Page 29

Chapter

Twenty-Two

L ucas tapped his fingers restlessly on his desk, tension coiling just beneath his skin like a current waiting to snap.

His phone sat in front of him, screen dark, as if mocking his hesitation.

It had been a month since his last official report to the commissioner—since Opening Day.

He had no logical reason to delay the call.

The Knights had a winning record. Ticket sales were trending upward.

Sponsors were renewing. A local media group was even in talks to negotiate television and radio broadcast rights—basically the holy grail for small-market teams.

All signs pointed to progress. To victory.

And yet, he had a sinking feeling that Roger wouldn't see it that way.

Sure, the commissioner didn’t want the team to tank publicly.

Bankruptcies made the league look unstable, especially now, in the age of digital ticketing, streaming broadcasts, and bloated payrolls.

Fans didn’t understand how a franchise could fold when they were paying twenty dollars for nachos.

Roger would want financial viability—for optics, if nothing else.

But success meant Seamus Callahan stayed.

And Roger hated Callahan.

He never outright said he wanted him gone—but Lucas had been around long enough to hear what wasn’t spoken. And if the Knights rose from the ashes? That would mean Callahan, and by extension, Miranda, had succeeded.

To Roger, that would be a failure.

The phone rang, cutting through the silence like a blade. Lucas picked it up.

“Roger.”

“I expected your report two weeks ago,” Roger snapped, voice sharp and cold. “And not some goddamn email. What’s going on?”

Lucas inhaled slowly, grounding himself. “We’ve made significant progress,” he said, then laid out the team’s improving financials, the fan engagement, the increase in regional media interest.

Roger gave a grunt, low and noncommittal. “So they’ll make the payment?”

“I think so. They still have some ground to cover, but they’re on the right path.”

A heavy sigh. “That’s... unfortunate.”

Lucas’s stomach dropped, icy dread settling in. “Unfortunate?”

“I’ve been approached by a group of investors. They want to buy in. Most clubs aren’t looking to sell outright—maybe minority shares. But these guys want full control.”

Lucas’s grip on the phone tightened. “They want a complete buyout.”

“They think the Knights have untapped potential. Fresh branding. A promising young roster. And a rapidly recovering financial picture.”

“I don’t see Seamus selling anytime soon.”

“If he can’t make the loan payments, he may not have a choice.”

Lucas straightened, jaw tightening. “What exactly are you saying, Roger?”

“I’m saying... there’s a team in need of new ownership and a group eager to buy. They want you as club president.”

The words slammed into Lucas like a fastball to the gut.

“You’ve always wanted that seat,” Roger continued. “Your father’s chair. Your legacy. It’s right there. Within reach.”

“If I stab the Knights in the back,” Lucas said, voice low and sharp. The words tasted like bile.

“Don’t think of it that way,” Roger purred, shifting into that slick persuasive mode Lucas had once admired.

“You know Callahan won’t stay on the sidelines.

The minute he’s back, he’ll undo everything you and Miranda built.

He’ll drag this franchise back into the past. You think he won’t clean house?

Fire her? Fire you? You know how he operates.

This deal gives you a chance to protect everything you’ve worked for. It gives the Knights a future.”

Lucas didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t.

Because Roger was right.

Seamus would come back. And when he did, he’d bulldoze over all their progress—replace the coaching staff, dismiss the analytics team, cancel new marketing strategies, possibly even try to bench Prosser just to make a point. He’d destroy what they were building without blinking.

And Miranda... she’d be the first casualty.

“Lucas?”

Roger’s voice echoed from the receiver.

Lucas exhaled. “I fully support Miranda and her vision for the Knights. Unless or until that changes—we’ll revisit it then. But for now, she has my full support.”

A long pause.

“So the rumors are true,” Roger said, his voice curling with distaste. “You’re sleeping with her. I didn’t think you’d ever confuse pleasure with business.”

“One has nothing to do with the other,” Lucas snapped. “I support her because she’s sharp, strategic, and she's right. We’re winning, Roger. And it’s her plan. Not mine. Not yours. Hers.”

“Then you’re making a mistake.”

“It’s mine to make.”

But Roger was already gone. The dial tone buzzed in Lucas’s ear like a slap.

He slammed the phone down, jaw clenched, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he just stared at it, half expecting it to shatter from the force.

Fury churned through him—not just at Roger’s betrayal, but at how expertly he’d manipulated the whole damn situation. Lucas had trusted him. Admired him.

And now he realized he’d been a pawn. Deployed, positioned, and steered to serve an agenda that had nothing to do with saving a team—and everything to do with taking one.

And yet…

One thing Roger had said clung to him like a shadow.

What if Callahan did come back and torch the whole operation? What if Miranda’s future, Cole’s, the players’—his father’s legacy—burned in the fallout?

Lucas had promised to save the team. Not for the commissioner. Not for Callahan. But for his father. To right the worst mistake of his life.

He just had to pray he could still keep that promise.

“Lucas?”

He looked up to see Miranda hovering in the doorway, her eyes wide and uncertain. He surged to his feet.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” she said, voice quiet. “Is it true? Do you really believe we can make this work?”

He let out a breath, tension easing. “Of course I do. I told Roger I support everything we’re doing.”

She crossed the room and threw her arms around him, holding him tight. “I knew it. I knew you believed in this, but hearing you say it... especially to him. That means everything.”

His arms wrapped around her automatically, grounding him even as guilt gnawed at his ribs. Because she didn’t know everything—not yet.

She stepped back, catching his hand in hers. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” he asked, managing a smile.

He could only hope it would be enough to eclipse the weight still pressing on his chest.

M iranda led Lucas out of his office, her fingers wrapped around his, her mouth curved in a mischievous, cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. She walked with purpose, dragging him along like a man late to a heist. He might’ve been more suspicious—if she didn’t look so goddamn pleased with herself.

Still, something felt off. The floor was too quiet.

Desks sat empty, office doors wide open, not a ringing phone or overheard Zoom call in earshot.

The usual post-lunch bustle was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness.

It felt like a corporate version of a post-apocalyptic show—all that was missing was the ominous music and a fungal zombie.

He frowned, but let her lead him toward a closed conference room door. She pressed a finger to her lips, that impish glint in her eyes now blindingly obvious.

She opened the door.

“SURPRISE!”

A chorus of cheers and claps exploded from within. Lucas jolted, adrenaline firing, and immediately turned to Miranda, narrowing his eyes.

“What the hell?” he muttered, dragging her close by the arm.

She just wiggled out of his grip, practically bouncing over to a massive birthday cake that read Happy Birthday, Lucas in elegant red script.

Heat rushed up his neck. He didn’t even have to ask how they’d found out—it hit him like a fastball to the chest.

His mother.

She’d called at four that morning—like clockwork—waking him up at Miranda’s place, just as she always had, right at the time of his birth. He thought he’d silenced it quickly, maybe even fooled Miranda into thinking it was a work call.

Clearly not.

He waited for the panic, the defensiveness, the sense of exposure.

But instead, all he felt was warmth—this strange, pleasant hum in his chest. As if, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just working with a team. He was part of it.

Miranda stood by the cake, eyes bright with anticipation. She looked like she’d been waiting her whole life to give someone a moment like this. And he realized—he couldn’t remember the last time someone had celebrated him.

The cheers died down. The room stilled.

Lucas cleared his throat and offered a sheepish smile. “I can’t believe you all did this. Thank you. Cake was exactly what I needed today.”

His gaze dropped to a plate beside the cake.

Oatmeal raisin cookies.

His heart stuttered.

He was instantly ten years old again, hovering at the edge of his father’s office while Grace Ann slipped him two—or three—cookies from the glass jar on her desk.

Even after his father’s death, a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies had appeared at their home.

No note. Just comfort. He never asked. He didn’t have to.

His eyes scanned the room until he found her.

He crossed the space in two long strides. “You remembered.”

“Always,” Grace Ann said softly, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, her gaze fond and unwavering.

He pulled her into a tight hug, whispering near her ear, “Thank you—for now... and for back then.”

When he stepped back, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Miranda’s eyes were glassy too, though she blinked them away and pressed a knife into his hand.

“Be careful,” she teased. “I know you’re out of practice cutting cake.”

He chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I think I can manage.”