Page 12

Chapter

Ten

M iranda studied the list of players and their stats, the product of days of grinding research, heated debate, and more coffee than she wanted to admit.

Her eyes burned from too much screen time, her nerves frayed.

Around the table, several sets of eyes bore into her—Cole, Jason, Lucas, and the two young stat guys, who were hunched over their laptops like they were about to code their way through spring training.

She still didn’t know their names.

The “wonder twins,” as Cole had dubbed them.

Both wore thick-rimmed glasses, the uniform of number-crunching geniuses who preferred spreadsheets to small talk.

They muttered in a language made of acronyms and decimal points that left her feeling like she’d missed a prerequisite course somewhere between Stats 101 and sabermetrics.

And Miranda Callahan was done feeling stupid in her own damn boardroom.

She set the pages down. “Bottom line it for me. Who do you recommend?”

Four pairs of eyes blinked at her like she’d spoken an alien dialect.

Then three voices erupted at once, the room filling with layered opinions and cross-talk.

She held up a hand, resisting the urge to bang it against the table.

“One at a time. Start with catcher. Moreno. Knows the team. Familiar with our system.”

“I vote to keep him,” Sam Monteleone barked through the speakerphone, his voice loud enough to make her wince. “He’s got rapport with the pitchers.”

“Yeah, but he’s been dropping balls all spring,” Cole countered, flipping through a chart. “His knees are shot. If we’re shifting to ground-ball pitching, that’s going to demand lower pitches with more movement—meaning more passed balls.”

“And his pitch framing is weak,” one of the wonder twins added, nodding seriously. “You need a catcher who can steal strikes. Prosser’s framing is in the 85th percentile.”

“Prosser?” Sam sounded incredulous. “He’s a backup in Minnesota. We already dismissed him.”

Miranda leaned in, her voice smooth and unbothered. “My father dismissed him. I didn’t. Convince me.”

The stats guys perked up.

“Elite framing. Handles ground-ball heavy rotations. Worked with a couple of knuckleballers last year and held up great.”

“He’s cheap, too,” Cole added. “Minnesota’s loaded with catchers. Prosser’s out of place there, but he fits what we need.”

“And what do they need?” Miranda asked.

“They like Moreno,” Cole said. “He can hit and play first base. He’d be attractive in a trade offer.”

“Why isn’t Moreno our first baseman?” Miranda asked, struggling to keep pace with the conversation.

“Because we have Lockhart,” Sam practically shouted. “We’ve already made that call—with your father. Why are we rehashing everything?”

There it was. The pushback. The first real wall. And of course, it was Sam.

She leaned closer to the speaker, lowering her voice into something quiet and persuasive.

“Sam, I respect your experience. But Moreno can’t stay behind the plate for a full season, and he’s not syncing with the new rotation.

We have to make changes. We can’t spend on big names, and the farm system doesn’t have what we need. But Minnesota might deal.”

“They won’t take Moreno alone,” Cole warned.

“Then we offer Hardesty too,” Miranda said.

“Hardesty?” Sam exploded. “He pitched more innings than any reliever last year!”

“And gave up more home runs than anyone else in the division,” Cole snapped. “If we want fewer big innings, we can’t keep putting fly-ball relievers out there.”

Lucas still hadn’t said a word. He leaned back in his chair, elbow on the table, tapping a slow rhythm with one finger. Watching her. Watching everyone. Unreadable.

Now he was quiet?

Miranda shifted in her seat, acutely aware of the tension behind his silence. His eyes hadn’t left her once.

“This is bullshit,” Sam said. “You’re gutting my roster. How the hell am I supposed to win?”

Jason finally leaned forward. “I get where you’re coming from, Sam. But this model works. Other teams have done it and succeeded. We’ve fallen behind by refusing to adapt.”

“Et tu, Jason?” Sam said bitterly. “You want me to build a bullpen out of scraps and prayers?”

“We rotate,” one of the wonder twins said. “Smaller workloads, more flexibility, less chance of injury.”

“So now we’re letting bean counters run the team?” Sam muttered. “Might as well fire me now.”

Miranda opened her mouth to respond, but the abrupt dial tone cut her off. She stared at the phone, her pulse pounding, her jaw tight. She counted to ten. Then ten again.

Across the table, the wonder twins whispered nervously, clearly regretting their statistical courage.

She turned to Cole and Jason. “We’ll deal with Sam later. Thoughts?”

“This was my proposal originally,” Cole said with a shrug. “I’m in—though I doubt we’ll see quick financial impact.”

Jason sighed. “We’ll screw this up without the time to do it right. But I don’t see another option.”

Miranda turned to the only person who hadn’t spoken. “Lucas?”

He stared at the table. Said nothing.

Then, with a quick breath, he sat up straighter and spoke—each word crisp and cut clean as glass.

“You need to make changes. Period. No movement tells the fans you’ve already given up. You want faith? Show effort. Show initiative. Make a goddamn decision and stick to it.”

The silence that followed was sharp. No one moved.

Miranda’s pulse ticked in her throat.

“Everyone out,” she said.

Cole hesitated, but left without argument. When the door clicked shut, Lucas didn’t flinch.

“I won’t apologize for saying what needed to be said.”

“Helpful,” she said flatly. “Yelling at the room and throwing down the gauntlet? You could’ve waited five minutes.”

“You want consensus when you need leadership,” he countered. “You keep looking around for approval. You won’t get it. Not from Sam, not from your father’s guys. You want to fix this? Stop asking for permission.”

“I thought you wanted me to stay conservative.”

He leaned forward, voice low, eyes burning into hers. “You’re smarter than this. You know what has to be done. So what the hell are you afraid of?”

Miranda looked down, unsure. Her father. Her past. The ghosts whispering she wasn’t good enough. She’d lived under his shadow for so long, she hadn’t realized how much she still feared stepping outside of it.

Lucas rose and came around the table, planting his hands on either side of her chair, trapping her between the armrests.

“You’re scared you’ll be wrong,” he murmured. “You’re scared of headlines and angry fans and being the girl who ruined her daddy’s team. But guess what? You won’t win anyway. Someone’s always pissed. At least be pissed for doing something instead of nothing.”

His breath was warm. Too close. Too intimate. She could smell the clean spice of his cologne and the tension thrumming beneath his calm facade.

Then he pushed off the chair and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

She flinched.

And sat there, stunned.

Was he right? Had she been playing it safe, trying to be loved when she should’ve been leading?

The answer churned through her. Ugly. Honest. Familiar.

Yes.

She tapped a pen against the table, the rhythmic click, click, click syncing with the thoughts racing through her mind.

Lucas was right about one thing.

It was time to make a decision.

Time to lead.

Time to stop hesitating and take the damn swing.

A few hours later, Miranda looked up at a soft knock on her office door. Lucas stood in the doorway, one shoulder leaning casually against the frame, one brow raised in that annoyingly perceptive way of his.

“Burning the midnight oil?” he asked. “Not heading to the hospital tonight?”

She shook her head, blinking away the blur of numbers on her screen. “He’s out of ICU now, in the cardiac unit. My mom said it might be less stressful if I didn’t visit so much.”

“Less stressful for who?” he asked, stepping inside. He crossed the room and stopped in front of her desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks. His presence alone shifted the air, thickening it.

“I thought she meant for my dad,” Miranda admitted, leaning back in her chair, her head resting against the high leather back.

“But now I think it was for me. She knew I’d keep reporting every move we made.

That I’d go running back with updates, seeking approval.

And she knows...” Her voice dropped. “She knows we have to do things differently now. That my father’s going to lose it when he finds out. ”

Lucas lowered himself to perch on the edge of her desk, one arm draped over his thigh, casual and confident. He was close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean, spicy, and maddeningly familiar.

“So,” he said softly. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Fake it ‘til I make it,” she muttered with a tired laugh, though there was no humor in the sound. “I authorized the trade for Prosser today. No committee. No long debate. I just… did it. You were right—I kept hesitating, trying to please everyone. My dad’s probably going to fire me when he’s back on his feet, but I did what was best for the team. ”

He stood slowly, his gaze sharpening. “Good. Stick to your instincts, Miranda. If Seamus can’t see that, then that’s his blind spot—not yours.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I could’ve used some of that support in the meeting today, you know.”

Lucas didn’t flinch. “I’m sure you could’ve. But if I’d stepped in, it would’ve undermined you. Everyone would’ve seen it as my decision, not yours. You’re trying to build credibility. That doesn’t happen when someone else makes the call for you.”

His voice was cool, clinical—but something in his expression betrayed the steel beneath it. He had been watching. Calculating. Choosing to let her take the win.

She tilted her head. “So you were helping. That’s your version of support?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smirk. “You’re welcome.”