Page 7

Chapter

Five

A couple of days after Seamus Callahan’s heart attack, Lucas leaned back in the chair and let his head fall against the headrest, eyes drifting closed.

Big mistake.

Because behind his eyelids waited ghosts—his father’s voice, the smell of pine tar and new leather, the weight of legacy and failure.

This office was supposed to have been his.

The plan had always been for him to finish school, then come on board as Jacob Wainright’s right-hand man.

The heir-apparent. His brother and sister had never been interested in baseball or the family business, which left the responsibility—and the dream—squarely on his shoulders.

And he’d dropped it.

No, smashed it. Shattered everything his father had built with one stupid, arrogant mistake.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to focus on the spreadsheets and department reports spread out before him.

Projected stats, salary caps, ticket sales forecasts.

The usual chaos of preseason prep—only this time, it came with the added complication of a crumbling franchise, a stubborn legacy owner in a hospital bed, and a front office in denial.

Lucas rubbed the grit from his eyes, blinking hard against the fatigue.

Usually, new assignments energized him. He thrived on adrenaline, on walking into fire and dragging struggling franchises back from the brink.

But this wasn’t just any job. This was home turf.

And it showed in how badly it was throwing him off his game.

He wasn’t just crunching numbers here. He was dismantling memories. And it didn’t help that guilt kept digging in its claws. For the first time in his career, the people behind the stats weren’t strangers—they were old colleagues, childhood heroes. Some of them were friends.

A sharp knock on the door sliced through the silence. Lucas straightened and slipped on the polished consultant persona like a second skin.

Cole Hammonds stepped into the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. “You wanted to see me?”

Lucas gestured to the chair across from him without rising. “Thanks for coming in, Hammonds.”

Cole walked in—and behind him came Jason Friar.

Lucas raised a brow but didn’t object. “Didn’t expect two for the price of one.”

“Since you said we’d be discussing the roster, I thought you’d want the head of player development.” Cole gestured at Jason. “Besides, transparency and all that.”

Lucas nodded once. “Perfect. Let’s kill two birds.”

The men sat. Lucas studied them, letting silence do the heavy lifting. One of the oldest tactics in the book—let the tension build until someone blinked.

Predictably, it was Cole who cracked first. Loyal. Traditional. Predictable.

“So,” he said, arms folded. “What’s your play? Flatter me into cooperation or scare me into it?”

Lucas didn’t smile. Instead, he slid a folder across the table. “That your proposal?”

Cole’s eyes narrowed as he flipped it open. His jaw set tight. “Where’d you get this?”

“Does it matter? It came with the onboarding documents. I read it. It's not perfect, but it’s solid.”

Cole snapped the folder shut. “Doesn’t matter. It’s dead. Callahan vetoed it.”

Lucas clasped his hands in front of him, keeping his voice steady. “And now Callahan’s out of commission. If you really care about this team, now’s your chance to act.”

Cole’s face flushed, a slow, simmering red. “I don’t appreciate veiled threats.”

“I don’t make threats,” Lucas replied calmly. “Only promises.”

Jason leaned in, finally entering the fray. “Cut the corporate crap. What do you really want, Mr. Wainright?”

Lucas’s gaze sharpened. Finally, someone with bite. “I underestimated you, Mr. Friar.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let’s be real. Yeah, I’ve got a grudge. My father built this franchise. Callahan swooped in while he was sick and took it. But I don’t work for my father. I work for MLB. You took a loan. That means you’re under my jurisdiction.”

He shifted tactics, turning to Jason. “You’ve played all over the league. What’s your take on implementing more data-driven defense and pitching management? Shift alignment? Bullpen usage strategy?”

Jason exhaled. “The shift always killed me as a hitter. Dropped my average by at least ten points a season. But we never used it on our side—short right-field porch turns fly balls into cheap home runs. And our pitchers? All fly ball types. It was a disaster waiting to happen.”

Lucas nodded. “Exactly. And Cole knew that, which is why he wrote that plan.”

He looked back to Cole. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Cole didn’t respond. The tension in his jaw answered for him.

Lucas continued, voice cool. “So what’s stopping us?”

“Callahan,” Cole said flatly. “He shut it down.”

“That’s not an answer,” Lucas replied, his tone biting now. “That’s an excuse.”

Jason leaned forward. “We’re practically at Opening Day. Rosters are locked. Players are already on the field. How do we implement change this late in the game?”

Lucas’s eyes gleamed. “You think waiting will fix things?”

Cole snorted. “You think pushing this through behind Seamus’s back will?”

Lucas didn’t blink. “Seamus isn’t in charge. Not now.”

The words dropped like a grenade between them.

He let them hang for a beat, then softened his tone. “Wouldn’t it be better if he came back to find a team on the upswing? Instead of discovering the league had seized control?”

Cole stiffened. “Like you care.”

“I care enough to be here,” Lucas said. “Working late. Reading every report. Talking to every department. You think I don’t have other teams knocking on my door? I could’ve walked. But I didn’t.”

He leaned back, voice low and steady. “So let’s stop the pissing contest. Either we work together, or the team goes down. It’s that simple.”

Cole didn’t move. But something in his posture shifted.

“I don’t trust you,” he said at last, voice tight.

Lucas inclined his head. “Noted.”

Cole stood, eyes hard. “Get Miranda on board, and I’m in.”

Jason rose beside him and extended a hand. “I’ll do what I can.”

Lucas stood as well, shaking their hands. “We can do this. But we do it now.”

When the door clicked shut behind them, Lucas turned back to the window, the stadium lights just starting to flicker on across the field. The latest team photo sat in its frame on the wall—smiling faces, some familiar, others not. The organization his father once dreamed would be his son’s legacy.

He let his hand fall to the armrest, the weight of it all settling back on his shoulders.

He’d told them they could save the team.

Now, he had to make himself believe it.

And that… would take a miracle.

L ucas flipped to the next page in the stack of reports, eyes scanning the neat summaries and projected margins.

The numbers didn’t lie—someone had cleaned house, and efficiently.

Day-to-day operations ran smoother than he’d seen in years.

Vendor contracts had been renegotiated, administrative overhead slashed, and internal workflows streamlined.

All of it pointed to one person.

Miranda.

She’d taken over as team president less than a year ago, and already her signature was on everything from budget reallocation to facility upgrades. She wasn’t just competent—she was sharp. Focused. Strategic. He could practically see her fingerprints on the line items, elegant and deliberate.

Too bad her influence stopped at the player side of the organization.

If Seamus had let her into the war room instead of confining her to the business office, maybe the Knights wouldn’t be in this mess. But then again, men like Callahan never shared power. Not even with their daughters.

Lucas’s phone buzzed, interrupting the thought. He glanced at the screen and groaned softly.

Mom .

He answered with a resigned sigh. “Hey, Mom.”

“Lucas, honey!” His mother’s voice came bright and concerned through the speaker. “I had to hear from Good Morning Sports that you’re back in Savannah. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I only just got here. It’s been a little chaotic.”

“I heard about Seamus. How are Gwen and Miranda holding up? I was going to call Gwen, but I figured she’d be at the hospital. I remember how it was with your dad.”

The quiet pain in her voice cut through him, sudden and sharp. Even after all these years, that loss still haunted them both.

“They’re… hanging in there,” he said, throat a little tight. “But let’s not talk about the Callahans right now. What’s new with you?”

His mother tsked. “Lucas. Don’t deflect. You know how hard this must be for them. Please tell me you’re not giving Miranda a hard time.”

He frowned at the phone like it personally offended him. “I’m not trying to make things harder.”

“Trying,” she repeated, the word drenched in maternal suspicion. “She was such a lovely girl. Always so polite. So eager to please that father of hers. This must be tearing her apart.”

He turned away from the desk, pacing now. “I know. Believe it or not, I’m aware.”

“And is it as bad as they’re saying?” Her voice lowered. “About the team?”

Lucas exhaled heavily. “Yeah. It’s bad. Seamus is stuck in the past. Still thinks the Knights can throw around money like they’re the Yankees. Reality’s moved on without him. And now it’s catching up.”

“But you’re there,” she said softly. “You’ll fix it. You always do.”

That quiet certainty twisted the guilt deeper, rooting under his ribs. If only it were that simple.

“Is there a point to this call?” he asked, more brusquely than he intended.

“Yes,” she said, shifting gears in that seamless way only mothers could. “I wanted you to extend my sympathies to Gwen. It’s been years since we talked, and it felt awkward to call out of the blue, but… please let her know I’m thinking of her.”

He softened slightly. “I will. Thanks, Mom.”

“Wait!” she said quickly, before he could disconnect. “Are you coming down for spring training this year? I’d love to see you.”

He hesitated. Florida wasn’t far, and yet… it felt a million miles away. His schedule was packed, and now with Seamus out of the picture, things were only going to get worse.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said truthfully. “I’ll let you know if we come down.”

“You’re not that far, sweetheart. And if Miranda comes with you, you have to bring her by. I always liked her.”

Lucas sighed as he ended the call. His mom’s voice still echoed in his ear.

Bring Miranda .

As if this situation wasn’t already complicated enough.

He dropped his phone onto the desk, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling. Leave it to his mother to stir up old ghosts and plant new ones—all in the same breath.