Page 38

Chapter

Thirty

M iranda blinked against the light, her eyes dry and gritty from salt, sleeplessness, and too many nights curled in a tangle of blankets and denial.

Since resigning a week ago, she had holed up in her condo like a hibernating bear—albeit one with bad hair and a permanent scowl.

She hadn’t eaten much beyond spoonfuls of peanut butter, hadn’t answered a single call or text, and had ignored every knock at the door like a ghost pretending she no longer existed.

The television played constantly, flickering images of old sitcom reruns and true crime documentaries she barely absorbed. Crime shows had become white noise. Serial killers had started to feel like a roommate.

But sometime around two in the morning on the third day, she had a brainstorm. She needed to recreate her life, start over somewhere new. So, she had made a plan. Sure, it didn’t include a shower or cleaning. But it did include finding a new job and something to do with her life after the Knights.

Once she had put the plan into place, her brain had finally powered down. She’d slept. Deep, dreamless, and desperately needed. Until something roused her.

Blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, she shuffled barefoot into the hallway just as the front door creaked open. The scent hit her first—warm, savory, unmistakably Southern—and her stomach growled loudly enough to echo off the walls.

Her mother stepped in like she owned the place, carrying a large brown paper bag from Martin’s Diner, the grease already seeping into the corners.

Gwen took one look at her and sighed dramatically. “Well, you certainly don’t look like Ms. Georgia. I raised you better than this, Miranda.”

Miranda winced, blinking blearily. “Mom, please. I’m not in the mood for a pageant critique. I barely have the energy to stand, let alone defend my eyeliner choices.”

She drifted into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, cocooning herself in the throw blanket like it might deflect any incoming maternal advice.

“You’re a mess,” Gwen said bluntly. “Lucky for you, I brought fried chicken. Your favorite. Get in here and eat something. And don’t even try to tell me you’re not hungry. I could hear your stomach all the way down the hall.”

Miranda let out a breath and dragged herself up like a woman trudging to the gallows. But the moment the scent of crispy batter and warm buttermilk biscuits hit her full-force, her resistance crumbled.

She took a bite. Then another. And then she practically inhaled the rest like someone who hadn’t tasted real food in days—which was only slightly an exaggeration.

Across the table, her mother sipped iced tea from a sweating plastic cup, her gaze cool and evaluating as always.

“You look like hell,” Gwen said between sips. “A good Southern woman wouldn’t be caught dead in that state.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Since I wasn’t expecting paparazzi or debutantes to drop by, I’ll risk the scandal. Besides, I wasn’t planning to be seen.”

She offered a sugary smile, all sarcasm and dimples.

“You missed dinner the other night,” Gwen said, changing tack without missing a beat.

Miranda’s smile vanished. She glanced up sharply. “You can’t be serious. Besides, I had plans.”

“I know your father can be difficult.”

“Difficult?” Miranda let out a humorless laugh. “He fired me.”

“You resigned.”

“And he didn’t exactly chase after me, did he?” Her voice dropped. “Look, we’ll move past it eventually. We always do. But I need some distance right now—from him, from the team, from everything.”

Her mother hesitated. “And Lucas?”

Miranda froze, fork halfway to her mouth. She waited for the sharp, familiar stab of pain, the one that used to double her over. But it didn’t come. Not quite.

Only a slow, dull ache. Like a bruise that hadn’t faded but no longer throbbed.

“Mom, what are you really doing here?”

Gwen set her tea down and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her red manicure was fresh. “Your father wants to speak with you. He needs your help with one final thing. Can you do that—for his sake? I don’t have to remind you that quitting didn’t exactly do wonders for his health.”

Her tone had softened, but the edge was still there, polished to a knife’s gleam.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “And what about me? He wasn’t exactly handing out hugs and affirmations at the office. Hell, he wasn’t even civil. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“I’m just the messenger,” Gwen replied evenly. Then she stood. “I’ll go out to the car and get him. You might want to splash water on your face. Maybe run a comb through your hair.”

Her gaze slid around the room, nose wrinkling at the empty takeout containers and crumpled tissues.

“Though you definitely don’t have time to pick up this disaster zone. Pity.”

And with that, she turned and swept out the door, leaving behind the scent of fried chicken and the lingering possibility that Miranda’s self-imposed exile was coming to an end. Whether she wanted it to or not.

“ I have no interest in going back to the stadium. Not for anything.” Miranda’s fingers twisted in her lap, the fabric of her old yoga pants puckering under the strain.

Seamus settled into the chair beside her, the one that still had her favorite cardigan slung over the back like a flag of surrender. She shot him a glare. He met it with maddening calm and an innocent expression that didn't fool her for a second.

“I just need one last thing from you,” he said smoothly. “Only the team president can sign off on it.”

“ Former president.”

“Fine. Former president.” He rolled his eyes, like the distinction was a technicality, not a scar on her soul. “But I still need one. Then I’ll disappear like a magician. Pfft.”

He let out a sigh and absently rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand, milking it for sympathy.

Damn him. “I don’t have time for this.”

“What? No time for your dear old dad? The man who almost died a few months ago? I won’t be around forever, you know. Besides, it’s not like you’re clocking in at a 9-to-5 right now.”

“My condo is on the market,” she said, bristling. “The market is strong and my agent says I won’t have a problem selling. I’ll probably have to be out in thirty days.”

“Well, you have some time before you can show this place. At least you need to clean it for the showing. You might want to wait on scheduling it. You might end up staying here.”

She clenched her fist. “You and I both know I can’t do that.”

He lifted a brow. “Because of the memories? Lucas turned down the offer, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s headed to Seattle.”

The air left her lungs in a quiet whoosh. She hadn’t let herself wonder where he’d gone—hadn’t dared. She wasn’t sure if that made the news better or worse.

Seamus stood and took her hand in his. His fingers were warm, calloused, and trembling just enough to alarm her.

“You did a hell of a job, sweetheart. You deserve a moment in the sun. This might be our last one together as business partners.”

Alarm jolted through her. She reached for his shoulder, her hand resting gently over his faded team-logo tee. “Dad, are you okay?”

He looked suddenly old and tired, rubbing his chest again. “You never know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Truth.”

He winced, caught. “You sound just like your mother.” He sighed. “Fine. I promised her we’d finally take that European cruise. She’s been on me for years. I’ve officially run out of excuses.”

Relief swept through her, and she yanked him down to sit beside her on the couch, ignoring the tangled mess of blankets and abandoned takeout boxes they displaced.

“Are you really okay?”

He considered that for a long moment. “I’m getting there. Honestly? I could use your help. You were good in that office. Better than I ever gave you credit for.”

Miranda studied him carefully. His tone wasn’t sharp or mocking. Just... sincere. Uneasy, she folded her arms. “This feels like a setup.”

He smiled faintly. “You always were the smart one. Look, I know I’ve never made anything easy, and I sure as hell didn’t make it easy for you. But I’m serious, Miranda. You were the best thing that happened to that team in years.”

Her throat tightened. “Dad... I think this really is for the best. I need to move on. Figure out what I want for me.”

“You love the Knights.”

“I do,” she admitted softly. “But I also have a friend from college—her firm in Charlotte might have something for me. I need a fresh start.”

His brows lifted in genuine shock. “You’re moving?”

She nodded. “That’s why I’m selling the condo.”

He tilted his head, voice low. “Are you convincing me, or yourself?”

Miranda looked away.

“Fine,” he said, rising with a grunt. “I won’t stand in your way. But—can you come to the stadium next week? Finalize the loan payments with the commissioner?”

She blinked. “Wait. We made the payment?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He shifted his gaze. “But your signature needs to be on the documentation. It’ll only take an hour.”

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Fine. I’ll come. Just this once.”

He looked at her for a long beat, then leaned down awkwardly and wrapped her in a stiff, brief hug. His scent—Old Spice and stadium air—made her throat tighten.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. For everything. The heart stuff shook me up. But that’s no excuse for how I treated you. You deserved better. If you ever change your mind, the Knights will always welcome you back. So will I.”

Then, without another word, he shuffled toward the door and disappeared down the hallway.

She stared at the space where he’d been, surrounded by the chaos of her apartment—half-packed boxes, open Zillow listings on her laptop, an untouched glass of wine going warm on the coffee table—and realized she wasn’t angry.

She was... stunned. Lighter. Unmoored.

She hadn’t expected the apology. She definitely hadn’t expected the peace.

One last thing. One final signature. Then she could really move on.

And thank God Charlotte didn’t have a major league baseball team. Her chances of running into Lucas were nearly zero.

Nearly.