Page 39

Chapter

Thirty-One

M iranda adjusted the lapels of her dark blue suit jacket and exhaled slowly, counting to four the way her therapist had taught her.

She had spent the last thirty minutes in her car in the stadium lot, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled indecision before finally convincing herself to walk inside.

This was it.

The last thing she wanted was to see anyone—any of the staff, the team, the ghost of who she’d been here. She was no longer the president of the Savannah Knights. She was a guest. A memory. Maybe a cautionary tale.

But her father had asked her to come, and despite everything, she was still that daughter. The one who showed up. Who cleaned up the mess. Who did the hard thing, even when it broke her.

Just not anymore. This time would be the last.

She stepped into the executive suite’s waiting area, her heels muffled on the polished floor, and paused.

The space was so achingly familiar it stole the breath from her lungs—framed jerseys and signed game-day photos lined the walls, the scent of leather and lemon polish still lingering like a phantom.

Her former assistant’s empty desk stared back at her like a judgment. She resisted the urge to retreat.

Her gaze caught on the portrait of Jacob Wainright.

She’d passed that photo a thousand times without a second thought.

But today… today, she saw Lucas in it—the shape of the jaw, the weight of calm authority in the shoulders, the glint of determination in the eyes. Something clenched tight in her chest.

She closed her eyes, but that made it worse. Now she wasn’t seeing a portrait. She was seeing him—the real him. The way he’d looked at her when he was in love. The way his voice dropped when they were alone. The heat of his hands, the rasp of his stubble against her skin.

And then the scent hit her.

Spice. Citrus. Lucas.

She opened her eyes—and there he was. Just a few feet away. Holding a tablet like it was the only thing anchoring him. The door to her old office was open behind him, her nameplate now conspicuously gone.

Her heart skipped and somersaulted at the same time. Goddammit.

“I thought you were headed to Seattle,” she said coolly, though it came out brittle, the edges sharper than she intended. “But I guess the president’s chair was too hard to resist.”

His expression flickered—just enough to crack the unreadable mask. He glanced back at the office. “Oh, I’m not president,” he said. “Just helping out until the new one starts. I’m not applying.”

She arched a brow. “Maybe you should. You’d be good at it.”

“There’s only one person who belongs in that office,” he said, voice low and rough. “And it’s not me.”

His knuckles whitened around the tablet. She could see the tension in his arms, the restraint. He looked like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself to do it.

The trouble was, she wanted to reach for him, too.

But she had only just rediscovered her self-respect, and she wasn’t going to hand it over just because Lucas Wainright still had the power to make her breath catch.

“So,” she asked, tone tight, “did my father ask you to stay, or was it Roger?”

“Your father,” Lucas replied. “He’s going back to what you set up. Prosser’s staying. The trades are off the table. Things are stabilizing again.”

His eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. There was something else in them, though—a message she couldn’t quite read. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

She nodded slowly. “Thanks for your help. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

“Your father never told you I was still here, did he?”

She hesitated. “No. He didn’t.”

Lucas looked tired. The kind of tired that went bone-deep. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and he looked thinner than she remembered. Worn down.

She was suddenly glad she’d taken her mother’s advice to dress to kill. Power suit. Heels. Lipstick with just enough bite. She hadn’t known she’d need it to shield herself from him.

“But it doesn’t matter,” she added, more to herself than to him.

Before either of them could say more, the conference room door opened with a soft creak.

Seamus stood in the doorway, framed by morning sunlight and polished wood. “Good,” he said. “You’re both here. Come in, please.”

Miranda straightened, gathering every ounce of composure she had left. She inhaled once, held it, then stepped forward with practiced grace, her stride steady as she passed Lucas and walked into the room.

One last thing.

Just one more.

Then she’d be free.

R oger Martinelli sat at one end of the long conference table, pencil tapping with rapid-fire annoyance against the pad in front of him, brows drawn tight in irritation.

His usual air of boardroom dominance was slipping, betraying that he didn’t like being summoned—especially not from Chicago.

Seamus lounged in his usual spot with deceptive ease, like a king passing off the throne.

Miranda sat on one side of the table, Lucas on the other. The space between them was small, yet it buzzed with everything left unsaid. She was keenly aware of him—his nearness, the faint scent of his cologne, the tension coiled in the line of his shoulders.

Silence hung in the room like fog until Roger finally cleared his throat. “Seamus, you called for this meeting. I flew down here. What do you want?”

“We have a loan payment due in a couple of weeks,” Seamus said simply. He slid an envelope across the table toward Miranda, nodding toward Roger. “Here you go. Early.”

Miranda took it, hands steady even though her pulse had quickened. She passed it to Roger, who accepted it with a frown and a dismissive flick of his fingers. Beside her, Lucas sat motionless, his gaze fixed on her like he could burn his thoughts into her skin.

She resisted the urge to shift under the weight of it.

“You could’ve wired the funds,” Roger muttered. “We don’t need to do this with a physical check, much less in person.”

Seamus nodded. “Miranda, do you have a dollar?”

Her brows drew together. “Right now?”

He nodded again, unbothered.

She shrugged and reached into her bag, flipping through bills. “I’ve only got a five.”

“That’ll do just fine.” He scratched something on a piece of paper and handed it to Lucas. Lucas read it once, expression unreadable, then signed. His jaw ticked as he slid the paper across the table to Roger.

Roger took it, scanned it—and froze. His head snapped up, his face contorting from confusion to rage in a heartbeat.

“What the hell, Seamus?”

Seamus sat back, face calm, almost serene.

“You wanted me out. Since the payment’s made, you can’t push me.

But I’m giving you what you wanted—and what my wife’s wanted for years, frankly.

She gave me an ultimatum after the heart attack.

Retire and spend time together before I drop dead behind a desk. ”

Lucas leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but cutting. “It could be a huge mistake.”

Seamus grinned. “Oh, Gwen’s going to regret it in a week.

But she deserves this. She’s stood by me through everything.

And for some reason, she still wants to wake up next to me.

So…” He turned to Miranda, eyes shining.

“Meet the new owner of the Knights—Miranda Callahan. My daughter. Who just bought the team for five dollars.”

Roger’s face went ghost white, then beet red as he read the paper again, as if it might change on the second pass.

Lucas spoke before Roger could. “It’s all in order. Legal reviewed it. Everything’s structured clean. There are a few minor details to finalize, but the team belongs to Miranda.”

The world tilted beneath her.

Miranda’s breath caught as the room spun just slightly. “Dad, what is going on? I don’t understand.”

Seamus reached across the table, took her hand, grounding her. “You were right. About everything. You’re the future of this team. I was clinging to the past—my ego, my fear. But you... you’re what the Knights need. We need you. I need you. Will you take the team?”

The air thickened. Even Roger had gone still, watching her.

Miranda’s heart thundered as she looked across the table—straight into Lucas’s eyes. He gave her one slow nod, his gaze steady, supportive. Proud.

Her throat burned, emotions churning. Everything she had worked for, dreamed about, fought for… it wasn’t gone. It had just been waiting.

She stood, both palms flat on the table. “Looks like I own the Knights.”

Her gaze snapped to Roger. “And I don’t want you interfering in my team. Are we clear?”

Roger stood, his jaw tense, eyes sharp, anger and resignation in every line of his body. “We’ll discuss the details. But… congratulations, Ms. Callahan. I look forward to working with you.”

He gathered his papers with stiff efficiency and walked out—Lucas a silent shadow behind him.

Her father moved closer, suddenly hesitant. He opened his arms but didn’t move to embrace her.

She reached for him and pulled him in, hugging him tightly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve appreciated some warning.”

“It took a week to get the paperwork in order. And…” He stepped back, looking toward the door. “Lucas was critical. He made the calls. Talked to the league. Drafted the plan.”

“Lucas?” She turned to look for him, but he was gone. The air still felt charged from his presence, but the space was empty now.

Her father touched her arm gently. “Go after him. Before he’s gone for good.”

Miranda didn’t hesitate.

She turned and bolted.

L ucas stood at the elevator, the metallic hush of the hallway pressing in around him.

He stared at the unmoving doors, waiting for the familiar ding.

He had done what he came to do—save the Knights.

Now it was time to do what his father would’ve wanted: figure out the rest of his life.

Find his path, not the one paved in legacy and obligation.

“We seem to meet at elevators an awful lot.”

Miranda’s voice slid over him like warm sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It cut through the haze in his chest, grounding and unraveling him all at once. His stomach clenched, breath stalling in his lungs. He drew in one steadying inhale before turning around.

She stood a few feet behind him, her suit crisp and her presence electric. A little thinner than he remembered. A little tired. But more radiant than ever—like power and grace had finally merged into something fierce and beautiful.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice low and even. “The Knights are lucky to have you.”

Her lips tilted in a soft, thoughtful smile. “I think I’m lucky to have them.”

He nodded, shoving his hands deep into his pockets so he wouldn’t do something reckless—like reach for her, kiss her, beg her to let him stay. “Where are you off to next?” she asked.

“Seattle. I was supposed to be there Monday,” he replied. “But I’m going to take some time first. Visit my mom. Breathe a little.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you really want to go back to that life? Hotels, airports, living out of a suitcase?”

He considered lying. But what was the point? “It’s what I do,” he said honestly. “And I’m good at it.”

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Neither of them moved.

“Yes, you are,” she said, stepping closer, just enough that he could see the flecks of gray-blue in her eyes. “But I’ve been thinking… You were brought in to fix the Knights. Make us profitable. But from where I’m standing, your job isn’t finished.”

Something like hope sparked low in his chest. He bit back a smile. “Really? I heard they’ve got new leadership. A tough-as-nails new owner who knows what she’s doing.”

Miranda’s smile deepened. “Maybe. But I also heard they’re looking for a new president. And I couldn’t help but wonder if there’s anyone better qualified than a certain turnaround consultant with a love for this team that runs deeper than the outfield wall.”

He leaned against the wall, cocking a brow. “Are you offering me a job, Ms. Callahan?”

“I do believe I am. Are you interested?”

He folded his arms, attempting stern but not quite hiding the gleam in his eyes. “No. I don’t think I want to work for you.”

Her smile faltered, and he saw her retreat just a little, the walls going back up. “Oh,” she said, soft and vulnerable. “I thought maybe we could do some good together.”

He reached for her then, gripping her arms gently, thumbs brushing over the fabric of her blazer. “I don’t want to work for you, Miranda,” he said, voice rough. “Because then I can’t do this.”

He bent his head and kissed her—no hesitation, no games.

Just everything he felt, poured into the slide of his mouth against hers.

She didn’t hesitate either. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, and she kissed him back with equal parts longing and certainty. It wasn’t a question. It was an answer.

The world fell away. Until it didn’t.

A burst of clapping interrupted them. Lucas broke the kiss slowly, his lips brushing hers one last time before pulling back. Miranda turned toward the sound.

Maggie. Seamus. Cole. Roger, of all people.

All watching. Cheering. Grinning like this was a damn rom-com finale and the credits were about to roll.

Miranda flushed and buried her face in his chest, mortified. He chuckled softly, then tilted her chin up with one finger.

“I think we can work together,” she said, her voice husky. “And share the occasional kiss.”

Lucas arched a brow. “On one condition. You don’t tell me what to do.”

She straightened and jabbed a finger into his chest. “I own this team, buddy. You work for me.”

He grinned. “With you. We work together.”

She paused for effect, then smiled. “I can work with that.”

And she kissed him again—this time slower, deeper, as the elevator doors slid shut behind them.