Page 31

Chapter

Twenty-Three

S unday afternoon, and all was right with the world. Baseball on a warm spring day. A perfectly grilled hot dog. An ice-cold beer. What more could anyone want?

Well—Miranda mused as she relaxed into the owner’s box—maybe a Knights win and a sold-out crowd wouldn’t hurt.

Close enough.

The park wasn’t packed to capacity, but the smattering of empty navy-blue seats was minimal.

Energy buzzed through the stadium like a live current.

She wore her jersey—the same one from Opening Day a few weeks back.

The players had made it their new good-luck charm.

She’d laughed it off at first, but when they’d asked her to keep wearing it, game after game, she hadn’t hesitated.

If it kept morale high and bats hot, she’d wear the thing until October.

What had once been a boundary line she kept—avoiding the locker room, staying buried in spreadsheets and marketing calls—had blurred. Now she dropped by before every game. Not just to talk with the players, but their families, the staff, the ones who made everything work. It felt like... family.

A roar erupted from the crowd, rising like a wave. Miranda turned just in time to see Dylan Prosser’s fastball sail over the right field porch.

The stadium erupted.

She grinned and took another bite of her hot dog, joy bursting in her chest. Yup. All was right with the world.

Lucas sat on her other side, chatting with Cole and Jason about player stats, upcoming trades, or maybe fantasy league drama—whatever it was, she was content not to know.

She and Stacia were enjoying a rare moment of peace.

For once, the box wasn’t packed with sponsors or board members or corporate obligations.

It was just them. Friends. Sunshine. Baseball.

Lucas draped his arm across the back of her seat, his touch casual but territorial.

The warm pressure made her belly flip, heat unfurling low inside her like a slow burn.

The air between them always hummed, even when they weren’t touching.

And now, with his fingers brushing her shoulder and his scent lingering—soap, clean sweat, and something undeniably him—it took everything in her not to climb into his lap.

He must have felt the shift in her breathing, because he leaned over and brushed a light kiss to her lips. Not passionate. Not demanding. Just a soft, sweet mine that left her smiling like a teenager at prom.

Stacia arched a brow and smirked at her, but said nothing.

The door banged open behind them, the sound cracking through the peaceful moment like thunder. All heads turned.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” came a familiar voice, dry and sardonic.

Seamus Callahan stood in the doorway, framed by sunlight and looming judgment, with Gwen just behind him, her hand lightly resting on his arm like a reminder tether.

Miranda shot to her feet, her body locking up with instinct. “Daddy! I didn’t expect to see you here today. Come in—sit.” She shot Lucas a panicked glance, and he rose more slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Mr. Callahan. Mrs. Callahan.” Lucas’s voice was calm, respectful. “Can I get you anything? Food? A drink?”

Seamus stared at him like he’d just offered up rat poison with a side of arsenic. Gwen touched his arm again, her voice gentle. “Remember what the doctor said, dear. Deep breaths.”

Seamus grunted and stormed to an empty chair near the front of the box. “Good crowd today.”

Miranda followed quickly. “And we’re up again. Prosser hit a two-run shot just a few minutes ago.”

“I still don’t like him,” Seamus muttered, sinking into the seat with all the grace of a king scorned.

The others followed suit, moving delicately, as if afraid to make sudden movements around a bear waking from hibernation. Gwen drifted to Miranda’s side and tugged her gently to the back of the suite.

“I wanted to give you a heads-up,” she whispered. “But he wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, he succeeded,” Miranda said through clenched teeth. “Is he even supposed to be here?”

Gwen’s gaze softened, but her words came like a hammer. “Here’s another surprise—his doctor cleared him to begin working part-time again. He plans to be in the office tomorrow.”

The bottom dropped out of Miranda’s stomach.

Mid-May. Weeks earlier than expected. And he’d be back tomorrow.

She fought to keep her expression neutral. They’d made so much progress. Most of their new plans were already in motion—sponsorship deals, lineup changes, staff additions, ticket strategies. Could he undo it all? Would he?

She didn’t dare ask. The answer might break her.

She glanced toward Cole, who now sat to Seamus’s right like the loyal lieutenant he’d always been. Her stomach twisted. Cole was good at his job, loyal to a fault. But between her and her father, there was no question who ultimately held the cards.

She was president—but Seamus was the owner.

Cole might not have a choice.

Miranda straightened her shoulders, steel seeping back into her spine. She would handle this. Whatever it took. Because this team—her team—was worth it.

So was the man sitting beside her, quietly bracing for battle.

M onday morning dawned pale and restless.

Miranda watched the sun rise from her bedroom window, having not slept a single minute.

Her stomach twisted with dread. Today, she would walk into the office and face her father—the team owner, the man who had stepped aside with reluctance, now returning, and furious.

He was coming back for the reins.

And he was coming back angry.

She moved through the morning routine like a ghost. Lucas had stayed the night, a quiet, anchoring presence.

His touch hadn’t been about seduction—it had been about solace.

After dinner, he’d made love to her slowly, reverently, with such tenderness that it broke her open.

She’d cried into his chest afterward, though she hadn’t let herself sob.

He hadn’t asked why.

And she hadn’t needed to explain.

But even in his arms, sleep never came. Her mind had been a whirlwind of worst-case scenarios, of strategies and counterpoints, of what she’d say when her father inevitably dismissed everything she and the team had built.

She drove to the office before dawn, headlights cutting through the thinning darkness. She arrived long before most of the staff and locked herself in her office with her laptop, spreadsheets, and reports. Revenue growth. Sponsorship renewals. Ticket sales. Wins. Media impressions.

By the time the building buzzed with activity, she felt armed. Not just with facts, but with purpose.

Now, it was time to rally the troops.

She made her way around the floor, checking in with department heads, offering smiles, reassurance, presence. Some met her with enthusiasm. Others with hesitation. A few avoided her eyes entirely.

She saved Cole for last.

Knocking on his door, she stepped inside at his call. He sat behind his desk, the window behind him haloing him in morning light. She took the seat opposite, crossing one leg over the other, spine straight, chin lifted—but inside, her heart thundered.

She studied him. “How do you think he’ll react to our plan?”

Cole leaned back in his chair and stretched, fingers laced behind his head. “About as well as he did last year. And the year before. Which is to say... not well at all.”

She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Sounds about right.”

“Look,” he said with a sigh, expression softening, “I’ll push back. I’ll argue the case. But if he gives me a direct order? I don’t have much of a choice. I’m in my last year. I can’t afford to get fired over pride. Not with kids in college and a mortgage.”

There was no accusation in his voice, only regret. But the words still hit her like a slap.

She nodded once, tightly, refusing to let it show. “Understood. I’m on my own.”

Cole didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence echoed louder than any words.

She stood, calm and composed, but her insides felt raw—peeling at the edges, disappointment swelling like a bruise. That had been the same response from every corner of the organization.

And she did understand. They were protecting themselves. Seamus Callahan didn’t tolerate dissent. He didn’t reward courage. He demanded loyalty, not ideas.

She would walk into that meeting alone.

But she’d walk in standing tall.

And she wouldn’t back down.

I t didn’t take long for Seamus to summon her.

Miranda gathered her courage—and her meticulously prepared reports—and walked to his office with cool, controlled strides. Her heart hammered with the weight of what she knew was coming, but her face remained unreadable.

Inside, Cole was already seated, staring down at his folded hands like they held secrets he didn’t want to see. So she wasn’t the first. The disappointment stung like a fresh bruise, but she stuffed it deep beneath the polished armor she wore as president.

She slid into the chair across from her father, opened her folder, and took a breath to speak.

Seamus held up a hand. “Spare me the reports. I’ll read them later.

” His voice was clipped, hard. “I’m more concerned with what’s happened to my team in my absence.

You used my illness as cover to go against my direct instructions.

You traded for a player I vetoed. You implemented a system I rejected last year.

If you weren’t my daughter, you’d be fired. ”

She didn’t flinch. “No, I wouldn’t,” she said calmly.

“The team has a winning record—better than last season’s playoff run.

Ticket sales are up. Morale is strong. If you fired me now, especially after your health scare, it would look like nepotism turned revenge.

And you care too much about appearances for that. ”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek, but his expression smoothed after a beat. “You’re right. I can’t fire you. Not yet. But I am taking back control. This team is mine. And from now on, things go my way. Understood?”

Cole gave her a brief, apologetic glance and nodded silently. He was caught in the middle, and they both knew it.

Miranda studied her father’s face, looking for a crack in his facade. A glimmer of doubt. Some sliver of humanity. But Seamus Callahan was locked down, fortified behind his anger and pride.

She adjusted her posture. “May I ask one question?”

He narrowed his gaze. “Make it quick.”

“Why are you so against this strategy? Small-market teams are using it with success. We’re using it—and it’s working. Why not let it work?”

“Because it’s not sustainable,” he snapped. “Fans don’t get attached to spreadsheets. They want stars. Icons. A face on the billboard. This... patchwork strategy? It doesn’t build legends. It doesn’t inspire. I want a player. A franchise name.”

She folded her arms. “Fine. Then let’s stay the course until a real option opens up. No rash moves.”

“Agreed. Cole will start searching. Prosser’s first on the block. He’s shown enough potential to get us something decent in return.”

Miranda’s heart clenched, but she said nothing. She simply gathered her folder.

“We’re done here,” Seamus said, already turning to the stack of papers on his desk.

She rose, disappointment wrapped tight around her ribs. She hadn’t won. Not yet. But this wasn’t the end. The war was far from over.

Cole rose too, following her toward the door. Then her father’s voice cut through the room.

“Miranda. Stay.”

She froze. Cole hesitated, cast her a look of sympathy, and slipped out.

Miranda turned back and returned to her chair, sitting on the edge like she was bracing for a firing squad. Seamus didn’t speak right away. He simply stared at his desk, pretending to read something.

She didn’t squirm.

She knew this tactic. He wanted her off balance.

Finally, he looked up.

“Lucas Wainright. I want him gone.”

She blinked. That was blunt, even for him. “You know we can’t terminate him. The league sent him with the loan. He’s part of the deal.”

“I’m not talking about his job.” Seamus’s voice sharpened. “I’m talking about you. I want you to stop seeing him.”

Her fingers clenched around the folder. “Excuse me?”

“I know why you brought him to that dinner. I know what that kiss in the box was about. Trying to sell me on some nostalgic bullshit. But I won’t allow it. You want to keep your job? End it.”

Her control snapped.

“You don’t get to dictate my personal life,” she said, voice like glass. “Lucas makes me happy. He respects me, listens to me. Something I can’t say about you. You may control my job—but not me.”

“When your personal life endangers the team, it’s my business,” he shot back. “He wants revenge. For his father. He’ll ruin us from the inside.”

Her voice cracked, frustration spilling out. “Then tell me! What the hell happened between you two?”

Seamus slammed his hand down, hard. He winced and rubbed his chest. “He thinks I took advantage of his father. That I swooped in and bought the team when Walt was dying. The truth? Walt didn’t trust him to take over. That’s what he can’t accept.”

She watched him rub the center of his chest, where the scar lived beneath the shirt. Her instinct to ask, to care, flickered—and died just as quickly.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” she said softly. “Maybe you could clear the air.”

“We’re not two teenagers on a therapy podcast. We don’t talk about feelings. He needs to get over it. But I warned you. And you let him get close. You let him seduce you into handing over this team.”

“He hasn’t taken over,” she said sharply. “If anything, he’s helped save us. If he wanted to ruin this team, why would he help me build it back?”

Seamus’s glare never faltered. “Because he’s playing the long game.”

She stood, trembling slightly, sweat pooling at the small of her back. “Believe what you want. But you don’t control my heart.”

She turned toward the door.

“Just wait,” he called after her. “He will turn on you.”

Miranda didn’t look back. She closed the door behind her with the kind of quiet that screamed defiance.

She leaned against it for a moment, her breath catching, her chest aching with everything she hadn’t said.

Lucas stood at Maggie’s empty desk, watching. His face was unreadable—but his hand extended toward her without hesitation.

She didn’t speak.

She just took it.

Together, they walked to the elevator and left the stadium, fingers intertwined, holding tight against whatever storm might come next.