doesn’t work out, maybe we start vetting suitors on air.’
Behind the glass, Britt held up a handwritten sign: ‘BACHELOR: brEAKFAST RADIO EDITION?’
‘We’re workshopping it!’ Britt mouthed through the glass, grinning.
‘Line three, Grace from Ascot Vale.’
‘Escape room. Mood lighting. Stress bonding.’
‘If it doesn’t end in a relationship, it’ll end in trauma bonding,’ Blake replied.
‘Line four, Maureen from Brighton.’
‘Take him to your mum’s for dinner,’ she said sweetly. ‘If he survives that, he’s a keeper.’
Blake groaned. ‘Absolutely not. That’s emotional skydiving.’
Mack smirked. ‘Have you ever introduced a guy to your mum?’
‘Maybe once.’
He rolled his eyes, leaning closer to the mic. His energy shifted, sharper now. ‘Let me guess, thirteen years ago?’
Blake’s stomach tightened. Something in his tone had changed.
‘Joel from Reservoir,’ Mack said, glancing at the screen.
‘Double kayak,’ Joel said. ‘Bonus points if you tip.’
‘Romantic rescue,’ Mack said, but his eyes stayed on Blake.
‘Last one, Tina from Elwood.’
‘Cooking class. With sauce. Make messy food sexy.’
Blake raised her eyebrows. ‘Tina. We should set you up with Eli.’
The studio air seemed to shift, like the pressure drop before a storm.
Blake felt her stomach tighten. She knew whatever Mack was about to say wasn’t banter anymore.
Mack leaned back, too casual. ‘Or maybe skip the date altogether, Blakey. Last time you gave a guy a second chance…remind me what you got?’ he said.
Blake’s chest went cold. ‘Oh?’
His grin turned sharp, predatory. ‘You’ve got form, Blakey. Didn’t the last guy you gave a second date to knock you up?’
Silence.
Sam’s eyes widened. Through the glass, Britt’s hand froze mid-gesture.
Sam hit the button. Music crashed in.
The ON AIR light dimmed.
‘Touchy crowd,’ Mack muttered, scrolling through his phone like nothing had happened.
Blake stood up. No words. Just walked out.
Chelsea met her halfway down the hall. ‘You can’t walk out mid-show.’
‘He humiliated me?’
‘And you handed him the rest of the segment. Go back in. Remind them why your name’s on the show.’
Blake hesitated. Then turned.
She entered as Tate McRae’s ‘Greedy’ played through the speakers.
Mack was still scrolling on his phone. Like he hadn’t detonated a landmine with her daughter’s name written all over it. Blake resisted the urge to knock the phone clean out of his hand.
She sat. Calm. Collected. Or at least, doing a damn good impression.
She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her vision had that hot, too-wide quality that usually came before either a full-blown meltdown or a very controlled act of vengeance.
Sam watched her carefully from behind the panel. Britt had stopped directing calls, her expression unreadable.
She turned to Mack, her voice low and razor-sharp. ‘Next time you bring up my kid, you’ll wish the next break ran long.’
Mack blinked.
Sam’s fingers tightened on the panel controls.
The ON AIR light flashed red.
Mack cleared his throat, voice bright. ‘Fresh hits and second chances. Still ahead, we reveal Blake’s second-date location, voted by you. Just after eight.’
‘You’re waking up with Mack and Blake. Keira has your headlines next,’ Blake added cheerfully.
She stared straight ahead.
Not because she was above it. But because if she didn’t, she might lose it. And she refused to let him own that too.
It was 8.00 am. Morgan would be walking out the door. Maturity. She should channel Morgan’s maturity.