Chapter 8
Meetings
Sofie
Morning comes clean and pale, not bright today, the gray sky dulling its shine.
The penthouse sits high above the Fairfax Media building, high enough that it feels quiet, unless helicopters pass by.
Twenty-seven floors. It’s not Midtown massive; Fairfax Media is not trying to compete with glass towers that command attention, but it is taller than most of the financial district blocks it overlooks.
From up here, New York looks organized, which comforts me, but I know better.
I roll to my side into the cloud of white sheets and duvet that covers my weighted blanket, which helps me sleep, and reach for my phone to flip off the alarm before it goes off. There’s no reason to set it; my internal clock always has me up earlier than I want to be.
It’s Saturday, which means nothing. All the days blur together and have for the past two years since the incident with Dad.
I shake the thought away, no sense in living in the past, and hit IG to check on the latest post with Deacon and Claudia at Icehouse, it’s doing well. Lots of love for them. The proposal is doing great, but it’s Aleks’ video with our sweet Savannah that is still growing.
Aleks Kilovac, who stood up and turned oxygen into tension. I redirected. Smiled. Deflected. Kept the narrative where it belonged.
Not on him.
I roll out of bed and cross the heated concrete floor to the windows and look down at the city below me. Delivery trucks double-parked like declarations. Parents hustling kids into coats. And of course, runners pretending this is relaxing.
I do not think about Aleks.
I have four days before the Bears head out on the road.
Four days to capture the things that matter, because hockey doesn’t need help.
What people want is the in-between. Savannah’s first real holiday season.
Claudia trying to be everywhere at once and still show up fully.
Deacon pretending he’s not sentimental while being aggressively sentimental.
Claudia isn’t here for leisure. She’s a working mom, running a life, juggling schedules, deadlines, and a baby who does not care about optics. Which means this must be thoughtful. Efficient. Human.
I head back to my bed and grab my phone, open a text thread with Deacon and Claudia, and send a text.
Me:
Morning. I know you’re both juggling a lot, so I built this to feel easy, not like an obligation. Four days, flexible, zero pressure. Not PR, just New York.
Me:
Today: Rockefeller Center, mom and dad on ice with Savannah, if that works. Hot chocolate after.
Day 2: Central Park loop, slow pace. Bow Bridge if it’s calm. Deacon pushing the stroller. A family, just existing. Game Day.
Day 3: Holiday markets, Union Square or Columbus Circle. One ornament each. Claudia picks. Paul could come too? Later, an early dinner in Little Italy. Lights, cannoli, home before bedtime. Savannah is asleep on Deacon’s shoulder if we time it right.
Day 4: Claudia’s office, between meetings, watching out that massive window that overlooks the ice, watching her man.
I pause, then add what actually matters.
Me:
Optional moments while Deacons in Chicago, Paul and Savannah at the window of the Waverly place house, construction blur in the background, with Claudia looking over plans with the GC. Or Paul reading to her after bathtime. Claudia, coffee in hand, laptop closed, just breathing for a minute.
Me:
I’ll handle logistics. You just show up when you can.
I send it before I can second-guess myself.
The replies come fast.
Claudia sends a heart, followed by:
Claudia:
Thank you for remembering I still have meetings.
Deacon replies with a thumbs up and a photo of Savannah in a ridiculously cute knit hat with bear ears
Deacon:
The hats from G Paul.
I smile and give it a heart.
This is what I’m good at. Anticipating needs. Making space without taking it up.
We have four days, a tight window, but it can be done.
And it will be, because I absolutely will not think about a Russian defensive wing with an attitude problem and eyes that know exactly how much trouble they cause. And I’m most definitely not going to try to defend him from trolls, because he clearly doesn’t want that…
Dressed and ready for the day, I head out of my wing and toward Dad’s.
My father is at the table by the window, jacket folded neatly beside him, sleeves rolled up. There’s a thin stack of reports in front of him, aligned too carefully. He’s reading them the way he always has, brow furrowed, lips moving just slightly as he tracks the lines.
“You’re up early,” he says without looking up.
“I had a meeting,” I answer. “Still do.”
He glances at his watch, frowns. “It’s Saturday.”
“It’s November,” I say. “December doesn’t wait.”
That makes him smile. A real one. He sets the papers down and finally meets my eyes.
“You always were like that,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Always have been.”
He used to say since you were little, I don’t correct him.
“I noticed you were home late,” he adds, carefully. “Everything go alright?”
“Yes,” I say. “It did.”
“You handled yesterday well,” he says suddenly. “I saw it.”
I don’t ask how much he remembers. I never do.
“I’m not in the business of reacting,” I tell him. “You taught me that.”
He brightens at that, pride that has been stolen from him given back, if only for a moment. “Yes, I did.” He clears his throat. “I know I had a good day yesterday, I remember that.”
Something in my chest tightens, but I keep my face neutral. This isn’t about me reacting. This is about listening.
“Your sisters didn’t question me, but they were very unfair to you.”
That’s nothing new.
“Matteo tells me the board was also an issue.”
“It was handled,” I assure him.
He nods. “After your meeting, if you have time, I think we should do a few more videos while I’m clear. Nothing scripted. Just conversation. The kind that reminds them I’m still here.”
I step closer without realizing it.
“And,” he adds, eyes sharp now, the old fire flickering clean and bright, “we should surprise the board with a call. Me at my desk, to shut them up.”
“That’s not on the calendar,” I say carefully.
He smiles faintly. “It didn’t matter to them when they showed up demanding, why should it matter to the majority shareholder?
I get 55 percent of the say. Call the meeting.
” Then his expression shifts. Not fear. Honesty.
“Because I don’t know where this disease will leave me tomorrow.
And I’d rather decide things today than let them decide for me later. ”
I swallow. Slowly. Deliberately. “I’ll set it up for you.”
“No,” he replies gently. “You’ll be there. I’ll speak. I want them to hear me while I still sound like myself,” he says. “Before they start listening for gaps instead of substance.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll do it today.”
He stands, relief softens his shoulders, but just a touch. “Good, you were always better at timing than I was.”
I smile despite myself. “You taught me timing.”
He steps forward, then presses his forehead briefly to mine. A gesture he’s started doing lately, like touch helps anchor him. “Whatever happens, you’re ready.”
We stand there like that for a few moments, and then I step back, “I’ll be back by ten. I’ll set the meeting from your office.”
The board call comes together the way it always does. On time. Predictable. Clean.
Faces appear one by one, framed by offices and winter light. No urgency. No curiosity sharpened into suspicion. Just the final Saturday meeting of the year, the kind people join with coffee in hand and half their attention already drifting toward December.
My father sits at his desk, looking sharp, strong, and so handsome. I slide my phone out of my pocket and snap a few pictures, because this is Arthur Fairfax, and I want this moment preserved.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My daughters were at the parade yesterday when they were bombarded with questions and concerns you seem to have, and I’ve been informed, but not from Sofie, that you and a few of those who were hired as favors to you were questioning her ability.
It pisses me off even more than rescheduling my flight to a new course to play golf to deal with a bunch of men acting like children.
That ends now. Moving on, let’s keep this efficient. ”
Go Dad, I silently cheer.
No one argues, because they’re all leaning in like they’re shocked by him being here at Fairfax Media headquarters.
He moves through the agenda without embellishment. Fourth-quarter performance. Brand stability. Media positioning heading into the holidays. Risk exposure that’s already been mitigated. His voice never wavers. His memory doesn’t miss a beat.
When he hands sections off to me, it’s seamless.
“Sofie will walk you through the next item.”
I don’t hesitate, I never do.
I talk numbers. Strategy. Outcomes. I answer questions before they’re fully asked. I redirect one tangent before it blooms into something unnecessary. A few board members nod, impressed but unsurprised. The reality is they want to be in his favor, so they’re all being show ponies.
At one point, a director smiles and says, “Feels like we’re already in the new year.”
My father nods. “That’s the goal.”
There’s no mention of succession. No hint of transition. Just a man closing a year the way he’s closed decades of them, with intention and control.
Near the end, he adds something that sounds casual if you don’t know him.
“I’d like to increase the frequency of our informal check-ins in Q1,” he says. “Nothing formal. Just continuity.”
The meeting is almost over when one of them clears his throat.
“If I can raise one point before we wrap,” Herman Muldoon says. “Given where the company’s momentum is right now.”
My father nods. “Go ahead.”
“The sports vertical is our fastest-growing arm,” Muldoon continues. “Visibility matters there. Recognition. Fans respond to a certain… familiarity.”
I already know where this is going.
Scott Smith leans in. “We’ve seen strong engagement when you’re front-facing,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward my father. “Your presence carries legacy. Authority.”
There it is.
“And,” Muldoon, choosing his words like they’re gifts, “sports audiences skew male. There’s an argument to be made that keeping you more visibly involved makes strategic sense.”
I don’t speak, I don’t need to.
My father doesn’t either, not right away.
He folds his hands on the table and looks at them, really looks at them, like he’s deciding whether something is worth correcting or discarding.
“No,” he says.
Just that, no softness, no invitation. They all still.
“You’re confusing nostalgia with strategy,” he continues calmly. “And optics with competence.”
Smith tries to smile. “That’s not what we meant.”
“It is,” he replies. “And let me be very clear.”
He turns slightly toward me, not to include me, but to anchor the point. “Sofie knows more about sports media, athlete branding, and fan engagement than anyone at this table.”
A beat.
“Except maybe golf,” he adds dryly. “Which is the only sport any of you actually understand.”
Someone chokes on their coffee. He doesn’t smile.
“She built the infrastructure you’re now calling our fastest-growing arm,” he continues.
“She negotiated the league relationships. She hired the talent, even some who had none, as favors to you. She predicted the shift from broadcast loyalty to player-driven ecosystems before any of you stopped watching cable.”
Silence.
“You’re not worried about the audience,” he says. “You’re worried about familiarity. And that’s not leadership. That’s fear.”
The man who started it opens his mouth again. My father raises a hand. Not sharp. Final.
“This discussion is over,” he says. “I am not becoming a mascot because it makes you comfortable.”
He looks around the virtual table, one face at a time.
“If you think this company’s future requires a male figurehead to explain sports to the public,” he adds, “then you have misunderstood both the business and my daughter.”
No one speaks. I don’t either, but inside my inner child’s grinning, because his praise is everything.
“Moving on,” he says, glancing at the agenda. “Unless anyone would like to argue revenue with me.”
No one does, the meeting wraps shortly after that.
Screens blink out, and I exhale slowly as my father gathers his papers, unbothered.
“Golf?” I ask quietly.
He snorts. “I was being generous.”
“Good day?” James asks as the car pulls away from the building.
“It was,” I say, already rubbing my eyes. “He addressed the board, passed with flying colors.”
James smiles, genuinely. “That’s fantastic.”
“It is.” I yawn, the kind that comes from adrenaline dropping, not exhaustion, well, that’s what I tell myself anyway.
“Rockefeller?” he asks.
“Rockefeller.”
We talk about his family Thanksgiving and the Black Friday shopping with his girls, ten and twelve, who I adore.
I yawn again, and he chuckles, “Close your eyes.”
“I’m not tired,” I lie.
He shakes his head. “Just rest them then. Power nap.”
By the time we pull up near the plaza, I’ve already shifted gears. Coat on, phone out, game face settled. “I’m all set for the day. Take off.”
“I can wait.”
“It’s less than half a mile away. I’m good.” I assure him.
It’s when I am walking down the stairs that I see them and groan.
Aleks Kilovac, unmistakable even hunched over. He has the best hockey ass, hands down, and I hate that about him. Faulker is beside him, all long limbs and relaxed posture, and Williams is laughing about something.
I clock Deacon and Claudia near the benches, quiet, contained, watching Savannah’s stroller like it’s the center of the universe, and head straight for Savannah.
“Thank God you’re awake,” I croon as I lean down and unbuckle her. “Auntie Sofie needs all the snuggles.”
I lift her up, hug her tight and kiss her sweet little cheeks. “I.” Kiss. “Can.” Kiss. “Not.” Kiss. “Wait.” Kiss. She starts giggling. “Until you’re off the T-I-T-T-Y and we can have sleepovers.”
Claudia giggles, and I look toward her and see she’s holding up her phone. “We invited the guys.”
I kiss Savannah’s cheek to hide a frown that I may not be able to hide later.
“Holidays are hard for the guys who can’t get home or don’t have anywhere close enough here to make it worth it,” Deacon adds.
I glance back toward the ice. Aleks hasn’t looked up yet. Thank God.
Claudia continues softly. “Just to skate. No cameras on them. Just… normal.”
I nod. “That tracks.”
“Nalani and Koa were going to come too; they’re swinging by to grab Paul,” Deacon adds. “Dash and Noelle, as well.”
“Perfect. I’ll have Hildy and Priya grab some photos of them so they can have those cute little couples Christmas cards to send out.”