Page 24

Chapter

Eighteen

L ucas felt ridiculous—like he’d walked off the set of a budget fantasy series, the kind that streamed late at night when you were too tired to care and too caffeinated to sleep.

The equipment staff had shoved him into a metallic-looking tunic and pants, complete with a garish screen-printed crest that looked like someone had designed it in a knock-off Photoshop program and added glitter for flair.

Then came the real torment—metal shoulder, elbow, leg, and foot guards strapped on tight.

And the final insult? The helmet.

Honestly, it was the only redeemable part—if you ignored the godawful stench, like sweaty desperation and expired Febreze.

But anonymity had its perks. No one would guess the man inside the tin can was Lucas Wainright, consultant extraordinaire.

And if this farce got back to the boardroom, he could always deny everything.

Unless there was video. God, there was definitely video.

Hammonds strolled into the cramped locker room and gave a smug little whistle. “Looking good, Wainright. You could be an extra on Game of Thrones.”

“Fuck off, Hammonds. You set this up, didn’t you? You knew this thing hadn’t seen a washing machine since Bush was in office. The first one.” Lucas shifted uncomfortably, the leg guard slamming into his groin. “And I swear to God, I’m gonna need a whole new set of equipment if I survive this.”

He waved off the two equipment guys with a growl. They took the hint and beat a hasty retreat.

“Wayne’s a purist,” Hammonds said with a shrug. “Does Renaissance reenactments on weekends. He insists on authenticity...though I think his idea of ‘historical accuracy’ is just ‘cheap and unwashed.’”

“There’s nothing authentic about this,” Lucas grumbled, adjusting the stupid greaves. “Pretty sure I saw a Spirit Halloween tag still attached.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Hammonds said with a grin. “Miranda will owe you. If she ever finds out.”

Lucas glared through the eye slits of the helmet. “If I don’t crush my own nuts in the process. Are you trying to kill me?”

Hammonds held up his hands, all innocence. “Jealousy doesn’t suit me. But just FYI? If you hurt her, that oversized LARP kit you’re wearing won’t protect you.”

“Sword and shield too?” Lucas groaned as he spotted them leaning against the wall like medieval torture devices. “Are you kidding me?”

“Welcome to the show, buttercup.” Hammonds was already halfway out the door. “Wayne usually does the full act, swordplay and all. You? Just trot out there, pump up the crowd, pose for pics with the kids. Try not to terrify anyone. Oh—and smile. Well, as much as you can under the helmet.”

Lucas scowled. “Where is Wayne, anyway? If he loves this gig so much, why isn’t he doing it?”

“Food poisoning,” Hammonds said cheerfully. “Explosive kind. One false move in that suit and he’d be evacuating faster than a hurricane warning. You don’t want to know the details.”

“Fantastic,” Lucas muttered, dragging his feet as he clanked toward the tunnel, sounding like a malfunctioning Terminator. “All this for the kids. And Miranda.” He repeated the mantra like a prayer.

He had to lift his feet high with each step, like he was doing some kind of TikTok soldier march challenge.

The foot guards clanged with every movement, and the elbow guards caught awkwardly on the stiff, metallic fabric.

He looked like a peacock in plate armor—or a poorly animated character from a vintage video game.

“This is not what I signed up for,” he grumbled. “I’m a consultant. Not a court jester.”

But then the crowd roared.

He stepped onto the field and nearly face-planted on the first stair, misjudging the eye slits. He righted himself just in time as someone shoved a sword and shield into his hands.

“Go, go, go! You’re on!” someone hissed.

He staggered forward like a sacrificial knight sent into battle. “Wainright!” came Hammonds’ voice, way too amused.

“No names!” Lucas turned and half-raised the sword in mock threat, scowling at him.

And then—he saw her.

Miranda stood in the dugout, flanked by a row of kids. She wore a team jersey with her name on the back, her blonde hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. She caught sight of him just as he raised the sword and shield, trying to strike a pose. Her brows furrowed—then lifted in shock.

The crowd went wild.

As Miranda and Cole led the kids to the microphone, Hammonds waved Lucas into position behind them. He obeyed, waving the sword here and there to hype up the stands. He even growled once. The crowd loved it.

Then came a tug on his leg armor. A boy, maybe eight, stared up at him with reverent awe.

“Mister, can I hold your sword?”

Lucas looked at the heavy blade. Definitely not safe.

“Tell you what,” he said, crouching with a wince. “You know what a knight’s squire is? He helps the knight, protects the shield. Want to be my squire?”

The kid nodded so hard his floppy blond hair bounced. Lucas handed over the shield and showed him how to strap it on.

“Don’t wave it around. Stand tall. Look brave.”

The kid’s little face twisted into a fierce scowl. Lucas grinned—behind the helmet, of course—and caught Miranda watching him. Her expression melted, caught somewhere between surprise and reluctant affection. He felt something stir—more than just pride. Something warmer.

The photographer snapped away as more kids took turns posing. One mock attacked him. Another “won” the duel. Laughter echoed around home plate. Even Lucas couldn’t stop smiling. He wasn’t Lucas Wainright right now. He was some ridiculous knight, laughing with kids, being ridiculous, being human.

Miranda’s speech trailed off as the kids stole the show. “Okay, okay,” she laughed into the mic. “Apparently, I’ve been upstaged. Let’s get the official photo before the game starts.”

The group huddled together, Miranda front and center with the kids. Lucas sidled up beside her, Cole on her other side. The photographer waved them closer.

Lucas shifted, his arm brushing Miranda’s back. He rested a gloved hand on the curve of her spine. She jolted at the contact and turned to see who it was, eyes narrowing.

“Lucas?” she whispered, voice sharp but hushed.

He nodded slightly, right as the flash went off.

The anthem played and they stayed frozen in place, the kids trying to stay solemn. Miranda leaned in, her voice barely audible. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Filling in for your boy Wayne,” he murmured. “Getting involved. You said you wanted that.”

Her lips curved—reluctantly, but definitely. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Oh, they would. The promise was in her tone, in the electric buzz of awareness that arced between them as he stood, armor and all, shoulder brushing hers.

And under the weight of steel and sweat, Lucas grinned.

Hammonds might be onto something. Nothing said foreplay quite like a little medieval role-play—and a whole lot of knightly credit in the bank.

A fter the ceremonies and anthem, they all filed into the dugout. Miranda made her rounds, shaking each player's hand and offering a personal comment—tailored, thoughtful, the kind that proved she wasn’t just a figurehead in heels. She knew her team.

“Cody, good luck with the two-seamer. You had some good success with it at the end of spring training.” The cocky young pitcher gave her a half-smile, bravado not quite masking the flicker of nerves.

She moved on, then pulled Prosser aside, the new catcher, her voice dropping low, intimate enough that no one else could hear—except Lucas, who hovered close enough to catch every word.

“Don’t worry about the papers or anyone else. You’re the cornerstone of this team. We need you to settle Cody and be a source of strength for the rest of the guys. Can you do that for me?”

The guy nodded, solemn and wide-eyed beneath all his gear—gear that somehow looked less suffocating than what Lucas was still sweating through. Figures.

As the players moved toward the field, Lucas sidled up to Miranda, his tone edged with challenge. “Don’t you think that’s a hell of a lot of pressure to put on a new guy?”

She arched a brow, giving him that maddeningly composed sidelong glance. “You’re the one who said we needed a strong cornerstone, and Prosser had the best shot.”

“I said he was a good pitch framer,” he retorted, voice tightening. “And that he could handle young pitchers—not carry the damn team.”

The kids were gone. The players had drifted onto the field or staked out space in the dugout. Coaches and staff milled about, but Cole had disappeared, leaving Lucas and Miranda alone at the mouth of the tunnel. She stepped closer, reached up, and flipped the visor of his helmet.

Her smile was amused, her eyes dancing. “Is it really you in there? How the hell did you end up as the Savannah Knight?”

He grunted, not ready to admit how close he’d come to keeling over from heat exhaustion. “Your GM decided to draft me when your regular guy bailed. Food poisoning.”

Miranda cast a glance down the dugout, spotting Cole standing beside Sam, the manager. “More like arthritis. Wayne didn’t want to give up the groundskeeping gig, so Dad made him the mascot a few years ago. He’s been hanging on ever since.”

Lucas blinked. “Wait. Eighty-year-old Wayne?”

She nodded, biting her lip as the laughter began to bubble up again. “Yeah. He wouldn’t be caught dead hamming it up with the kids. We practically have to bribe him to lift the sword.”

Lucas turned a slow, withering gaze down the dugout. Cole met it—and laughed even harder, barely upright now.

“I need to murder your GM. Be right back.”

She doubled over, gasping for air between giggles. “Maybe change out of the armor first. Want some help?”

Lucas clanked away down the tunnel, muttering darkly. Miranda followed, her laughter echoing like a soundtrack to his humiliation, even as the crowd erupted for the start of the game.