They burst into my office, led by Terrie Marlowe, the department head who dresses like PR is a competitive sport. Today she is in a cranberry-red pantsuit, hair slicked into a ponytail so tight it could cut wire. She talks fast. She thinks faster. And she leaves a faint trail of expensive perfume and stress wherever she goes.
“Happy almost Thanksgiving, Sofie,” she singsongs, dropping a stack of glossy mockups onto the table in front of me. “We need approvals on holiday messaging across all divisions. Also, crisis prep for the season because someone always gets drunk and says something stupid between now and New Year’s. And we want to confirm the rollout for the Bears charity content because the fan engagement numbers are insane.”
Her team sits and opens their laptops. I always recognize the interns; this one looks like he has not slept since Halloween.
I flip the first mockup open. It is a holiday graphic with a tagline that looks to be trying just a little too hard.
“This font needs to be added to the never again list,” I say.
Terrie gasps. “But it is whimsical.”
“It is… unstable,” I counter. “And the video cut on page three is two seconds too long. Trim it.”
Three interns immediately start typing.
We move on. Messaging drafts for December. Brand safety guidelines. The charity campaign that involves the Bears surprising disadvantaged kids. She has a good eye, but her pacing is off, too. She tries to land all emotional punches at once. It is overwhelming.
I sort everything into a clean escalation. Warm, heartfelt, then powerful. Not a shotgun, a story.
She watches me work, shaking her head. “I swear you do witchcraft.”
“No,” I say. “I just understand the change in attention spans.”
Next is crisis prep. They list possible disasters. A player tweeting something unfiltered. A leaked photo from a holiday party. Someone accidentally hurting themselves during a charity skate. A drunk uncle punching a mascot.
I reorganized their entire triage plan in under eight minutes.
Terrie clutches her chest. “You are the only reason I sleep.”
“You do not sleep,” I remind her.
She points at me with her pen and smirks. “Exactly.”
Then she snaps at her intern for using the wrong brand and shade of red, promises me a clean draft by Monday, and her entire team scurries out of the conference room.
PR is gone. Everything is quiet again…. for about thirty seconds.
The Partnerships department arrives next. They are the diplomats, the negotiators, the deal makers. They are also the most caffeine dependent.
Their leader, Jonah Reeves, steps in with a twelve-dollar iced coffee in one hand and a folder thick enough that I know he’s planned through the Holiday season, which I completely appreciate.
“Sofie,” he says, exhaling. “We need approvals on three collaborations, a renewal proposal, and a sponsorship pitch for Q1.”
His team are the people who speak fluent corporate, influencer, athlete, and legal. They are the UN of Fairfax Media.
I tilt my head toward the stack. “Show me the worst one first.”
The room laughs nervously. They know I am not joking.
Jonah hands me the collaboration proposal for a trendy beverage company desperate for relevance. They want players promoting protein sparkling water with questionable flavor names like Arctic Swirl and Mango Surge.
“This is horrible,” I say.
“It is,” Jonah agrees.
“Why is it on my desk?”
“Because the CEO plays golf with one of our board members.”
