Page 2

Chapter

Two

L ucas Wainright stood in the doorway of the main conference room, a rush of memories hitting like a line drive to the chest. The space hadn’t changed much—same long table, same wall of windows overlooking the diamond—but the man at the head of the table had.

Seamus Callahan sat where Lucas’s father once had, commanding the room with gritted teeth and force of will.

The irony burned like acid in Lucas’s gut.

Once, Lucas had been heir apparent to that seat. Now? He was the outsider, the fixer sent by the league to drag the Georgia Knights back from the financial brink. He had two paths: help the man who helped destroy his father… or return the favor.

He drew on every ounce of his infamous, cold-blooded boardroom reputation and shoved the emotions deep down, compartmentalizing them with ruthless precision. Getting personal wasn’t the plan—but it was already harder than expected.

He strode into the room, not acknowledging anyone, and angled toward the panoramic windows that overlooked the empty ballpark below.

He didn’t take a seat. Not yet. The seat—his seat—would come later.

He perched on the window ledge, cool and in control, his gaze cutting straight to Seamus.

Lucas wanted that chair at the table. Specifically, the one Miranda Callahan currently occupied.

But for now, he’d settle for looming above them.

Making them look up. Power positioning, alpha strategy.

Seamus would understand that language even if he resented it.

Seamus jabbed the button on the conference phone, disconnecting a call with a grunt. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re not staying.”

Lucas smiled, a slow, deliberate stretch of lips that held just enough bite. “Funny, I’ve got paperwork that says otherwise. The League gave you a lifeline. I’m the cost of that rescue.”

Seamus scowled like the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “Miranda will set you up with an office. Now we’ve got real work to do.”

Lucas pushed off the ledge and let the next word fall like a gavel. “No.”

The room stilled.

“You don’t give the orders. I do. I approve every move, every contract, every dollar that leaves this office.”

Seamus’s jaw tightened. “The Knights are mine. Your father gave that up when he sold me his shares.”

Lucas’s smile was all sharp edges and control. “Don’t confuse me with my father. I’m not in the habit of rolling over, especially not for men like you. You want to save your team? Then work with me.”

Miranda rose smoothly, a diplomatic shield sliding between them. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us a moment?”

The two other execs gathered their things and slipped out. Lucas leaned back on the ledge again, arms folded, watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Seamus looked worn down by years of bad deals and worse nights.

His face was a map of frustration—deep lines carved by stress and ego, the kind that didn’t heal.

A photo behind him caught Lucas’s attention—Callahan standing alone in front of the team, the team itself relegated to the background.

Lucas's lip curled. His father had hung a team photo, everyone equal.

Callahan had made himself the center. That said everything.

Lucas's chest tightened at the thought of his father. Jacob Wainright had believed in loyalty, friendship—even with Seamus. What would he think now, seeing the team he built in ruins and his son brought back as the harbinger of reckoning?

He pushed the sentiment aside. No distractions.

Miranda stood beside her father now, a vision of cool professionalism, and a far cry from the sunbeam girl he remembered.

Once upon a time, she was pure sparkle—bouncing through the owner’s box in sundresses and glitter lip gloss, crushing on him from afar.

He’d noticed, of course. He wasn’t blind.

But she’d been off-limits—too young, too protected, too damn tempting.

Now? Miranda Callahan was composed elegance wrapped in steel.

Her blonde hair coiled in a sleek bun. Tailored navy dress.

High heels that clicked with authority. Not a single hair out of place.

But that same spark, that rebellious flicker he remembered—it was buried deep in her ice-blue eyes.

And damn if it didn’t make him want to dig it out.

She arched a single brow, a silent challenge. Then looked past him with the cool disinterest of someone used to being in control. Someone determined not to give him an inch.

He smirked. Let her try. He’d dealt with tougher. But few were this beautiful.

Was she the president in truth, or just her father’s mouthpiece? And how much trouble was she going to be?

When the room cleared, Miranda slid into the seat beside her father and motioned toward the opposite side. A power play. Cute.

Lucas didn’t take the bait. He walked around the table and dropped into her vacated chair without hesitation. Her brows twitched. A tell. She hadn’t expected that.

Good.

“Let’s discuss this rationally,” Miranda said, tone even but firm. “Dad, we need him. Martinelli sent him, and we’d be fools to ignore what he brings to the table.”

Seamus growled. “We don’t need his help. Once we sign Mendoza, we’ll have our marquee name. The fans’ll return. Simple.”

Lucas exhaled a laugh, low and lethal. “You’re delusional.”

He leaned back, arms draped casually across the chair arms, relaxed in the way that said: I own this room .

“You’re out of cash. You have no farm system depth. Your trades are stalled. Your revenue is bleeding out. All because you chased splashy headlines instead of sound investments. Your ego got you here. Own it.”

Seamus flushed, eyes bulging. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, stunned by someone daring to say what no one else would.

Miranda interjected, heat in her voice now. “That’s enough. Are you here to help or to antagonize?”

Lucas turned his gaze to her, slow and deliberate. Letting his eyes rake over her. Professional, yes. But his stare lingered just a second too long on the curve of her jaw, the pulse at her throat.

“I’m here to fix what’s broken,” he said, voice dropping to a quieter, darker register. “Even if it hurts.”

Their eyes locked. Tension snapped between them like a taut wire. Once, she’d followed him with hero-worship eyes. Now, she met him head-on, spine straight, chin up.

Challenge accepted.

Satisfied, he stood. “I’ll need full access to the financials and one-on-ones with department heads. Nothing moves without my say-so. Not players. Not trades. Not lunch orders.”

Miranda looked to her father, who waved a dismissive hand.

“Fine. Give him a closet somewhere. Don’t get cozy, Wainright. This isn’t your castle.”

Lucas smiled coldly. “Then start polishing the drawbridge. I’m here to stay.”

He held the door open, gesturing for Miranda to walk ahead of him. She hesitated. Then rose, sweeping past him without a word, her perfume brushing against him like silk and smoke.

He didn’t look back. But he could feel Seamus Callahan’s glare like a knife between his shoulder blades.

Let him watch. The game was just beginning.

L ucas strode down the corridor toward the executive offices, the echo of his footsteps syncing with the low hum of frustration thrumming in his chest. Callahan’s blind arrogance was staggering.

First, the man had run the team into the ground with grandiose delusions and a complete disregard for financial realism.

Now, after taking a bailout from the league, he had the gall to act as if he was above oversight.

Lucas had seen this pattern before—old-school pride mixed with failing ambition—and he knew how to dismantle it. He just needed the right leverage.

He hoped it might be Miranda.

If Seamus weren’t so entrenched in every decision, Lucas might have approached her first. She might even be open to change—assuming they could manage to work together. That was the real question, wasn’t it?

What he hadn’t expected was the jolt of desire that had gripped him the moment she walked into the room.

It wasn’t just her beauty—though that alone was enough to derail a lesser man—it was the sharp glint of intelligence in her ice-blue eyes, the husky warmth of her southern lilt brushing against his skin like velvet.

That voice had sent a bolt of heat straight through his composure, cutting clean through the chill he’d wrapped around himself since walking through the stadium gates.

At this level, it was rare to work with a woman.

Baseball still clung to its boys’ club hierarchy.

Which made Miranda Callahan not only unusual but dangerously intriguing.

It also meant attraction had never been part of the equation in his other consulting jobs.

He wasn’t used to distraction in a pencil skirt and heels. But here they were.

Behind him, her stilettos clicked a quick, decisive rhythm along the polished floor, matching the sharp cadence of his thoughts. She was keeping up—and keeping him on edge. He slowed, more for effect than necessity, and let her draw even.

The hallway was lined with photos, most of them predictable—Seamus, a few aging players, the occasional victory moment. But one image stopped him cold. A familiar smile. Hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The same gentle strength that had guided the Knights into existence.

His father.

The sight hit harder than expected. Jacob Wainright had been a builder, a dreamer. A man who believed in the soul of the game. And he’d died with that dream gutted by the man whose photo hung down the hall.

Lucas’s throat tightened, and he forced the breath out slowly, steeling himself.