"What? Do you think I know her because we're both from Alaska?" I snap, the words sharper than I intend. "She's from Anchorage, which is nowhere near where I grew up, and she's much older than me. Do you have any idea how large Alaska is—"
"Wait, hold on," Vince cuts in, leaning closer until I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He smells clean, with a hint of his cologne that makes my head spin, and I have to force myself to stay composed, to remember that we're on camera, that every micro-expression is being captured for everyone to see later.
"Hey, how old are you?" he whispers, as if the microphone pinned to my collar won't pick it up, as if we're sharing secrets in a crowded schoolyard instead of sitting under studio lights that could melt ice.
I refuse to answer.
Whatever I say will lead to another joke, another setup where I'm the punchline, and I just want to get back to the script, to follow Gary's instructions and not get fired on my second day.
Vince turns toward the crew behind the lights, a smirk playing on his lips. "Hey, who hired Andy? Do we have his work permit signed off for today's show? His parents are going to need a copy for school."
The crew erupts in laughter, the sound washing over me. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, my face flushing with humiliation that I'm sure will look hilarious on camera. My fingers tighten around the script, the paper crinkling under the pressure as I try to remember how to breathe.
I glare at him from the corner of my eye, a muscle in my jaw twitching as I force myself to keep my gaze locked on the camera lens. The black glass stares back, unblinking, capturing every micro-expression of humiliation that flashes across my face.
"Child labor laws are strict these days," Vince adds, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Whose idea was this?"
A slow smile creeps onto my face, pulling at the corners of my mouth despite my best efforts to remain composed.
They were really letting him say whatever he wanted.
This wasn't just a game show; it was Vince's playground, and I was the new toy he couldn't stop testing.
I read my lines, sticking to the script as best I can, the words feeling like foreign objects in my mouth. The relay portion with the contestants had already been filmed, so at least I don't have to improvise much, don't have to stumble through unscripted banter that seems to come so naturally to him.
When I glance back at Vince, I notice he's doodling on a tablet, his stylus moving across the screen with practiced ease.
"Wait, where did that come from? You get a tablet?" I blurt before I can stop myself, the words tumbling out of my mouth like clumsy toddlers.
Vince smirks, not even bothering to look up. "They gave it to me because I'm the highest-paid person here. It's part of my contract. I demand a minimum of five iPads on location, along with a double trailer and a hot tub."
I bite back a smile, the gesture so ridiculous it almost overrides my irritation. He's obviously joking, but I can't help wondering how many perks he actually has, how far his celebrity status extends in this world I've barely begun to navigate.
"You're ridiculous," I say, shaking my head, the words coming out softer than I intend.
"This scoreboard is ridiculous," Vince replies, finally looking up from his tablet. "We've got a three-way tie between Stevens from Ohio, Blakely from Alaska, and Warner from New York." I notice Vince's doodles suddenly appearing on the scoreboard screen behind us, where the three contestants' names are now circled with childish drawings.
"Do I get one of those? You know, as the co-host?" I ask, looking toward Todd and Gary. Gary shrugs, while Todd covers his mouth with his hand, probably to hide a grin.
"Why does he get one of those?" The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice tight with irritation.
Vince's head snaps toward me, his expression unreadable for a split second before a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. His eyes lock on mine, and suddenly there are butterflies swarming in my stomach, a fluttering sensation that makes me feel sixteen all over again.
His attention does something to me, something that makes this whole show feel like either the worst idea I've ever had or the most fun I've had in years.
I can't figure Vince out, not really, but I'm drawn to whatever this is between us. His focus is intoxicating, a drug I can't get enough of, even as I tell myself I should be running in the opposite direction.
"Maybe on your eighteenth birthday," Vince says, his voice smooth as silk, the words dripping with condescending charm that somehow still makes my heart skip a beat.
"Stop it." My voice comes out sharp. "You and I both know I'm clearly not younger than eighteen." I turn to meet his gaze directly, soaking in the way his eye contact makes me feel wired, alive, completely exposed. "Quit belittling me."
"How would I clearly know you're older than eighteen?" Vince leans in, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries across the entire studio.
"I don't know. Personal experience?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, awkward and clumsy, and I immediately regret them.
The crew erupts in laughter, the sound washing over me as Vince joins in, his shoulders shaking with amusement. When he looks at me again, his expression holds something I can't quitename, something that makes my face burn with embarrassment, heat creeping up my neck.
"That's not what I meant," I stammer, my gaze darting between him and the camera lens. I hate this—hate improv, hate how every word is being recorded, hate that I have no control over how this will all be edited later, how I'll sound to viewers at home.
