Page 16

Chapter

Thirteen

N ote to self: Never, ever book a trip to Florida during spring break. Ever again.

The airport was a human zoo—elbow-to-elbow chaos, kids crying, someone blasting TikTok videos on full volume, and an inexplicably long line for Auntie Anne’s pretzels. Baggage claim was a free-for-all, and the rental counter had all the charm of a DMV on fire.

Then came the final insult: her reserved midsize SUV had been downgraded to the last vehicle left in the lot.

A POS Hyundai that looked like a clown car orgy had taken place inside it.

Sand coated the floorboards, smeared sunscreen lingered on the windows, and the faint stench of cheese fries haunted the air like a bad memory.

Lucas took one look and tilted his head. “You know, Miranda, we can afford a slightly better car.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get in the damn car.”

He only chuckled—low, rich, and maddening—and somehow folded himself into the passenger seat. The car groaned under the weight of his lean, six-foot-two frame as he pushed the seat back as far as it could go. Which wasn’t far enough.

She grumbled, stuffing her laptop bag and emergency heels into the joke of a trunk. “First time a guy hasn’t insisted on driving.”

“I don’t think I’d survive the attempt,” he replied, smirking as his long legs awkwardly angled under the dash.

She slammed the door shut, her annoyance boiling over.

She dropped the keys somewhere between her feet and cursed, bending down to find them—only to crack her head on the steering wheel.

“This is pathetic. I’m the damn president, and I’m going to roll up to the office in this embarrassment. How are they ever going to respect me?”

The vision of her team watching her emerge from this sand-caked disaster made her stomach twist. She should’ve driven her Mustang. It wasn’t ideal for long hauls, but at least it wouldn’t have decimated her dignity.

Lucas held up the keys between two fingers like a prize. “It’s all about how you handle it. Treat it like a power move. Laugh it off, and they’ll fall in line. You’ve got the kind of swagger that turns shit into shine.”

She eyed him skeptically, his confidence both irritating and strangely reassuring. Then she snatched the keys from his hand, fingers brushing his just long enough to spark heat in her palm. “Whatever.”

He leaned back—or tried to—his shoulders bunching in the cramped space, his thigh brushing hers when she climbed in. There wasn’t enough room to pretend it was accidental.

“Brazen it out,” he said, his voice a low drawl. “Channel your inner Mean Girl. Walk in like you own the damn place—and pity anyone who doesn’t get the joke.”

She let out a startled laugh. “Mean girls would be easier than those guys.”

“Exactly.” He gave her a side glance, something warm and lazy flickering behind the cool exterior. “Now let’s hit the road before my circulation gives out completely.”

“Fine.” She adjusted her seat and hissed when her knees knocked into the wheel. Everything about this was uncomfortable. Cramped. Confrontational.

And yet, the heat between them simmered in the shared space—unspoken, undeniable.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered.

But from the sly curve of his mouth, she had a sinking suspicion he was enjoying every second.

B y the time they’d finally clawed their way through the wall-to-wall traffic and an ocean of half-naked spring breakers, Miranda’s mood had curdled into something dark and acidic.

She was pissed off at the airport crowds, the screaming toddlers in baggage claim, and the lingering scent of Axe body spray from the guy who’d been behind her in line for forty minutes.

She was pissed off at the economy car that smelled like sunblock and stale fries.

But mostly, she was pissed off that she had to be here at all—dragged away from real work to convince a team of grown-ass adults to do their damn jobs.

Her father wouldn’t have had to do this. When Seamus Callahan spoke, people snapped to attention like his word was law and questioning it wasn’t an option. There were no questions. No debates. No passive-aggressive delays or ignored memos.

They jumped. And they damn well asked how high after they were already in the air.

She parked with a frustrated jerk of the wheel, her exhale sharp and uneven. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel like it had personally betrayed her.

Lucas reached over and covered her hand with his, his touch warm and grounding. “Maybe a walk would help. Stretch our legs. Loosen up. Breathe.”

“I’m perfectly calm.”

“Sure you are,” he said dryly, prying her fingers loose one by one. His grip lingered longer than necessary, thumb sweeping across the back of her hand in a slow, steady arc.

Her pulse flared in response—stupid, inconvenient chemistry—and she yanked her hand back. “Damn it. How am I supposed to persuade them to follow my lead if they have zero respect for me?”

He shrugged, casual in that infuriating way of his. “How would your father do it?”

She turned to glare at him. “You seriously want me to channel Seamus? The same man you said drove this team into the ground with his ego and cigar-chomping machismo?”

“I said he got results,” Lucas said, his voice silky with nuance. “Doesn’t mean you need to become him. I’m just saying—he got people to act.”

“He signs their paychecks.”

“So do you,” he said, arching a brow. “Technically. But you’re the one in charge now, Miranda. You want their respect? Stop trying to be their friend. You’re not here to win prom queen. You’re here to win a damn championship.”

She gnawed on her lower lip, torn between indignation and reluctant agreement. The truth was, she wasn’t her father—and didn’t want to be. She wasn’t built to stomp around issuing ultimatums like some mob boss in Prada.

But trying to be nice hadn’t worked either.

The team wasn’t responding to her. Not to meetings.

Not to collaboration. Not to Cole, who was practically bleeding out trying to implement changes.

They were a wall of stubborn pride and passive resistance.

And no matter how hard she tried to work with them, she kept running face-first into that wall.

Maybe it was time to bulldoze.

Lucas was right—damn him. She’d let her father do the hard part for too long. Not because he didn’t think she could. But because she never insisted.

She hadn’t taken the power. So he kept it.

That ended now.

She opened the car door with sudden purpose, the Florida heat slapping her in the face. She groaned as she stood and her spine cracked with a sharp pop. “God, I’m too young to sound like a box of Rice Krispies.”

Lucas stepped out beside her, his tall frame unfolding with a feline grace that didn’t belong in this sticky parking lot or this conversation. “That’s the spirit,” he said, gaze lingering on her a second too long.

She caught it. Felt it. That awareness humming low and hot between them again, the kind that made the humid air feel even thicker.

She didn’t trust it—not yet.

But she trusted herself.

“We have a season to win,” she said firmly, slamming the car door shut behind her.

And this time, she wasn’t asking.

M iranda sat in the back of the conference room, spine straight, fingers curled around the armrest of her chair.

She kept her expression neutral as the wonder twins—statistical prodigies in matching button-downs—and Cole powered through their presentation, each slide more data-heavy than the last. The goal?

Convince the coaches to stop living in the past and step into the present.

Lucas sat on her right, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable. Jason flanked her other side, quiet but attentive. Silent witnesses to what felt more like a slow-moving hostage negotiation than a strategic session.

The analytics team threw out numbers with calm precision—pitch framing efficiency, the benefits of inducing ground balls, optimal use of defensive shifts.

They broke it down: get on base, suppress run production, pitch smart.

It was clean, logical. But not personal, and certainly not winning over the room.

Across the table, the coaching staff grew colder with every bullet point.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. Stone faces with dead eyes.

No nods. No reactions. Just barely concealed resentment wrapped in years of doing it “their way.” Cole’s voice started to falter.

One of the twins shifted nervously, glancing at his partner.

Time to change the temperature in the room.

Slowly, Miranda rose from her seat. The scraping of her chair was a thunderclap in the silence. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. She walked forward with deliberate grace, her heels clicking in rhythm like a war drum.

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. One thing she’d learned from Lucas: power didn’t have to shout. Sometimes, it just entered the room.

She stopped at the front, where Cole and the twins hovered awkwardly. With a single nod, she dismissed them. They returned to their seats. She remained standing—shoulders relaxed, arms at her sides, gaze sweeping over the room like a general surveying her troops.

Silence deepened. Not hostile now—something else. Caution. Curiosity.

“Which teams have followed these strategies?” she asked, voice clear, unwavering. “Have they made it to the playoffs?”

Cole’s answer was immediate. “Every one of them.”

“And the teams that don’t?”

“They might have good seasons here and there,” he replied, “but they rarely make the playoffs. Usually, they have to spend their way to a win.”

One of the analytics guys jumped in. “Almost every team uses some of these techniques—shifts for particular hitters, pitching strategies tailored to tendencies.”

She turned to the manager. “Sam, have we implemented any of these—shifts, pitching for ground balls, double plays?”