Page 33

Chapter

Twenty-Five

“ W hat happened to the Knights? It’s like someone flipped the light switch off.

The bats are silent. Pitching’s a mess. And they’re booting more grounders than they’re fielding!

This is exactly what fans feared—the Knights overachieved early and now they’re spiraling straight for the cellar. Can anything turn them around?”

M iranda flipped off the sports radio mid-rant and let her forehead rest against the steering wheel, her fingers still clenched on the button. Exhaustion throbbed behind her eyes like a headache waiting to strike.

In the past two weeks, the team had slid into a losing streak that felt like déjà vu from every miserable season before their recent upswing.

The locker room had grown funereal—quiet voices, forced smiles, shoulders sagging.

Several key players were on the trade block, a fact that only worsened the team’s morale.

Not that any teams were biting. It was only late May— hope still lingered in every dugout across the league. The trade market was still ice-cold.

The office mirrored the mood. As quiet as a morgue.

Seamus had returned to work nearly full time, and the worse the team played, the more erratic and irate he became—tinkering with lineups, pushing for deals, second-guessing every move.

And Miranda knew stress like that wasn’t just dangerous for morale. It was dangerous for him.

She’d done her best to play buffer. Run interference.

Redirect his fury. But all it had done was drive a wedge between them, one that widened with every argument.

At night, she lay awake in a cold bed, riddled with worry.

About her father. About the team. About Lucas.

The seams of her life were starting to tear, and she couldn’t hold it all together much longer.

She pulled into a parking space along the street and crossed to the little corner restaurant where she was meeting her mother.

Gwen was already seated at a window table, looking almost as tired as Miranda felt.

They embraced, warm but wordless, then slid into the booth and ordered—two sweet teas and salads, as usual.

After some half-hearted chit-chat, Gwen got to the point.

“Miranda, this can’t keep going,” she said softly. “Your father’s health won’t survive the stress he’s putting himself through.”

Miranda exhaled sharply. “Mom, he’s a grown man. I can’t make him do anything. I’m not just his daughter—I’m his employee. Which makes me even lower on the list of people he listens to.”

Her tone was sharper than she intended, but she was too drained to walk it back.

“I know, baby,” Gwen said, reaching across the table to clasp her hand.

“But you can’t keep going like this either.

Something’s got to give. He saw the doctor yesterday.

I insisted on going with him—he wasn’t happy about that.

But I’m glad I did. The doctor told him point-blank: he either steps back or he risks another heart attack. A worse one.”

Miranda stared at her, but her pulse barely quickened.

She wasn’t even surprised anymore. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, her voice flat.

“He’s already sidelined me. Tells me I’ve ruined the team.

Won’t let me take on more responsibility.

Won’t go home early. He’s made it clear—he’s not budging. ”

Gwen squeezed her hand. “I know how hard this is. He can be... difficult. But we have to try. Maybe Lucas?—”

Miranda barked a laugh, quick and bitter. “Lucas? You’ve heard what Dad thinks of Lucas. If Lucas suggested breathing, Dad would hold his breath out of spite. I’ll talk to him, but I’m not holding my breath.”

The waiter arrived with their food, and Gwen released her hand. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re asking for the impossible,” Miranda muttered, spearing a piece of lettuce with her fork. “He’s not just stressed—he’s not making rational decisions. He’s always been a control freak, but now? He’s volatile. Paranoid. He doesn’t listen to anyone anymore.”

Gwen’s expression grew troubled. Her blue eyes darkened with worry.

“Your father just came through something terrifying. He’s never really faced his mortality until now.

He’s used to being the one in control—of his body, his business, his world.

This... has shaken him. And when he feels like he’s losing control, he clutches harder. ”

“I get that,” Miranda said, her voice tight. “I do. But this isn’t just about fear. He’s making bad decisions that could ruin the franchise. I’m doing everything I can to hold things together, but I’m not sure I can anymore. And some days...” She hesitated, then said it. “I’m not sure I want to.”

Gwen reached across again, gently wrapping her fingers around Miranda’s wrist. “He’s always been proud of you. Always. The day you told him you wanted to work with him? It meant everything. He never said it, but I saw it. He was proud.”

Miranda’s jaw clenched. “Then maybe he should start acting like it. Because if he keeps this up, there won’t be anything left to inherit but regrets and empty bleachers.”

Gwen folded her napkin slowly, smoothing it across her lap. “Just keep trying. Keep showing up. Take on what you can, when you can.”

“He won’t let me.”

“You’ll find a way,” Gwen said softly, eyes steady. “You have to.”

She picked up her fork and took a bite of salad, signaling the conversation was over.

Miranda stared at her mother for a long moment, a bitter taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with vinaigrette. She wasn’t sure what stung more—how right Gwen was, or how much Miranda no longer wanted to fight for someone who’d never fought for her.

M iranda perched on the edge of her chair, legs crossed tightly, hands folded in her lap to hide the tremor in her fingers.

The air in the conference room was stifling, heavy with anticipation and dread.

Judging by the way the others shifted in their seats and avoided eye contact, she wasn’t the only one on edge.

Seamus stormed in, looking like a thundercloud about to burst. His scowl deepened as he scanned the room, daring anyone to speak first before he dropped into the head chair with the authority of a man who still believed fear was the best management tactic.

“Sam,” he barked, snapping his attention to the team’s manager. “What the hell is going on out there? Our guys look like they forgot how to play baseball. We need to shake them up.”

Lucas, seated to Miranda’s left, spoke before anyone else could.

His voice was calm, measured—a rare center in the storm.

“That might be the problem. Players were put on the block. We publicly signaled we didn’t want them.

Then when we couldn’t make trades, they were left in limbo.

That kind of messaging kills confidence. ”

“That they need to get their act together,” Seamus shot back. “Play better or get out.”

“No,” Lucas said, a quiet steel beneath the words. “That tells them they’re disposable. That no one believes in them. Would you want to give your all for a boss who’s already halfway out the door on you?”

Seamus slammed a fist on the table. “I told you from the beginning we didn’t have the talent. This was inevitable.”

“Dad.” Miranda leaned in, voice low and soothing, her hand brushing his forearm. “Please. Your heart.”

“I’m fine.” His scowl didn’t fade.

“It was working,” Cole said through clenched teeth, his voice tight with frustration. The entire room collectively held its breath. “Until you came back and started meddling.”

Seamus’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Be very careful, Cole. I’m still the owner. I still sign your checks.”

Cole eased back, jaw tight, silenced—but not submissive.

Lucas’s voice was quiet, cutting. “Maybe you should remain the owner and let your staff do what they were hired to do. Like most owners do.”

Before it could escalate further, Miranda jumped in, forcing her voice to stay calm. “Dad, the plan we had was working. These things take time. Why not give it another month? See where we are by the trade deadline. We were winning. Ticket sales were up. If it fails, we pivot.”

“It already failed. We’re losing. We tried your way. Now we go back to mine. We made the playoffs last year doing things my way.”

Lucas’s expression hardened. “Maybe you’re just too attached to the past to see the future.”

The room inhaled sharply as the words hung in the air like a lit match.

Miranda’s head throbbed. The tension was splitting her open from the inside. She felt her control slipping.

Cole stood. “I’m with Lucas. You hired me to win games. I’ve done that. If you can’t let me do my job, maybe I don’t belong here.”

“You’re in the last year of your contract,” Seamus growled. “It wouldn’t take much to see you out.”

“Then do it,” Cole shot back. His eyes held fear—but also fire. “Go ahead.”

Seamus leaned forward. “Don’t tempt me.”

Lucas lifted a hand, trying to cool the flame. “Maybe we should table this before anyone says something they can’t take back.”

Seamus turned on him like a knife. “You. You’re the cancer in this building. You turned my daughter, my GM, my staff against me. You’re the wedge between us. Maybe it’s time you left.”

Miranda stood suddenly, palms flat on the table, her voice slicing through the room. “Enough. Everyone out. Now.”

There was a scuffle of chairs. Most exited without a word, relief written across their faces. Cole lingered a moment, then caught Miranda’s eye.

“I’ll find you after,” she said softly.

He nodded and slipped out.

Lucas remained seated, defiant. Seamus looked one breath away from erupting. Miranda touched Lucas’s shoulder, her voice low, pleading.

“Lucas. Can we talk later? Please.”

She wasn’t sure if he would listen. The room still buzzed with testosterone and heat, both men locked in a silent war of wills. She feared her father had finally pushed Lucas too far—and that she was going to lose both of them.

She took a breath and whispered again, more gently. “Please.”

That did it. Lucas exhaled, breaking his stare with Seamus. His gaze flicked to her, stormy but controlled. He nodded once, stiffly, and left without a word.

As the door closed, Seamus muttered, “I don’t need you fighting my battles with Wainright.”

Miranda turned toward him, voice icy. “I wasn’t. I was ending a pointless pissing contest that helps no one. We’ve circled this same fight a dozen times. He’s not leaving, Dad. Is that why you keep resisting this plan? Because he suggested it?”

Seamus’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t stop.

“I did the research. I made the call. And I still believe in it.”

“Then you can join Hammonds and Wainright in the unemployment line,” he said flatly.

Miranda stared, stunned by the coldness in his voice, the way he said it like a business deal.

“This is my team,” he continued. “And it’ll be run my way.”

“And what happens if you have another heart attack?” she demanded, heart in her throat. “Then what? You’ll be in control of nothing. You built your shipping company on innovation. On adaptability. Why can’t you do that here?”

“Because this is mine,” he snapped. “I control the Knights. Not you. Not Cole. Not Wainright. I may not control my body or my goddamn heart—but I will control this.”

His voice roared through the room, echoing in her bones.

“So this is all about control,” she whispered. “You’re risking everything for ego.”

She stood slowly, her voice shaking but strong. “I can’t help you with that. But I can tell you this: keep going like this, and there’ll be nothing left to control.”

She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her with deliberate quiet.

In the hallway, she paused, breath ragged. Her heart twisted with dread.

Now came the question: Who did she deal with first—Cole… or Lucas?

P utting off the harder, more personal confrontation, Miranda made her way to Cole’s office. She wasn’t ready to face Lucas—not yet. Not with her emotions still rattling around like loose change in a dryer and no idea what to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

But Cole... she could fix things with Cole. Maybe.

She knocked once and eased open the door, slipping inside before he could respond. He sat behind his desk, hunched over a scouting report, one hand dragging through his thick, sandy blonde hair with such force she winced.

“If you keep doing that, you’ll be bald by the All-Star break,” she said, attempting a light tone she didn’t feel.

He looked up—and the anguish etched into his face hit her like a punch to the gut. Tired eyes, drawn features, his usual spark dulled to a flicker.

“I can’t keep doing this, Miranda,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “He’s always been a challenge, but at least he used to listen. Now? He’s just... steamrolling everything. Everyone. Even you.”

She walked in fully, shutting the door behind her, and crossed to the chair across from his desk, sinking into it like her knees might buckle. “He’s not himself. He’s still recovering. He’ll come around. Just give it time.”

Cole shook his head slowly, jaw tight. “Will he? Because ever since the heart attack, he’s been worse. Cold. Dismissive. Unyielding. I can’t keep fighting every single day just to do my job.”

“Cole...” Her voice broke slightly. “Are you resigning?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the desktop. “If something doesn’t change—yes. I’ll find another gig. Hell, I’ll take a year off and coach high school ball. It’d still be better than this.”

The words sliced through her composure. She stiffened, trying not to show it. “Give me a few days. Please.”

His eyes finally met hers, and the sadness in them almost undid her. “You’ve got to stop covering for him. This isn’t about being sick. This is something deeper. If he’s too unwell to lead, he shouldn’t be here. If he’s not, then he’s just being cruel.”

She stood slowly, her legs trembling beneath her. “I hear you, Cole. I swear. I’ll work it out.”

“You’d better.” He leaned back in his chair, voice like gravel. “Because this isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.”

Miranda nodded, throat tight, and walked out of his office, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

She paused in the hallway, spine pressed against the wall, chest tight.

The seams were tearing. And she wasn’t sure if she could keep it all from collapsing. Not this time.