Page 11

Chapter

Nine

A ll in all, Lucas reacted about as well as Miranda expected.

First came the blank stare. Then the slow shake of his head. And finally, the laugh—a quiet, dry sound devoid of real amusement. Not mocking exactly, but not warm either. It carried just enough bite to make her nerves hum.

She hated how well she knew that sound. Hated more how much she felt it.

Lucas wasn’t the boy she remembered from summers spent peeking into owner’s boxes, trailing after his father like a shadow.

That boy—bright-eyed, hopeful, a little reckless—was long gone.

In his place stood a man carved in harder lines, all steel and control.

She mourned that boy, the one who used to make her heart flutter just by smiling.

And hated herself for still wanting to find traces of him beneath Lucas’s sleek, guarded shell.

But this wasn’t high school. This was business. And as everyone constantly reminded her—there was no room for personal feelings here.

A knock broke her thoughts. She glanced up to see Cole standing in the doorway, tablet in hand.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She smirked faintly. “I doubt they’re worth that much. Come in.”

He stepped inside as she saved her file and turned her chair toward him. “Do you remember your proposal last year? The one about rethinking how we evaluate players?”

Cole’s mouth tightened. “Yeah. Seamus rejected it.”

“Well, we’re out of options. We can’t afford high-profile signings, and we need wins. I’ve been digging into your plan again. A lot of what you proposed mirrors what I’ve been hearing from other successful teams—teams that had to pivot.”

Cole eased into the chair, slinging one ankle over his knee. “It’s irrelevant now. We never implemented it. And even if we tried, we don’t have time to execute it properly—not without a massive culture shift.”

“To do what right?” Lucas’s voice cut through the room like a fastball.

Both she and Cole turned toward the door as he strolled in, casual but with that ever-present edge. “Apologies. I wasn’t aware we had a meeting scheduled.”

“We don’t,” Cole said, sharp. “This is an internal discussion.”

Lucas ignored him and claimed the other seat, dropping into it like he owned the place. “So what are we discussing?”

Miranda folded her hands, schooling her face. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. As we’ve talked about, I want to explore implementing small ball techniques—shifting strategy, focusing on smarter plays. You helped Houston do something similar, didn’t you?”

Lucas sighed. “I told you before. You don’t have the infrastructure. You don’t have the time.”

Her smile didn’t falter, though it felt brittle now.

“Maybe not, but you also said layoffs wouldn’t be enough.

We’re priced out of the star market, and most of the big names are locked down until at least the All-Star break.

If we want revenue, we need wins. And to get wins, we have to work with what we’ve got. ”

Cole leaned forward, skepticism in his eyes. “You think we can adjust our whole style of play now—during spring training—and get results that quickly? You’d have to retrain the staff, sell the strategy, overhaul the game plan…”

Lucas watched her with unsettling stillness, eyes locked on hers, unreadable. She could practically feel the challenge in his gaze, a spark that danced beneath the professional mask he wore so well.

She lifted her chin. “Then we’d better get started.”

She stood, letting command settle into her posture, and walked around the desk. “I want a full assessment of the roster and where each player fits—or doesn’t. If someone’s not aligned, I’ll handle it. We’ll also need to identify players who fill our gaps and fit this model.”

Cole looked like he wanted to protest, but hesitated. “And what about your father?”

Miranda’s jaw flexed. “Seamus is not running this team. I am. If he reaches out, direct him to me. No one discusses strategy with him. Understood?”

Cole rose, jaw tight. “What about the coaching staff?”

Lucas’s tone came in low and smooth. “Start with the analysts. Get your data cleaned up and organized. Build your argument, then take it to the staff. How far along are your analytics?”

Cole offered a grim smile. “We have subscriptions to most major services, but we haven’t built our own internal models like the big clubs.”

Lucas tilted his head, intrigued. “That’s a problem. You should consider reallocating resources. Pull from marketing or scouting if you need to. I might know a few people who’d fit.”

Miranda raised a brow. “Now you want to help?”

He shrugged. “You said it yourself. I was assigned to turn this team around. Can’t do that from the sidelines.”

Cole cut in, sharp. “And how do we know we can trust you?”

Lucas didn’t flinch. “Can you afford not to?”

Cole’s face darkened. “This isn’t exactly an enthusiastic endorsement.”

Lucas turned toward him coolly. “Your strategy’s solid. You just never had backing. Miranda’s giving it to you. That makes it worth trying. But if you want guarantees, you’re in the wrong business.”

“Enough,” Miranda said, stepping between them, her voice clipped.

“Cole, I know you’ve already started doing this quietly.

The players you’ve developed, the trades you’ve negotiated, even the Patterson deal.

You believed in this plan, just didn’t have support.

Now you do. And I want your full report on how we move forward on my desk by tomorrow. Got it?”

Cole’s eyes flicked to Lucas one last time, tension still simmering. Then he nodded and left the room, shutting the door with more emphasis than necessary.

Lucas watched him go. “You’d think he’d be happier finally doing what he wanted.”

Miranda turned, arms crossed. “I thought you would be less agreeable. What changed?”

He dropped the stapled proposal on her desk. “It’s a solid plan. The bones are there.”

She eyed him. “You’ve said that.”

He stepped closer, crowding her space just enough to raise her pulse. “And I meant it. You’re serious about this. That means I need to be too.”

“Even if Roger doesn’t approve?”

He cocked his head. “Are you questioning my integrity again?”

“I’m testing your loyalty.”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t trust anyone in this business, Miranda. That’s rule number one.”

She gave a cool smile. “That’s why I trust business people more than social ones. At least in business, betrayal comes with a contract.”

She spun away from him and circled behind her desk, sitting with deliberate grace. “Is that all?”

He paused, lips twitching. “Not quite. I’m joining you in Florida.”

She stiffened. “That won’t be necessary.”

“We have an agreement,” he reminded her. “I’m at every meeting. And Florida sounds like a perfect place to dig into this.”

She clicked her mouse, eyes never leaving the screen. “Fine. Talk to Maggie. She’ll coordinate with Cole. If you’re coming, make yourself useful.”

He gave a slight, mocking bow. “Always.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut and the tension drained from her all at once. She sagged forward, elbows on the desk, hands pressed to her temples. Her mind raced with possibilities, her body humming with the echo of his proximity. The gamble had been made.

Now she had to run with it.

She’d already rounded first. There was no turning back now.

The question was—would she make it to second?

Or get thrown out trying?

M iranda walked briskly down the central aisle of the ticket sales department, her heels muted against the industrial carpet.

The latest recap clutched in her hand felt heavier than it should have—weighted with bad news.

Lucas had warned her the numbers wouldn’t be good, but even he hadn’t predicted just how bleak they truly were.

They’d be lucky to fill half the stadium even on a sunny weekend with giveaways, fireworks, and TikTokable bobblehead nights. But fans didn’t care about trinkets anymore. Not really. Not unless the team was winning. And right now, the Knights weren’t even close.

"Miranda? How’s your father doing?"

The soft voice pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. She turned and found the familiar face of Grace Ann peering out from one of the cubicles, concern etched into her features.

Miranda hesitated just a beat before the name clicked. “Grace Ann!” The warmth in her voice was genuine as she moved in for a quick hug. “How are you?”

The older woman stood, returning the hug with a touch of awkwardness, her formality stiff against the gesture. Still, it meant something. More people rose from their desks, offering small waves and greetings.

“How’s Mr. Callahan?” Grace Ann asked, her voice low, as though worried some might not appreciate their prayers for a man known more for his bark than his warmth.

Miranda felt the emotion well behind her eyes but blinked it back. “He’s hanging in. He’s out of ICU now, moved to a room in the cardiac unit. After that, rehab.”

A chorus of soft “thank goodness” and “praise be” followed, along with a few gentle pats to her arm and sympathetic smiles. It was moments like these—small, human, real—that reminded her why she loved the Knights. This was a team, not just a roster. It was family.

“How’s your new grandbaby, Grace Ann? Is she still as adorable as the photos you sent?”

At that, Grace Ann’s face lit up. Within seconds, she had her phone out, proudly swiping through pictures.

Miranda cooed and admired, asking questions about each baby blanket and milestone with genuine interest. She checked in with others too—birthdays, college acceptances, the usual rhythms of life that often got lost behind ticket quotas and sales charts.

But as the chatter faded, a hush swept through the group, thick enough to set her nerves tingling. She felt it before she saw it—the prickling awareness on the back of her neck.

Lucas stood behind her, arms folded, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked to his watch in a silent, unmistakable nudge. They were late.

She gestured to him with forced brightness. “Lucas, you remember Grace Ann, right? She was here when your dad was. She made those amazing oatmeal raisin cookies that you used to steal.”

He nodded politely. “Of course. Nice to see you again, Ms. Cox.”

“Mr. Wainright.” Grace Ann’s response was equally cool, her confusion barely veiled.

Miranda shot him a glare. She could feel the distance radiating off him like cold air. He didn’t offer warmth. Or softness. Not anymore.

She murmured her goodbyes to the group and crossed the room. Lucas fell in beside her as they made their way down the hallway.

“You shouldn’t get too close to your staff,” he said evenly. “You never know when you’ll have to lay them off.”

The words hit like ice water down her spine.

She stopped in her tracks. Lucas took a few more steps before realizing she wasn’t beside him. He turned, brows drawn.

“What?”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked, voice sharp.

His brow furrowed. “Yes. It’s business, not personal. Getting attached makes it harder to make the tough calls.”

Behind her, a door jabbed her shoulder. She reached for the handle, yanked it open, and pulled him into the small conference room. Once the door was closed, she whirled.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she said, eyes blazing. “I will run my team the way I see fit. If I want to talk to Grace Ann about her grandkids or swap cookie recipes with the sales team, I will. You don’t dictate that. You can have input on budgets. But you don’t get to dictate how I lead.”

He leaned casually against the table, setting his tablet down. “I’m not dictating anything. I’m trying to prepare you. It’s easier on everyone if there’s a little emotional distance. When you’re close to staff, layoffs feel like betrayal instead of business.”

She stepped closer, too close, her voice quieter but more dangerous. “That’s not how my father ran this team. That’s not how your father ran this team. He knew every name on every floor. He showed up at birthdays. He hugged people. He cared. Was he wrong?”

Lucas went still. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was ten years. These people came to his funeral.”

His eyes snapped to hers, colder now. “How do you know that?”

Her hand dropped from his arm. “Because I was there. I stayed in the back, but I came. Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

His jaw tightened, but the emotion in his eyes betrayed him. “My father’s best friend—your father—didn’t come. Not a word. Not even a call.”

Miranda winced. “He thought you didn’t want anyone. He kept his distance because he thought you needed space.”

Lucas’s shoulders sagged, the tension draining from him like air from a balloon. “Yeah, well… that’s the past.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

He pushed off the table, picking up the tablet like a shield. “We have work to do.”

“Wait.” She stepped into his path, placing a palm against his chest. The contact was electric—warm, solid, familiar in a way that sent her pulse skittering. “Are you expecting us to lay off staff?”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “You never know what it’ll take to turn a team around.”

“Not good enough. Tell me what you really think.”

He exhaled. “Fine.”

He pulled out a chair, gestured for her to sit. She did, cautiously, studying him as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Your operating budget’s already lean. That’s clearly your work. Your father let you manage that?”

She nodded. “He gave me full control over business ops. I tightened everything I could.”

A flicker of something—respect, maybe—passed across his face. “You did a damn good job. Cutting more there would do more harm than good.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re still in trouble.” He tapped the tablet. “Your issue isn’t expenses. It’s revenue. You don’t have any.”

She dropped her head, the words cutting deeper because they were true.

“We need more fans in seats.”

He nodded. “That won’t happen with your current roster. Your players left. Your playoff run feels like a fluke. Fans assume the worst. They’re bracing for failure. They have no faith. You’re not selling a team—you’re selling hope. And right now, they don’t believe in you.”

“And wins matter,” she whispered.

He met her gaze, and this time, the intensity between them flared—hot and unrelenting.

“Wins are everything,” he said. “Forget giveaways and nostalgia. You want to save this team? You build a winner. That’s what sells tickets. That’s what earns trust. Nothing else matters.”

Miranda swallowed hard. The truth landed with all the weight of a fastball to the chest.

But the fire in her spine burned hotter than ever.

Because he was right.

And because now—she knew what she had to do.