I'm not giving up on this. He's going to call me Andrew eventually, even if I have to drill it into his skull with a power tool.
Vince sits down next to me, the chair scraping against the floor in a way that makes my teeth ache. He scrolls through his phone as if he hasn't heard me, his thumb swiping across the screen with practiced ease. The scent of his cologne wafts over, doing dangerous things to my already compromised composure.
"You're back," he says casually, still not bothering to make eye contact. The words are simple, but they carry a weight that makes my heart thump against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, my voice tight.
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with subtext neither of us is willing to acknowledge.
Vince smirks, tucking his phone into his pocket and shuffling through a stack of papers on the desk. "Why wouldn't you be..."he repeats, almost to himself, smiling faintly but keeping his eyes on the papers. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, but it still sends a jolt through me, a current of electricity that makes my fingers tingle.
Why won't he look at me? The question ricochets around my skull like a pinball machine gone haywire. I'm sitting right next to him, our elbows nearly touching on this too-small table, and Vince is acting like I'm invisible again. His attention is fixed on those papers, his thumb smoothing down the edges with maddening precision.
"So, what's on those papers?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Because it sure as hell isn't a script."
Vince lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and rumbling. He rearranges the papers with deliberate slowness, as if their order actually matters, as if he hasn't already memorized whatever's written there.
"Is that a list of all the people you screwed out of this job before me?"
That does it. Vince laughs, genuine and unrestrained, his head tilting back as the sound fills the space between us.
He finally turns to meet my eyes, really looks at me for the first time since he sat down. His light brown gaze locks onto mine, full of amusement, and I feel something inside me shift, a tiny spark of victory igniting in the darkness of my uncertainty. Winning this game—whatever game this is—feels like everything.
"Does it feel weird meeting with so many people you'll never see again, Vince?" I ask, feeling a spark of boldness I didn't know I possessed. The words tumble out before I can stop them, fueled by his unexpected laughter and the way his eyes finally met mine. "Do you even remember any of them? And, more importantly, why is your list so long?"
There's something thrilling about pushing back, about refusing to be just another name on his list of discarded hopefuls. For a moment, I think I see something flicker in his eyes, but it's gone before I can be certain.
Before he can respond, Todd's voice cracks through the air. "Action!"
The word is a command, a signal that our brief moment of genuine connection is over, that we're back to being actors playing roles.
"I'd bet everything I have is longer than yours, Andy," Vince says, his voice smooth as silk as he turns to face me fully. His light brown eyes lock onto mine, and suddenly the air feels thick.
Time freezes.
My mouth hangs open as his words register, each syllable landing like a physical blow. He stares at me with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, clearly enjoying my reaction. Was this some form of hetero-banter flying right over my head? Behind the cameras, I can hear the crew stifling their laughter, the sound a distant hum that does nothing to break the spell of his gaze.
This was how the first episode of the show was going to start. Fantastic.
I was officially the punchline, the setup for his joke, the straight man in a comedy routine I never auditioned for. My heart pounds against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that I'm sure is audible to everyone in the room.
"Welcome to Relay!" Vince announces, turning to face the camera as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just set my world on fire with those simple words. His voice is warm, professional, the perfect host for a game show.
My mouth snaps shut with an audible click, the sound swallowed by the studio's artificial silence. I force myself to turn forward, my eyes fixed on the black abyss of the camera lens.The lights blaze overhead, so intense I can feel them heating the skin of my face, making the sweat bead at my temples. Behind the glare, I can still hear them—the crew's snickers, muffled but unmistakable, each chuckle a tiny needle pricking at my composure.
"Thanks for joining us. I'm Andrew Parker," I manage, my voice coming out steadier than I expect, as if someone else is speaking through me. The on-camera persona slides on like a second skin, a mask I can hide behind.
"And I'm Vince Vickers," Vince chimes in, his voice smooth as silk as he turns toward the camera. I feel his gaze slide to me, a smirk playing on his lips that I can see in my peripheral vision. "Say, Andy, how cold do you think it is out there on the relay field today?"
My fingers tighten around the script, the paper crinkling under the pressure. I have to physically stop myself from rolling my eyes, the impulse so strong it makes my jaw ache.
"Well, Vince," I say, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace, "I'd remind you that my name is Andrew, and it's approximately forty-three degrees." My eyes flicker to the camera, then back down to the script in front of me, the words blurring together into meaningless black squiggles.
"Being from Alaska, you might not know this," Vince continues, his voice dripping with condescending charm, "but it's been unseasonably cold here in Southern California for November. Our contestant Sally Blakely is also from Alaska. Did you know that, Andy?"
My head whips toward him, a muscle in my jaw twitching. "I did. Yes."
"And...? Any stories?" Vince leans in, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries across the entire studio.
