Page 1 of GDL (BBA: Bad Boy Academy)

1

Sawyer

"Well, here we are," Grayson says as we pull up.

"Here?" I glance out the tinted car window. "This is it?"

"Yep."

I take in the exterior of the retro-inspired house, the scene for today's shoot and my first meeting with one of the members of the hottest internet boy collective in the world, known as BBA. Just one of the many new terms and acronyms I've learned lately.

I step out of the SUV and am immediately hit with a wall of heat. I'd forgotten how hot LA could be in September. I start undoing the buttons of my Tom Ford dress shirt.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Grayson asks, coming over to stand next to me.

"Of course I'm ready." I ditch the tie, tossing it onto the passenger seat before slamming the door shut. "I've been preparing for months."

"I know you have, but…" He bites his lip, hesitates. "But you don't have to do this."

"Yes. I do," I correct him, rolling my sleeve up my forearm. "This is about creating a legacy."

"Mate, you already have a legacy." I scoff, rolling up the other sleeve, but it doesn't deter him. "You're one of Australia's most respected media figures. You hosted the local version of 60 Minutes . You've won the Gold Logie, the highest TV accolade three years in a row for chrissakes."

"Yeah, and when did all that happen?" I turn to face my manager and best friend who I've known since he took me on as his first client way back when. "A good fifteen years ago," I answer my own question. "My career is in the doldrums. I haven't had a proper TV gig in years. And don't say what about Dancing with the ?—"

"What about Dancing with the Stars ?" he takes over with a self-satisfied smirk. He's the only person in the world I let get away with giving me shit like this. The annoying thing is he damn well knows it.

I shake my head, the warmth of the sun seeping through the dark fabric of my shirt. "Things may be bad, but I still have a modicum of self-respect. I am not doing that show."

Despite repeated requests and bucketloads of money promised. My comeback isn't about money. Let me rephrase that, it isn't only about money.

Grayson's eyes meet mine. "I can picture you doing a killer cha-cha."

"I worry about you sometimes."

We make our way along the concrete walkway toward the house.

Grayson is responsible for me skyrocketing through the reporting ranks from local news to the most watched prime-time TV news and current affairs program in Australia. He's been with me for all my highs and lows, like my wife, Elaine, dying when Benji was seven and Finch was only a toddler.

That was devastating, but it only strengthened my resolve to work even harder, make it into the big league, and provide for my boys. They're adults now, out in the world, forging their own paths. Benji's a bestselling romance author, and Finch is climbing the ranks in the world of sports reporting. I couldn't be prouder of them. Hands down, they're my two greatest achievements.

But while they're doing well, I'm in a funk. I've been pushed aside, replaced by a new breed of young, hungry reporters. It doesn't help that there seems to be no appetite for long-form content in a world of ten-second videos and mind-numbing clickbait delivered in increasingly narrow echo chambers.

Until an idea struck me about a year ago. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Rather than bemoan the loss of legacy media, why not meet people where they are and deliver content to them on their platforms?

And since everyone's on social media, what could be better than interviewing one of the hottest social media stars in the world—Kynan Parker-Gillis?

Stumbling upon one of his viral GDL videos, discovering he's part of the BBA, and appreciating his mix of charisma, humor, and good looks sealed the deal. Profiling him is my ticket to making a comeback. I know it is, and my instincts have rarely let me down.

It took months and months of Grayson negotiating with Kynan's management team to secure a two-week window to follow him around, get to know him better, culminating in a sit-down interview we'll shop around to the major networks, hopefully attracting a bidding war.

Dancing with the Stars is on ice. Permanently, if I can make this a success.

I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen. I want to show the world that a forty-nine-year-old can still be viable, that I'm too young to be put out to pasture, that I'm still passionate about sharing people's stories, even if I am getting a few lines here and there and small patches of silver threading into my hair.

But more than money and accolades and awards, the most important reason I have for pursuing this is I want to make my boys as proud of me as I am of them.

I know they already are, but they were young when I was at my peak in the late noughties, early twenty-tens. What they probably remember most is my absence as I chased stories all over the world and our nightly 7 p.m. calls, which I never missed, no matter what time zone I was in. They never got to experience their old man at the top of his game. I want them to see me there now.

"Why are we here?" I ask, taking in a pair of vintage plastic flamingos with sun-faded neon pink feathers that greet us at the porch steps.

"Kynan's filming today."

"I know that. But why here?"

Grayson shrugs. "It's as good a place as any. For GDL all he really needs is a laundry room and a clothesline. This place fits in with that vibe."

"That makes sense, I suppose."

We climb the few steps and arrive at a turquoise-blue front door.

"Oh. The video you posted before we left Sydney has just clipped past a million views," Grayson says, lifting his phone to show me.

I squint to see the tiny view count in the bottom corner. "While we were flying over?"

"Yep. You're keeping the kids fed."

"That sounds highly inappropriate."

He laughs.

These days, I'm known more for posting shirtless videos on social media, usually taken at the gym or when I'm out hiking, than my hard-hitting reporter days of yesteryear. Launching my socials and filling them with thirst traps—another new term—was all Grayson's idea. It seems to be going well, even if I don't understand the world of followers and engagement at all.

Grayson goes to knock on the door, then stops himself. "And are you sure you're ready for him ?" he asks, arching his brow as he says him .

"What are you suggesting?"

His smirk returns. "Oh, nothing… Just that, well, Kynan Parker-Gillis is a very good-looking young man."

He's got a point.

At first, I assumed he was just another pretty boy content creator—I've learned that the term influencer, like skinny jeans and dabbing, is out. But as soon as Grayson confirmed we had secured access to him, I immersed myself in a deep dive of his life.

I quickly discovered there’s a lot more to him than just his good looks.

He's a triplet. Grew up in Thickehead, a small mountain town a few hours out of LA. Went to college to study business. Started GDL in his first term as a way to showcase how doing laundry helps reduce his anxiety. Dropped out of college when his videos started going viral, amassing millions of views. And I was especially impressed with how he's managed to convert views and likes into a business empire with sponsorships from detergent companies and washing machine makers, as well as spearheading the highly successful LaundryCon, now in its second year.

And the wildest part? He's only twenty-three.

Equally hard to believe is his muscular physique, easily the build of someone much older. Both of his arms are sleeved in tattoos that expand to cover the top half of his chest. He's got long golden hair that cascades down to his shoulders, and his face is angular and broody, possessing the smoldering presence, again, of someone a lot older.

Explains why he's taken the internet by storm—all that bad boy energy mixing with something as sweet and wholesome as the GDL hashtag he created.

Grayson is staring at me, and judging by that twinkle in his eye, I can tell where his mind has gone. The gutter.

"He's a kid," I remind him.

"No. He's a twenty-three-year-old adult."

"He's younger than my youngest son."

"That's one way to guarantee this becomes a blockbuster story."

"I'm not above putting you in a headlock, you know."

He laughs. "I'm just saying you could have picked from any number of social media celebs. What made you choose him?"

My jaw tightens. Okay, so maybe he's got a point. There is something special about Kynan that piqued my interest. An old-school charm. An endearing earnestness as he does a deep dive into the different materials, designs, and functions of the top ten most commonly used pegs. A certain innocent sexiness in the countless videos I've watched of him pinning up clothes on the line, shirtless, smiling, his long hair falling over his shoulders, his muscles flexing. The richness of his voice and the passion evident in his eyes as he discusses different drying cycles or returns to what seems to be the never-ending debate in the #laundryworld of hot v cold water.

Despite all that, I'm a professional, and I'm going to act like one. I have a lot riding on this, and I want this experience to be a positive one for Kynan, too. He ran into some issues with the media when he first got big, so this is my chance to help right some of those wrongs and change some of the misconceptions the public might have about him and the BBA crew.

Grayson's still smiling smugly at me.

"He's also straight," I point out. A fact I fact-checked repeatedly during my research. "So that rules out anything happening."

"It rules out nothing." He quirks a brow at the not-so-subtle hint to my bisexuality. "Young adults these days are…fluid."

"I wish I had a fluid to throw at your face right about now," I mutter, lifting the brass lion’s head knocker and tapping it against the door three times.

It's showtime, and I need to bring my A-game. I can't afford any distractions. Yes, Kynan ticks many boxes, including some I never knew I had— hello tattoos —but this is serious. I want to restore my career back to its former glory and show my kids their old man has still got it. I won't let anything stand in the way of that.

A baby-faced fellow opens the door. He's holding a phone in one hand, an iced coffee in the other, and has what looks like a baby blanket flung over his shoulder. He runs his icy blue eyes over us. "You're not Caviar."

"Caviar?" I whisper to Grayson, confused.

"Like DoorDash but fancier," he whispers back.

"No, we're not," I say to the young man. "I'm Sawyer Bannister, and this is my manag?—"

His eyes light up. "Oh, yeah. I follow you on TikTok. Sorry. Didn't recognize you with a shirt on. Hi, I'm Tharin. Come in, come in. We're shooting out back."

We follow him through the house that looks more like it's ready to be featured in a mid-century interiors magazine than being someone's actual residence. Grayson bumps me with his elbow. " Didn't recognize you with a shirt on . Tharin totally sassed you, BTW," he says, low enough for Tharin not to hear.

I roll my eyes. "You're too old to be using text acronyms in real life," I remind my fifty-four-year-old bestie.

We're led out onto the back patio. Tharin leaves us, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the photoshoot underway on the lawn. There's an elaborate setup with two cameras, lighting rigs, and a crew of four or five. It's a big change from the first video Kynan made where he was hanging clothes on a makeshift line in his dorm room, talking about how something as mundane as laundry helped quell his anxiety.

One thing that hasn't changed? He was shirtless in that first video, and he's shirtless right now. The LA sun beams down on his muscular body, lighting up his colorful tattoos to their full brilliance, and Jesus hold the peg bag, it's a stunning sight. Like a work of moving art.

Pressure builds behind my zipper as Kynan slowly hangs the white towels on the clothesline, his abs taut as his biceps flex, securing each towel with two pegs before bending down—the camera zooming in on his ass—and repeating it again, talking to the camera the whole time.

We're too far away to hear what he's saying, but it's likely one of two things: either care instructions about the best way to hang towels out on a line to dry, or something personal and motivational from his own life.

This whole setup could be trite and eye roll worthy, but it's Kynan's X factor that elevates it into something that millions of people around the world genuinely connect with. Side note, my clothes have never smelled better or been softer.

"Word to the wise, old man," Grayson mutters, rocking on his heels beside me. "People who aren't interested in someone tend not to drool."

"I am not drooling, motherfucker." I don't take my eyes off Kynan as I discreetly swipe my thumb along the seam of my lower lip, just to be sure.

I may be clear on the drooling front, but something tells me I may have seriously underestimated what I've gotten myself into.