Page 17

He shrugged, arms still folded across his chest like a fortress. But he didn’t bristle. Not yet. “Sure, we use some. But these guys want us to shift on every hitter. Rely on numbers. Baseball isn’t predictable.”

She raised a brow. “Really? So a hitter can just choose where the ball goes, regardless of the pitch?”

Sam squirmed slightly. “Well…sort of.”

“They tend to strike out more when they try to control too much,” one of the twins added gently.

“And strikeouts,” Miranda continued, locking eyes with Sam, “mean no runners on base. No runs. No wins.”

She crossed the room and sat at the head of the table. “Gentlemen, we win by scoring more runs than the other team. And we stop them from scoring by playing smart. The teams who can’t afford all-stars are still winning—because they’re adapting. We’re not. That has to change.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice low, steady. “We can’t afford top players. So why aren’t we using every tool at our disposal? Why the fuck aren’t we using what’s proven to work?”

The word dropped like a stone in the center of the room—harsh, yes. But honest. Her voice never rose, but each syllable carried weight. Carved from steel and certainty.

Sam blinked. The others shifted. No one met her eyes.

She channeled Lucas again and waited. Let the silence stretch like a high wire. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t bail them out.

Tick. Tock.

“Well, I still don’t think this can work,” Sam finally muttered.

“Why not?” she asked, zeroing in. “Convince me. Because I can’t get you new players. This is what we have. So, how are you planning to win?”

He grimaced. “We need more home run hitters.”

Cole opened his mouth, but Miranda cut him off with a raised hand. She didn’t even look at him. “That’s one run. We need traffic—runners on base. And power hitters? They strike out more.”

Sam’s lips twitched. “Yeah, Friar would know.”

Jason cleared his throat. “I hated the shift as a hitter. Most of my grounders went right side. When they shifted, my average dropped seventy-five points. Swinging for the fences only made it worse.”

Sam blinked at him. “You agree with all this?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s not about agreement. It’s about results. The league’s changing. The small-market teams are dominating because they’re playing smart. If we don’t change, we’re toast.”

Sam looked to his coaches. One scratched his chin. Another leaned in.

Mel Bridges spoke first. “Patterson’s been getting lit up this spring. His ball’s up. We get him throwing more two-seamers, he gets more ground balls.”

“If we shift properly, we can back him up,” Sam said slowly. “Might help the kid’s confidence.”

“Prosser’s a better defensive catcher, too. Would help Patterson adjust to the new angle,” another coach added.

Miranda hid her smile, but she didn’t miss Lucas’s approving glance. They weren’t just listening now—they were engaged.

Then Sam asked the question she’d been waiting for.

“We’ve got less than two weeks before Opening Day. Can we even pull this off?”

“We have no choice,” Miranda said, her voice like a gavel. “We’re all-in.” She met each of their gazes—one by one—steady, unwavering. “You’re not alone. Cole has my full support. So do you. But this is how we move forward.”

Sam nodded once. “Fine. I’m not sold, but we’ll give it a shot. What’s next?”

Miranda stood, and this time, so did everyone else. She didn’t let her surprise show—but she felt it, a subtle shift in the air. Respect. Maybe even authority.

“I’ll leave the details to you and Cole,” she said. “But thank you for being willing to try.”

She walked out like she owned the place, which—finally—she did.

Outside, the sun was blinding. The door clicked behind her, and she didn’t have to look to know it was Lucas. She turned just as he joined her, and without thinking, she threw her arms around him.

“We did it!” she whispered, breathless. “They listened.”

He held her tightly, his voice husky in her ear. “No. You did it. You didn’t ask. You led. You didn’t give them the option to fail.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, flushed and grinning. “And they didn’t quit.”

“You gave them a reason to stay.”

She spun away from him in a giddy dance, her hair catching sunlight. “God, this is actually happening. We have a chance.”

Lucas watched her, his smile low and knowing. There was admiration in his gaze—and something more dangerous beneath it. Something warm. Male. Focused.

She felt it settle low in her belly. She wasn’t just seen. She was wanted.

“Time to meet the team,” she said, her voice steady again.

But this time, her smile was all confidence—and maybe, just a little bit wicked.

L ucas hung back, his stance casual as he leaned against a steel post just beyond the dugout, watching Miranda work the practice field like it was her personal stage.

She moved through the players with ease—handshakes, smiles, a gentle pat on a shoulder here, a teasing jab there.

Some already knew her, and those who didn’t were quickly disarmed by the warmth in her tone, the personalized comments she had ready for each one.

She remembered their families, their hometowns, their college stats.

No notes, no assistants whispering in her ear.

Just her and a ridiculous talent for making people feel seen.

And the effect was palpable.

Players straightened when she approached. Coaches toned down their locker-room vernacular. Not a single spit hit the ground near her feet. Her sex appeal was undeniable—lowkey, confident, not flaunted but ever-present—and yet no one dared cross the line. They respected her.

Lucas watched her laugh at something a scout said, her head tipping back, hair catching the afternoon sun like a Pantene ad gone corporate.

She was genuinely enjoying herself. And he’d seen that before—with the office staff, the clubhouse managers, the interns.

She treated them all the same. Like they mattered. Like they belonged.

That talent—that was rare.

But there was steel beneath the charm. Just an hour earlier, she had stared down a room full of coaches who had all but dared her to fail.

She hadn’t flirted. She hadn’t softened.

She’d commanded—with facts, logic, authority, and a voice carved in confidence.

She didn’t blink when challenged. She didn’t flinch when ignored.

She had been magnificent.

Just a few weeks without her father’s shadow and she was transforming—stronger, sharper, more herself. Lucas had once pegged her as a polished mouthpiece, a legacy hire meant to smooth PR disasters with a smile and a designer dress.

He hadn’t expected this.

Maybe the Georgia Knights had a shot after all.

“Pretty amazing, isn’t she?” Cole’s voice interrupted his thoughts as the man appeared beside him, arms crossed, eyes trained on Miranda. “Most women in her position come in swinging—ball-busters with something to prove. Not Miranda. She leads like she’s got nothing to prove to anyone.”

“And you?” Lucas asked, the words slipping out before he could cage them.

Cole barked a dry laugh. “Nope. We’ve never had that kind of connection. She’s not my type.”

“She’s everybody’s type,” Lucas murmured, gaze still locked on her.

Cole didn’t respond right away. Then, pointedly, “I respect her father too much to go there. What about you? Do you respect the Callahans?”

Lucas turned slowly, one brow raised at the shift in tone. “You warning me off, Hammonds? Appointing yourself her personal bodyguard while her father’s benched?”

“I’m making sure you’re not screwing with her while she’s vulnerable.”

A burst of laughter rang out from the dugout—Miranda’s. Bright. Unapologetic. Lucas smirked. “She doesn’t look fragile to me.”

“It’s a mask,” Cole said quietly. “She’s tight with her father. Always has been. That’s why she’s killing herself to turn this team around. The Knights aren’t just a job to her. They’re family. And from where I stand, you’re circling something she cares about. Hard.”

“I’m not here to tear anything down,” Lucas said, the edge in his voice sharpening. “I’m here to fix it. Same as you.”

Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Then why does it feel like you’re playing a different game?”

Lucas pushed off the post, letting the simmer in his chest show through. “Because you’re a suspicious bastard. But don’t worry, Hammonds—you handle wins. I’ll handle my motives.”

He stalked onto the field, cutting across the chalk-dusted grass toward the mound.

A young pitcher—Cody Patterson, if memory served—stood beside Miranda, animatedly demonstrating a grip.

She had kicked off her heels and was standing barefoot on the rubber, toes curling into the dirt like she was meant to be there.

“Like this, Cody?” she asked, holding the ball awkwardly.

The kid beamed. “Yup. Now snap your wrist at the end. Like this.”

Miranda mimicked the motion and tossed the ball.

It hit the ground twenty feet short of the crouched catcher.

She burst out laughing, and Cody joined her, his smile a little too lingering for Lucas’s taste.

He stood too close, fingers brushing her arm, back, hip—subtle, but noticeable. The teasing tone. The heat in his gaze.

Lucas’s jaw ticked. He growled—low and involuntary.

Miranda turned, brows lifting. “Oh! Lucas, come meet Cody Patterson.”

“I know who he is,” Lucas said, voice clipped. “Your rising star pitcher who should be focused on his mechanics, not flirting during tutorials.”

Mel Bridges appeared like a summoned demon. “Ms. Callahan. Patterson. Don’t you have pitches to run through? We want to see more two-seamers. Prosser’s waiting.”

Cody winked at Miranda. Winked .

“See you later, Ms. Callahan. Don’t worry. My arm’s golden. We’re bringing home a title this year.”

Lucas muttered, “Damn punk.”

Miranda smirked. “Jealous?”

Lucas gave her a deadpan look. “Of him?”

She stepped closer, amusement glinting in her eyes as she touched his arm. “You can’t always judge by appearances. Sometimes the unexpected ones have real talent. Even a cocky twenty-something.”

“Or a beauty queen,” Lucas said softly, catching her gaze.

She stilled for just a second—just long enough for the air between them to tighten like a wire. “Fair point.”

He caught her hand before she could step away. “We’ve stirred up the team enough for one day. How about we check into the hotel and grab dinner?”

She tilted her head, lips quirking. “I could be persuaded. Got somewhere in mind?”

A Jeep roared past, packed with college kids shouting half-intelligible lyrics to some viral remix and throwing cans out the window.

Miranda winced. “Please, God. Somewhere quiet. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m officially too old for that shit.”

Lucas chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know just the place.”

And as she let him guide her off the field, barefoot and radiant, his hand still lightly holding hers, he was very aware: this was no longer business.

This was personal.