Blake Shelton was no stranger to chaos. As a country music superstar, he’d navigated rowdy crowds, missed tour bus exits, and even a runaway pig at his Oklahoma ranch. But on a sunny June morning in 2025, his biggest challenge was playing chauffeur for Gwen Stefani’s three boys—Kingston, Zuma, and Apollo—while Gwen was tied up in a meeting for her GXVE Beauty fashion line. “I got this, darlin’,” Blake had told Gwen as she rushed out the door of their Los Angeles home, her leopard-print tote slung over her shoulder. “Droppin’ kids at school’s easier than herdin’ cattle.” Gwen, planting a quick kiss on his cheek, flashed a skeptical smile. “Just follow the schedule, cowboy,” she said, texting him a color-coded calendar of the boys’ school drop-offs.
Blake, in his favorite jeans and a faded Ole Red T-shirt, felt like a hero stepping up. Kingston, 19, was a lanky teenager with a passion for skateboarding and Gwen’s punk aesthetic. Zuma, 16, was the family’s resident comedian, always ready with a quip. Apollo, 11, was a bundle of energy, obsessed with superheroes and his pet dog, Betty. The boys’ schools, however, were a logistical maze: Apollo attended an elementary school in Studio City, while Kingston and Zuma went to a middle/high school in Sherman Oaks, a few miles apart. Blake, who’d grown up walking to a one-room schoolhouse in Ada, Oklahoma, didn’t think twice about the details. “How hard can it be?” he muttered, grabbing the keys to his beloved Ford F-150 pickup truck.
The morning started smoothly enough. Blake herded the boys into the kitchen, where they scarfed down Gwen’s pre-prepped oatmeal bowls—sprinkled with chia seeds, to Blake’s mild horror. “Y’all sure you don’t want some bacon?” he teased, earning eye-rolls from Kingston and a giggle from Apollo. With backpacks slung over shoulders, they piled into the truck, Kingston claiming the front seat while Zuma and Apollo bickered over who got the window in the back. Blake cranked up his latest single, “Pour Me a Drink,” on the radio, singing along with exaggerated twang to make the boys groan. “Bố Blake, you’re so extra,” Zuma said, but he was grinning.
As they rolled through LA’s palm-lined streets, Blake’s confidence grew. He’d memorized Apollo’s school address, figuring it was the first stop since the kid was youngest. The truck’s GPS chirped directions, and Blake, distracted by Apollo’s story about a Spider-Man comic, didn’t notice the calendar app blinking on his phone. He pulled into the parking lot of Valley View Elementary, a cheerful campus with a mural of cartoon animals. “Alright, team, we’re here!” Blake announced, turning off the engine. Apollo hopped out, clutching his Avengers backpack, but Kingston and Zuma stayed put, exchanging confused looks.
“Bố Blake,” Kingston said slowly, leaning forward, “this ain’t my school. I’m not in third grade.” His voice dripped with teenage sarcasm, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
Zuma, peering out the window, burst out laughing. “Yeah, dude, this is Apollo’s place! Our school’s, like, ten minutes away!”
Blake froze, his hands still on the steering wheel. He glanced at the school sign, then at the boys, his face shifting from confusion to dawning horror. “Well, shoot,” he said, his Oklahoma drawl thickening. “I thought y’all went to the same spot!” He fumbled for his phone, Gwen’s calendar app revealing the glaring truth: Sherman Oaks High was a different destination. “Alright, my bad,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “Guess I figured you big shots could use a refresher on your times tables.”
Kingston snorted, pulling his hoodie over his face. “Bố, you’re killing my vibe,” he said, but he was laughing now, snapping a selfie with the elementary school sign in the background. Zuma, ever the instigator, leaned forward. “Can we stay? I wanna see if I can still fit on the swings.”
Apollo, already halfway to the school gate, turned back, puzzled. “Aren’t you guys coming?” he asked, and Blake, red-faced, waved him off. “You’re good, little man. Go learn somethin’!” As Apollo scampered away, Blake restarted the truck, muttering, “Your mom’s gonna have my hide for this.”
The drive to Sherman Oaks was a riot of teasing. Zuma declared Blake “the worst Uber driver ever,” while Kingston texted his friends about “Bố Blake’s epic fail.” Blake, trying to salvage his dignity, spun the mistake into a story about getting lost on a cattle drive as a kid. “Y’all laugh now, but back in Ada, we didn’t have GPS,” he said, earning exaggerated groans. By the time they pulled into the high school lot, they were 15 minutes late, and the campus was nearly deserted. “You’re gonna need a tardy slip,” Zuma said, hopping out. “Good luck explaining this to Mom.”
Kingston, lingering in the front seat, gave Blake a fist bump. “It’s cool, Bố,” he said, his tone softer. “This was kinda fun.” Blake grinned, relief washing over him. “Get to class, punk,” he said, ruffling Kingston’s hair. As the boys disappeared into the school, Blake leaned back, exhaling. “Herdin’ kids is harder than singin’ for 20,000 people,” he muttered.
Gwen, stuck in a meeting about vegan leather jackets, got the full story via a group chat with the boys. Kingston’s selfie at the elementary school, captioned “Bố Blake’s Lost Again,” made her stifle a laugh mid-pitch. She fired off a text to Blake: “Babe, next time I’m drawing you a school map 😜.” Blake, parked at a Starbucks to regroup, replied with a sheepish cowboy emoji and a promise to “study up.”
That afternoon, Blake picked the boys up—on time, at the right schools—and decided to make amends with a detour to their favorite ice cream shop, Pinkberry. He ordered a round of frozen yogurt, letting Apollo pile on gummy worms while Kingston and Zuma debated flavors like it was a UN summit. “This is my apology tour,” Blake said, handing them their cups. “Don’t tell your mom I’m bribin’ y’all.” Zuma smirked, already texting Gwen a photo of his mango swirl. “Too late, Bố.”
Back home, Gwen greeted them in the kitchen, her meeting notes scattered across the counter. “So, I hear you took the scenic route to school,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she hugged Blake. He groaned, pulling her into his arms. “Darlin’, I’m stickin’ to tour buses from now on,” he said. “These kids got too many schools.” Gwen laughed, her voice like a melody. “You’re doing great, cowboy. The boys love their road-trip dad.”
Over dinner—pizza, because Blake swore off cooking after the morning’s chaos—the family recounted the day’s adventure with theatrical flair. Kingston mimicked Blake’s “times tables” quip, while Zuma pitched a reality show called “Blake’s Bad Drives.” Apollo, munching on a slice, declared, “I want Bố to drive me every day!” Blake, feigning offense, tossed a napkin at him. “Y’all are brutal,” he said, but his grin betrayed his joy.
The wrong-school road trip became a family legend, retold with giggles at every gathering. Gwen saved Kingston’s selfie in a scrapbook, dubbing it “The Great School Mix-Up of ’25.” Blake, true to his word, studied Gwen’s calendar like a playbook, but the boys still teased him mercilessly, sneaking “third-grade worksheets” onto his nightstand. Gwen, ever the glue of their blended family, would catch Blake’s eye during these moments and mouth, “You’re perfect.” And Blake, watching Kingston, Zuma, and Apollo grow into their own, knew she was right—even if his driving skills needed a little more practice.
