She hands me a stack of color-coded notes. “They’re already waiting to be called to the conference room for their Holiday Impact brief.”
“Thanks, Carina. Send them,” I say, changing directions and heading that way. “One department at a time.”
FSN, Fairfax Sports Network, arrives first. They always do. Energy is their personality trait. They spill into the conference room, led by Elliot Drexler, their department head, who dresses as if he were permanently on his way to an ESPN audition. Today, he is wearing a navy quarter zip and the kind of grin that suggests he’s already had way more caffeine than he should have at this hour.
“Big day, Sof!” he says, dropping three color-coded binders on the table. “Thanksgiving specials. We are talking wholesome content. Warm fuzzies. Dogs in jerseys.”
I blink. “Dogs.”
“Therapy pups visiting the injured kids at St. Luke’s,” he clarifies proudly. “It will make America cry.”
The rest of his team fans out all equally as excited about puppies. They start pitching segments over one another, rapid-fire. Player interviews filmed in their kitchens. Rookie gratitude messages. A montage of the Bears handing out turkeys. A behind-the-scenes charity skate. A heartstring tug about a retired player teaching his nephew how to skate.
“All great, but let me think about it for a second.”
And by let me think about it, I mean let me think of a way not to piss on your parade. It’s unfocused, emotionally choppy, no narrative build, no anchor storyline. Just vibes. Cute vibes. But still.
“Give me twelve minutes,” I say, already opening my laptop and popping in my earbuds.
Elliot looks confused, not unusual, but his uncle is on the board, so we’re stuck with him for now. “Twelve… minutes?”
“Do you want eleven?” I deadpan.
He goes pale. “No. Twelve is great. Twelve is perfect.”
I start rearranging clips and segment orders. Slotting emotional beats between lighter ones. Cutting the turkey handout footage by half because no one needs to watch players carry poultry for five minutes straight. Removing a painfully awkward interview where a rookie says, “cranberry capitalism”. Moving the hospital puppy segment to the back half so it lands with the emotional punch it deserves.
By minute four, Elliot whispers to his team, “She is not human.” By minute seven, someone else says, “She is like… a holiday whisperer.” By minute ten, I have a full, finalized flow. At minute twelve on the dot, I turn my laptop toward them.
“This,” I say, “is your lineup. It is clean. It is emotional. It builds. It breathes. It sells your message without smothering the audience.”
Elliot stares at the screen like he’s shook and whispers, “Marry me.”
“No,” I say without missing a beat. “But you can take the plan.”
They scramble out of my office in a tangle of laptops and enthusiasm, already calling the production team to implement every change.
Elliot pauses in the doorway. “You know you are not technically the boss of FSN.”
I smile politely. “I know.”
He glances at the lineup again. “But also, you kind of are.”
Then he disappears down the hall.
Fairfax Studios arrives next, led by Marjorie Keene, a woman who dresses like Meryl Streep in every movie she has ever played except the fun ones. Today, she is wearing a charcoal blazer so structured it could probably stand up on its own. Her hair is in a tight twist that looks painful. She does not do chaos. She doesnot do jokes. She does not do anything under ninety percent efficiency.
Behind her trails her team of producers, each holding a tablet.
“Good morning, Sofie,” Marjorie says, crisp as a starched napkin.
“Good morning,” I echo, already bracing.
“We have updates on the winter slate,” she says, sliding a folder toward me. “Two delays, one accelerated timeline, and one project that needs a budget reconsideration.”
Which is Marjorie-speak for someone overspent, someone else undershot, and someone is about to cry.
I flip through the documents. The first two delays are expected. Holiday filming conditions always slow down productions. The accelerated timeline? Interesting. A family drama centered on a retired hockey player who adopts a teenager. The irony does not escape me, given who my personal circle currently contains.
