17
‘And I think I speak for all men here when I say…we don’t care how soon it is,’ Mack said, voice filling the studio as the ON AIR light burned red. ‘Sooner the better, am I right?’ He grinned across the desk at Blake, all charm and zero shame.
‘But Blakey, you’re no prude. Coming up next, we’re putting the call out there. We want to know: how long until you gave up the wink-wink, nudge nudge? You pickin’ up what we’re puttin’ down, Melbourne?’
Blake shook her head, laughing under her breath. She’d spent thirteen years thinking about that night. Now she was about to crowdsource sympathy for it, live on air. Why not?
‘We’ve been talking about Blake’s week with her Euro rockstar, thirteen years ago,’ Mack continued, steamrolling ahead. ‘And, look, it’s no secret they bumped uglies during their whirlwind romance. Because, surprise, we’re now hunting for Blake’s little one’s daddy!’
Sam hit a rimshot sound effect, the tiny crack of a drum making Blake snort into her mic.
‘But how long did she hold out for?’ Mack said, dragging it out like a soap-opera tease. ‘She’s going to tell you exactly how long she waited before she gave up the goodies. The golden snitch, the forbidden fruit, the keys to the city!’
Sam wheezed from behind the panel. Blake bit back a grin, shaking her head at Mack’s crass theatrics.
‘But what about the rest of you, Melbourne?’ Mack added. ‘What’s the norm these days? What’s the average? Let’s make Blake feel better. It’s been a hot minute for her. Let us know what you’re doing out there in the wild.’
He rattled off the station number: ‘Give us a call on fourteen-sixteen-twelve.’
‘We’ll take your calls straight after this. Here’s Benson Boone with “Beautiful Things”, right here on Melbourne’s number-one brekkie show. It’s Mack and Blake in the Morning!’
The second the music crashed in, a sharp, pulsing hit of synths and bass, Mack clapped his hands once and dropped straight to the studio floor in one messy, determined movement.
‘Time to activate the core, baby!’ he shouted, manoeuvring himself into a plank beside the panel desk.
Blake spun in her chair, stretching her legs in front of her, grinning as she watched him struggle to lock his form.
‘You’ve gotta optimise downtime!’ Mack panted. ‘Time under tension, Blakey. That’s how you shred. That’s how you thrive.’
‘That’s what got you escorted out of St Kilda Sea Baths,’ Sam said, deadpan.
Blake laughed, proper and unguarded. The studio felt alive with their energy.
‘You gotta boost your NEAT energy too! Non-Exercise Activity Thermogenesis!’ Mack went on, like he was channelling his inner Billy Blanks from the carpet. ‘Every second counts. That’s how you stay shredded between sessions!’
The airlock hissed open. Chelsea stuck her head in, headset around her neck.
‘Remind me again why I’m sharing with the entire city how long I held out on sex thirteen years ago?’ Blake asked, spinning her chair to face her.
‘Because we need to keep the audience invested in Leo and you,’ Chelsea said, stepping just inside the door. ‘You can’t expect everyone to be in on this manhunt unless you sell them the drama, the romance—and the sex. We know he was sweet, what we don’t know is how sexy he is.’
Chelsea was crafting more than a search, she was building the on-air narrative.
‘Right. The sexy angle.’ Blake turned back to her desk. ‘Got it.’
‘You too, Mack, sexy not so crass, all right?’ Chelsea reminded him before disappearing back through the airlock just as Blake’s phone buzzed across the desk. She glanced down.
UberEats Notification: Your driver is here. Please meet at reception.
She looked up through the glass at Chelsea, who was frantic on the phones. Britt was halfway through writing something on the whiteboard, while a street teamer read TikTok comments over her shoulder.
Blake pushed her chair back. ‘Coffees are here. I’ll pop down and grab them. How much time have we got, Sam?’
Sam looked at the countdown. ‘Two and a half minutes.’
‘Plenty of time,’ she said, grabbing her swipe pass off the hook and jogging for the door.
She was halfway across the studio when Mack shouted from the floor, breathless but committed, ‘Think about it like this! You’ve got a blueberry between your arse cheeks! You’ve gotta squeeze it. Protect it. At all costs!’
Without breaking stride, Blake flipped him the bird over her shoulder. ‘Squeeze this,’ she called, just as she shoved through the airlock door.
Sam let out a sharp bark of laughter.
Before Mack could fire back, she was gone.
Blake hit the lift button with her swipe pass still dangling from two fingers. Her phone was in her other hand, UberEats app open, message box half-typed: Coming now, be there in a sec.
Inside the lift, she caught a flash of herself in the mirror.
Flushed cheeks, loose ponytail, grin she couldn’t wipe off if she tried.
She was flying. TikTok was blowing up. The phones were melting.
And for the first time in years, it felt the show was more than just a Seinfeld, a show about nothing.
This was clicky, this was lean-in radio. And it was hers, her story, her mark.
The lift doors opened into the building’s glass-fronted lobby, and Blake stepped out straight into the gaze of a man with a camera.
He was standing just outside the glass, half-shadowed behind a column like he thought he was being subtle.
The long lens gave him away. That, and the way he raised it when she appeared.
Daily Mail. Probably.
She kept walking. Chest high. Coffees to retrieve. The media was actually catching on to ‘Finding Leo’. And the weirdest part? She felt…flattered.
The UberEats driver was waiting near the reception desk, clutching a cardboard tray like it might explode.
‘For Emily Blake?’ he asked, eyes darting between her and the tray.
‘That’s me,’ she said, stepping forward with a smile.
He looked about nineteen and terrified.
She held out her arms and he transferred the tray across with visible relief. She steadied it against her chest, grabbed her swipe pass between her teeth, and turned towards the lift.
She hit the button with the side of her knuckle, balancing everything like a pro.
As the doors slid open, the driver hesitated. ‘Hope you find that Leo guy.’
Blake blinked, surprised. Then smiled, small and real. ‘Me too.’
The doors closed, sealing her in with the coffees and the quiet thud of her pulse.
The lift doors opened. Blake stepped back into the hallway, the scent of fresh coffee curling around her like a promise. She salivated. Exactly what she needed.
She attempted a light jog towards the studio, sneakers squeaking on the lino, precariously balancing the tray.
The music thumped through the walls ahead, a dull vibration of bass bleeding through the soundproofing.
The corridor was empty except for a forgotten production schedule taped to the wall, one corner curling where the sticky tape had given up.
She was almost there.
And then her foot caught.
A thick orange extension cord snaked across the hallway, probably dumped there by the promo team during some half-baked tech setup. Her body pitched forward. The tray jolted.
All four heads at the producer desk snapped towards her.
Blake stumbled but recovered. She corrected mid-step, tray tipping, feet adjusting like she’d rehearsed the moment in a dream. Perfect. Controlled. Graceful. She maintained her stride.
She smiled to herself, full-body satisfaction washing over her.
‘Coffee’s up, legends,’ she called, clearing the hallway.
She handed them out one by one. Britt first, then the two street teamers. Chelsea’s cup came last, and Chelsea, still mid-call, mouthed thank you with a look of genuine approval. Even she was impressed.
Blake backed into the studio with ease, still holding the tray with just three coffees left now: Sam’s, Mack’s and her own.
Mack was halfway out of his plank, red-faced and damp with exertion. Had he held it the whole time? Surely not. Surely he’d had a little lie down while she was gone.
Sam’s fingers hovered above the faders, ready to bring them live.
And all in two and a half minutes: Downstairs. Papped. Coffee. Delivery. Distribution.
Blake slid into her chair, still riding the high. She placed the tray down with a soft thud, passed Sam his flat white, kept Mack’s double-shot caramel cappuccino with extra chocolate and oat milk hovering just out of reach, and took her own cup in both hands.
Sam’s eyes flicked to the countdown. ‘In three…two…’
The ON AIR light blinked red.
‘Benson Boone with “Beautiful Things”,’ Mack said.
‘This is Melbourne’s number-one breakfast show.
You’re with Mack and Blake, and earlier this morning Blake shared a very embarrassing story about her first failed attempt to sleep with our Eurofest rockstar, Leo, who we’re still trying to hunt down.
If you’ve got any information on him, you can call us anytime, fourteen-sixteen-twelve. ’
Blake lifted her coffee to her mouth.
‘But right now,’ Mack continued, ‘we’re asking the question: how long did you make them wa…’
The recyclable cardboard coffee lid gave way.
It slipped. A subtle shift. A tilt. And then a third of a long black poured down the front of Blake’s white tee.
Her breath caught. The coffee was scalding. The shirt turned translucent. And for half a second, all she could do was stare at her own chest, stunned.
Across the desk, Mack burst into laughter. Actual, involuntary, full-body laughter. He slapped the desk, lost his balance, and crumpled to the floor in a dramatic heap.
‘Well,’ he wheezed, dragging his headphones back into place, ‘we found the hottest thing on radio this morning.’
Sam stood up, reached behind the panel, and handed Blake a wad of paper towel.
She took it, blinking. Still stunned.
Behind the glass, Chelsea typed on the producer screen: If you’re not burnt, this is radio gold.
Blake cleared her throat, trying to recover. Her shirt clung to her ribs. Coffee was dripping somewhere into her bra.