O n any other day, Miranda Callahan would have brushed off the threat being hurled at her through the phone like a fastball—high, tight, and nothing she hadn’t seen before. This was baseball, after all—a man’s game built on ego and bravado, where threats were as routine as fly balls. But this wasn’t any other day. And this wasn’t just any threat.

“You have no choice, Ms. Callahan. Our consultant will be there today.”

The words landed like a cold slap. They weren’t just sending someone—they were invading her turf. Her team. Her legacy. They were coming in to tell her how to do the job she’d bled for, the job she’d carved out for herself despite the shadow cast by her father, Seamus Callahan—Managing General Partner of the Georgia Knights and her overbearing boss. He’d watched last season slip through his fingers and, with barely concealed disappointment, handed down her marching orders for spring:

Get the Knights to the World Series.

She exhaled, long and sharp, then leaned back in her scarred leather chair. It let out a low, ominous creak, like it too was tired of holding up under pressure. “We don’t need a consultant, Commissioner,” she said, her voice clipped. “And you have no right to take over our team like this.”

“I’m not taking over your team,” Commissioner Roger Martinelli replied, calm as a surgeon mid-operation. “Just putting a consultant in place to assist you in getting back on your feet.”

“Tell that to Los Angeles, whom you steamrolled and forced into a sale. No thanks.” Her tone iced over. “We can handle our situation without outside interference.”

She was proud her voice didn’t waver. It couldn’t. Not now. Not with the weight of the franchise on her shoulders.

“You’re dangerously close to defaulting on your loans, including those backed by Major League Baseball,” Martinelli said, the words as brutal as a bat shattering against a pitch. “You’re a small-market team playing like you’ve got Yankees money—buying your way to playoffs, gutting your farm system. That strategy doesn’t work anymore. The game has changed. You can’t compete this way. A consultant can help.”

His tone softened, but it didn’t dull the blade. “And we do have every right. There are plenty of teams who’ve needed guidance—Texas among them. You’re part of a franchise system. The other owners are raising concerns about your financial stability.”

Miranda’s jaw clenched. She didn’t need a lecture; she knew exactly how close to the edge they were skating. Her conviction wavered, if only for a heartbeat. Around the league, small-market teams were finding ways to compete—through analytics, player development, discipline. Small ball. Not flashy, not easy, but it could work. Had worked—almost—for the Knights last season.

But Seamus Callahan didn’t do patience. He wanted fireworks. Names that would sell jerseys, grab headlines. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t afford it. He’d thrown money at aging stars and risky contracts, and now the coffers were almost dry. Worse, the fans were drifting. Even a surprise playoff berth hadn’t been enough to reignite belief. Too many key players had walked. And those left behind were talented but green—promising kids, not yet heroes.

Miranda felt the weight of it pressing down on her chest: dwindling ticket sales, sponsor anxiety, a city starting to root for that other Georgia team—the one whose name Seamus had declared unmentionable in the Knights’ offices.

Maybe a consultant could help. Maybe, just maybe, another voice—one not tied to her father’s pride—could steer the ship differently. They’d almost had something last season. If they’d listened to Cole Hammonds, their data-driven GM, maybe the team wouldn’t be in freefall. But Seamus had shut him down, insulted free agents with lowball offers, and chased others away with his volatile temper.

They were left patching critical holes: first base, catcher, a reliable starter, middle relief. No budget. No draw. No plan.

What she didn’t need was another suit poking around, acting like they had the magic solution.

What she needed… was a miracle.

“Miranda?”

She smothered her irritation at the use of her first name. It was a deliberate choice, a tool in his well-polished playbook. She’d grown up under Seamus Callahan’s roof; she recognized a tactic when she heard one.

“Thank you, Commissioner Martinelli,” she replied, the edge of steel unmistakable in her voice. “But I think we’ll be fine.”

There was a beat of silence. Then?—

“You mistake this conversation for a negotiation, Ms. Callahan. The decision has been made. Lucas Wainright will be there this afternoon, if he isn’t there already.”

Her blood turned to ice.

“Lucas Wainright?”

Martinelli’s voice hesitated, a flicker of surprise. “Yes… I believe you know him. Wasn’t he from Savannah?”

Oh, shit.

Her heart pounded like a drumline. Her father was going to blow a gasket.

And she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t, too.

H er father might not have had a stroke, but judging by the crimson flush staining his face and the sheer volume of his bluster, it had come dangerously close. The fury in his voice echoed off the walls of the conference room like a fastball hitting a backstop. Miranda had already consulted with legal, bracing for this explosion, and now sat in a meeting with her father and the core player development staff—Cole Hammonds, their calculating GM; Sam Monteleone, fresh from spring training in Florida; and Jason Friar, the grizzled head of player development.

They were supposed to be talking about roster strategy. Instead, Seamus Callahan ranted about the “injustice” of the league, pounding his fists as if he could knock the commissioner’s office off its pedestal with sheer force. And Miranda hadn’t even told him who had been assigned yet.

Lucas Wainright.

Even now, just the thought of his name sent an involuntary thrill skittering down her spine. She wanted to believe it was irritation—annoyance at the idea of some outsider second-guessing her every decision. But deep down, she knew better. That electric pulse was memory. Long-buried, foolish teenage longing.

Fifteen years ago, Lucas Wainright had been the star of her adolescent dreams—short, tousled blond hair, piercing blue eyes that missed nothing, and a body that haunted the fragile edge of her teenage imagination. She hadn’t seen him in over a decade, but her thoughts now betrayed her. Was he married? Did he remember her? Would he see her as the capable woman she’d become—or the awkward kid she used to be?

A thunderous crack snapped her back to the present—her father’s palm slamming against the table. Papers fluttered in its wake.

“I won’t let them steal my team!”

“They’re not trying to take it away,” Miranda said cautiously, carefully tempering her voice. “They want to help us. And honestly… we could use it.”

She hated echoing the commissioner’s line, but facts were facts. And her father wasn’t facing them.

“They fooled you too,” Seamus snarled, eyes bulging. “They don’t care about us. They want to force me out. Just like they’ve done to other owners. Strip us bare and hand us off to some tech bro with deep pockets and no soul.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Cole said, voice calm but firm. “They can’t take action without more evidence. But if we don’t cooperate and things keep getting worse financially, we’ll lose all leverage. What’s the harm in working with them? Play along. Include their rep in meetings, give them something to chew on. Eventually, they’ll back off.”

“Really?” Seamus sneered. “You think they’ll just get bored and go home? They’re not toddlers, Cole.”

“We’re not saying that.” Miranda cut in, heat creeping into her voice. “Just… dial down the hostility. Try to be professional.”

Across the table, Cole shook his head slightly, and Jason hid a laugh behind a cough and a sip of water. She shot them both a withering glare.

“Not helping.”

Cole shrugged with faux innocence, then brightened with an idea. “Okay, here’s a thought. I know you like to be hands-on, Mr. Callahan. But what if Miranda took point on this? She’s the team president. She already manages the day-to-day. Let her handle the consultant—keep him busy with admin and off our turf.”

Miranda swallowed the spike of frustration. Once again, she was being relegated to the background—delegated, not included. Despite earning her MBA, climbing through every level of the organization, she was still seen as the one who handled the books and the PR fallout, not the game. Not the real baseball. Not in Seamus’s eyes.

He’d hired her because she was his daughter, but he’d never respected her for the knowledge she’d gained, never trusted her with the pulse of the team. That was “men’s work.” And look where that had gotten them.

Seamus rubbed his chin. “Not a bad idea, Hammonds. I like it. Miranda, you’ll work with whoever they’re sending. Get things on track. Perfect.”

He clapped his hands, sharp and loud, making everyone jump. “Now. Let’s talk about the catcher situation.”

Miranda lifted her hand instinctively, then slowly lowered it, annoyed at her own reflex. “I don’t think that’s the best approach.”

Her father arched a brow. “You have a better one? The consultant will probably love finding ways to cut costs. Maybe we need it. As long as he doesn’t touch my team.”

She leaned in, voice low and edged with steel. “I’m the team president, not a vendor manager. We talked about me taking on more responsibility—more baseball responsibility—like other presidents in the league. I disagree with sidelining me again.”

His gaze narrowed. “Not open for discussion, Miranda. Now, back to our catcher problem. And first base. It’s a damn revolving door. Last year, we lost Suarez and signed Friar, who didn’t last the season.”

“Sorry for helping you limp into the playoffs,” Jason muttered, sarcasm thick, “and for accepting a three-month contract.”

Miranda shot him a sympathetic look. He understood better than most the sting of her father’s sharp tongue. Jason Friar had taken Seamus’s verbal punishment all through the latter half of last season, only to be “rewarded” with a job. She still didn’t fully understand why he’d accepted it—but she was glad he had. He was the perfect mentor for their rookies, a steadying presence guiding them through the temptations of sudden fame.

She had spent years putting out fires in PR when young players partied too hard or posted the wrong thing. Jason had lived it—and now helped others avoid the same mistakes. It helped that his fiancée was the head of publicity, determined to get ahead of any bad press.

Seamus waved him off. “You got your reward. You bailed on us. You and that bum shoulder.”

Jason stiffened, his mouth tightening. Cole quickly stepped in.

“That’s not the issue. We still need a first baseman. Lockhart isn’t quite there yet—in the field or the box.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jason argued. “His swing is clean and he’s put in the work this off-season. And he’s cheap. That matters right now.”

Cole nodded. “True. He was a big signing right out of high school. He’s been steadily improving, made the Future All-Star list twice. And our Triple-A team’s a wasteland—he’d rot down there.”

Seamus scoffed. “He’s still a kid. We need a name. Trade him for Mendoza. He’s proven—consistent at the plate, solid on the field.”

Jason leaned forward, color rising to his cheeks. The vein in his jaw pulsed. “You’ll gut the roster. Again. We need Lockhart and others like him to build something real—long-term. Mendoza’s salary is massive. We can’t afford it.”

Cole held up a hand. “Jason’s right. Lockhart’s our best bet.”

Seamus growled low in his throat but began shuffling papers.

“Why the hell didn’t you sign a free agent like I asked?”

“Because they were overpriced and overrated,” Cole said flatly. “We can’t outbid the Yankees or the Sox. They snagged all the big names, and most of the others stayed put.”

“Then make a trade! Do something! You’re the damn general manager! I pay you to deliver, not sit around making excuses!”

He slammed his hand against the table. A water glass toppled, its contents spilling toward the conference speaker. The room fell into brittle silence. Only the soft hum of the overhead lights filled the air as the water crept closer to the edge.

Seamus’s scowl roamed the table like a spotlight hunting for weakness. Then, a knock.

The door cracked open. Ruth, Seamus’s long-time assistant, peeked in. Anyone else might have flinched, anticipating flying objects. But Ruth had been around long enough to know better.

“What is it?” Seamus barked.

Ruth’s expression flickered—something Miranda had never seen before. Hesitation. She glanced from daughter to father.

“The league’s representative is here. A Mr. Lucas Wainright.”

Silence.

Seamus’s glare shifted to Miranda. Slowly, realization dawned, and the color drained from his face.

“Wainright? Is that?—”

“Yes, Father,” Miranda said, standing with practiced grace. “It’s Lucas Wainright.”

Ruth opened the door wider, revealing a familiar figure—broad-shouldered, self-assured, with that same cocky glint in his eye that had once haunted Miranda’s daydreams.

“Afraid karma’s going to kick you in the ass, Callahan?” Lucas Wainright drawled, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Ruth looked like she might bolt.

Miranda had a sinking feeling Seamus Callahan’s rage had only just begun.

C heck out Miranda’s story, coming in June in Love from Left Field , an enemies to lovers, workplace romance.