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.
