Page 10

Chapter

Eight

L ucas stepped into his office and closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

The space still smelled like fresh paint and stale coffee, the kind of impersonal, temporary setup that screamed “just visiting.” He hadn’t planned to stay this long.

In fact, when he first took the assignment, he figured he’d be in and out of Savannah in three weeks—four tops.

Now, he was contemplating whether it was worth ordering a better chair from Amazon. Maybe even putting up a photo or two.

Not that it mattered if Roger didn’t back the agreement he’d just made with Miranda.

Hell, what had he been thinking?

He dropped into the chair, rubbing a hand down his face.

That deal—it wasn’t just a long shot. It was a bet on a snowstorm in Savannah in July.

She had four months. Four months to overhaul a bleeding franchise, rally the front office, win games, and—oh yeah—come up with a sizable payment to keep the league from pulling the plug.

Unless someone dumped a truckload of money into the Knights, the odds were near-impossible.

And who in their right mind would invest in a struggling team with a reputation problem and an owner in ICU?

Lucas stared at the phone on his desk, debating. Call Roger now? Try to explain what he’d done—or wait and hope Miranda would have something miraculous to show for it?

His thumb hovered over the screen for a beat before he exhaled sharply and hit the call.

Might as well face the fire.

The moment Roger answered, Lucas regretted it.

“Are you seriously going along with this?” The commissioner’s voice boomed through the phone, echoing off the walls and making Lucas wince. “You think Miranda Callahan can pull this off? With Seamus laid up in a hospital bed?”

Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t you tell me not to underestimate her?”

“That was before you bet the whole goddamn franchise on her.”

Lucas leaned back, letting the edge of a smirk tug at his mouth. “She has a plan. The projections are thin, but she’s smart. And if she can hit those numbers—ticket sales, roster moves, revenue growth—it puts the Knights in the black again. Isn’t that what we want?”

Roger let out a snort so loud it could’ve rattled the windowpanes. “You think she’s got some secret investor? Magic fairy dust? Seamus has run that team into the ground for a decade, and now we’re supposed to believe his daughter can fix it in four months?”

“What do we have to lose?” Lucas kept his voice calm, persuasive. “You said yourself the team’s a disaster. If we’re already at rock bottom, let her try. If she fails, you’ll have even more support from the other owners to take control. But if she succeeds?—”

“If.” Roger’s voice was sharp. “That’s one hell of an if.”

Lucas went silent, letting the commissioner sit with it. Only the faint hum of the office HVAC system and Roger’s breathing came through the line. Lucas knew this game. Let the silence drag just long enough to make it feel like a concession.

Finally, Roger let out a long, grudging sigh. “Fine. But I don’t like this. This was our shot, Lucas. Seamus has been a thorn in my side since Bush was in office. He never shuts up, he never cooperates, and he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else in the room.”

Lucas resisted the urge to say, Sound familiar? Instead, he replied evenly, “Most of the owners are like that. Seamus just doesn’t have the finesse to hide it.”

Roger grunted. “Miranda’s barely been president a year. You think she can do this?”

Lucas hesitated—only for a beat—but the image of Miranda standing in her office flashed through his mind: shoulders squared, voice calm, face defiant, even as her father lay in the hospital and the weight of the team pressed down on her like gravity.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I do.”

He didn’t add what he was really thinking.

That he wanted her to succeed. That part of him admired how she’d kept her composure, how she pushed back with steel in her spine, even when he challenged her.

That he hadn’t stopped thinking about that kiss—and how it had felt less like a mistake and more like inevitability.

“This better not blow up in your face, Wainright,” Roger warned.

Lucas heard the unspoken message in the silence that followed.

If it does, you’ll go down with it.

“I understand,” he said.

“Then get it done.”

The line went dead.

Lucas slowly lowered the phone back into its cradle, the dial tone buzzing in his ear like the final buzzer after a losing game.

He stared at the desk for a long moment.

You’ve got four months, princess , he thought. Let’s see if you can actually beat the odds.

L ucas sat alone in the owner’s box, gazing out over the empty stadium with a hollow stare.

The early March sun had started warming Savannah, hinting at spring and the coming season.

Soon the bleachers would be filled, the scent of peanuts and beer thick in the air.

But for now, it was all stillness. And the Knights?

The Knights were a mess.

They weren’t ready. They might never be, not if his projections were right. And if they weren’t, the deal he’d struck with Miranda wouldn’t mean a damn thing—except it had bought the commissioner temporary peace of mind.

So why did he feel so uneasy?

He leaned back in his seat, letting his head rest against the cool concrete wall.

The luxury box hadn’t changed much in the ten years since he’d last stood here.

Maybe the paint was new. Maybe the cushions had been replaced.

The soundproof glass was definitely upgraded—sleek, tinted, separating the elite from the fans below.

But with his eyes closed, it all vanished.

He could almost feel his father beside him in the front row, his energy vibrating with Opening Day anticipation. That palpable, irrational hope. The way he clapped his hands together before the first pitch like it was Christmas morning and anything could happen.

His father had loved the fresh start that baseball promised.

But that hope had died with him, nearly a decade ago, buried alongside the last conversation they ever had—an argument. Lucas hadn’t shown up for the ceremonial pitch. Hadn’t even watched the game. That day, he’d walked away. Not just from his father. From the legacy. From the game.

The soft snick of the door opening cut into his thoughts. He opened his eyes slowly.

Miranda stood just inside the box, the door clicking shut behind her. She lingered by the edge of the space, a note of hesitation in her posture.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said quietly, voice stripped of its usual crisp professionalism. As if she sensed the ghosts swirling in the air.

He shook his head, not bothering to hide the weariness in his voice. “You’re not. Just thinking.”

She crossed the space and took the seat next to him without asking. Her perfume—something soft and clean with just a whisper of citrus—wrapped around him, sinking under his skin. It should’ve been a distraction. It was. But it was also oddly grounding.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fill the silence with forced optimism or awkward platitudes. She just sat. Present. Steady.

And that, more than anything, cracked something open inside him.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he murmured after a long pause.

She shifted slightly in her chair but didn’t press. “How so?”

He glanced sideways. She was watching him. Not analyzing, not waiting for a weakness—just watching. Her expression was open, her eyes clearer than he’d ever seen them.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this. Coming back. Being here.” He looked back out over the field. “This place... it has ghosts.”

She nodded, her gaze following his. “I know. I feel them too.”

He turned toward her again, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You didn’t come just to share ghosts, did you?”

A flicker of something passed across her face—compassion, maybe, quickly tucked away behind her more familiar businesslike veneer.

“I spoke to the commissioner,” he said, sitting up straighter. “He’s... skeptical.”

Miranda huffed a soft breath. “That’s one word for it.”

She turned toward the field, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I used to love game days here. The noise. The chaos. The electricity in the air. It felt... alive. So different from my usual days.”

Lucas raised a brow, his tone teasing. “Beauty pageants didn’t get physical? No hair-pulling backstage?”

She smirked. “Only if someone’s eyelashes fell off mid-speech. No, it was sneakier. Makeup ‘accidentally’ lost. Dresses swapped. Props tampered with. All smiles in public. But under the surface? Cold war.”

“Sounds brutal.”

“It could be.” She tilted her head, her voice quieter now. “But baseball… baseball doesn’t hide. You don’t like a pitch, you charge the mound. Fans scream what they think. There’s something honest about that. Messy, but honest.”

He stared at her. “You surprise me.”

She glanced over. “How so?”

“I didn’t think you were the baseball type.”

She laughed softly. “And I didn’t think you’d end up back in the game either. Wasn’t there a time you wanted to do anything but this?”

He flinched, the memory of old arguments surfacing like bruises.

He replied more sharply than intended. “People change.”

Miranda drew back slightly at his tone but recovered quickly. “I spoke with Tom in Houston. He said you consulted on their turnaround. That you had some good ideas.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

“I want to partner with you,” she said, her voice calm but resolute. “I have a vision. And I think we might be able to pull this off—if you actually work with us instead of hovering like a threat.”

He studied her for a long moment. Her shoulders were back, but her hands were curled into fists on her lap. She was nervous—but determined. Brave. And damned if she wasn’t making him believe in the impossible again.

Maybe there was hope for Opening Day after all.