Page 9

Chapter

Seven

M iranda stifled a yawn and forced her attention back to her inbox, blinking hard at the screen as subject lines blurred. Sleep had been elusive, thanks to a whirlwind of stress—and a certain heated kiss still replaying in her head like a scene from a forbidden rom-com.

Lucas Wainright.

What had he been thinking, kissing her like that?

What had she been thinking, melting into it, like she hadn’t been in the middle of the worst week of her life?

Her father was in the ICU recovering from open-heart surgery, and here she was, having steamy, unscheduled flashbacks every time she closed her eyes.

Did the kiss mean something? Or had it just been… impulse? Comfort?

Because it hadn’t felt comforting. It had felt combustible. And dangerous.

Her brain chased itself in loops, questions spiraling, until the knock at her office door jolted her. She hadn’t even heard it.

Cole Hammonds stuck his head in. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” she said automatically, switching mental gears and pasting on her most competent expression. She gestured him inside.

Cole dropped into the chair across from her and crossed his arms, expression grim. “Wainright’s been poking around—again. Yesterday, he grilled me on the farm system, draft picks, our depth. He knows we’re stretched thin and need to plug some holes. What does Seamus say?”

Miranda inhaled slowly. “My father won’t be involved right now. He’s in ICU recovering from a quadruple bypass, and we are under strict orders—doctor’s and my mother’s—not to stress him out. Even if he calls asking for updates.”

Cole’s brows lifted. “That’s a big shift.”

“It’s necessary.” Her tone was steely. “I’m acting president now. I make the personnel calls.”

He leaned back, processing that. “Wainright may not sign off on new acquisitions.”

“Find us a catcher and a first baseman we can afford,” she said, voice crisp. “I’ll deal with Lucas. We’re getting this done.”

“Getting what done?” came a voice from the doorway.

Lucas.

Miranda stiffened, heart lurching. Her assistant Maggie stood behind him, wringing her hands in distress.

“I’m so sorry, Miranda,” Maggie said, flustered. “He just walked past me?—”

“It’s fine,” Miranda interrupted, forcing a smile and a casual tone. “Maybe Mr. Wainright’s been away from the South too long to remember we knock before entering here.”

Lucas grinned with zero remorse. “I’ve learned in business, if you wait for permission, you usually miss the moment.”

Cole rose, jaw tight. “I’ll start looking into what we discussed,” he said pointedly to Miranda. Then he threw Lucas a glare and stormed past him.

Lucas closed the door with a quiet finality and slid into the chair across from her. “We had a meeting, didn’t we?”

Miranda mentally counted to ten—something she'd perfected during her pageant days when judges asked idiotic questions with fake smiles.

Unfortunately, this time, it wasn’t a judge causing the tight flutter under her skin. It was Lucas. And she couldn’t stop seeing the flecks of gold in his eyes from the night before, or the way his mouth had felt on hers—hot, sure, and far too tempting.

She sat slowly, keeping her hands folded to hide the tremor. “Yes, although I’d appreciate it if you didn’t dismiss my assistant like that.”

“I assumed,” he said with a shrug, “you wouldn’t want the whole office hearing about our little crisis.”

She gritted her teeth behind a sweet, practiced smile. If he kept pushing her, maybe forgetting that kiss wouldn’t be so hard.

“Let’s get to it. What are you recommending?”

He crossed his arms and studied her like she was a complicated puzzle he wasn’t quite ready to solve. “You’ve got a long way to go. I don’t see how you’re going to meet the payment due at the All-Star break.”

Her pulse kicked up, but her voice remained even. “What does that mean for us?”

“Worst-case scenario?” he said with a sigh. “Forced sale. Possibly bankruptcy.”

Miranda leaned back just slightly, eyes narrowing. “That’s not an acceptable outcome. I have a counterproposal.”

He smirked. “You’re not in a position to bargain. I’m not the one with my back against the wall.”

“Maybe not,” she said smoothly. “But I want you to hold off on any recommendation to the league about selling—if I meet a few conditions.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “This I’ve got to hear.”

“Our first loan payment isn’t due until the All-Star break. Until then, it’s business as usual. I want you to give me until then.”

He let out a short, skeptical laugh. “You’ve seen the same numbers I have.

Unless you’ve got an anonymous billionaire benefactor—or a superstar investor—I don’t see how you’re going to pull that off.

And your win projections aren’t exactly trending upward.

A sale takes time. I’d recommend starting now. ”

“Exactly,” she snapped. “Which is why I need time. Will you work with me on this?”

He looked at her—really looked at her—and the doubt in his expression softened.

“I’ll consider your proposal. But I want to be included in every major decision. You can’t block me out.”

“You’ll be included,” she said firmly. “But I’ll make the final call. I won’t be steamrolled. What else?”

“If you want my cooperation,” he said slowly, “we meet twice a week. In person. No emails. No memos.”

“So you want to babysit me now?” she asked, voice tight.

“I want to protect the league’s investment. And no—this isn’t babysitting. This is oversight.”

He stood and braced his hands on the desk, leaning toward her. Too close. Too charged.

“I’m staying right here, princess,” he said, voice low. “Take it or leave it.”

Her breath caught. Princess . The word shouldn’t thrill her—but it did.

She dropped her lashes, channeling her old pageant poise. “Fine. You have a deal. I’m glad we can work together. Your insights could be… valuable.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decide whether she was serious or baiting him.

He stood tall again. “Then let’s shake on it.” He extended his hand.

She rose and took it, her grip steady despite the electricity crackling under her skin.

“Deal,” she said softly.

He nodded, releasing her hand. “I’ll have Maggie schedule our check-ins.”

He turned to leave when her voice stopped him.

“Wait. I have one more condition.”

He glanced back, brows lifting. “Another one? We already shook.”

“This one’s personal,” she said, heart thudding. “No more kisses.”

A slow smile curved across his face. Dangerous. Lethal.

He stepped closer again, palms landing on her desk, trapping her in the moment.

“You’re right. That is personal. And I think you liked it.”

He leaned just enough for her to see the golden ring in his irises. “I know I did.”

He straightened with a lazy grace that made her insides clench. “But now that you’ve said no… I’ll want to do it even more.”

Before she could form a response, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Damn his arrogance.

And damn her libido, which was practically begging for a repeat performance, logic and professionalism be damned.

But she had what she needed: time. Time to sign players, to restructure finances, to prove—once and for all—that she could lead the Knights.

She pressed the intercom. “Maggie? Get me Tom in Houston.”

She needed talent. And she needed it now.

M iranda swiveled her office chair toward the wall, the sleek back panel offering no comfort, no answers—just something to focus on as she forced herself to breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat.

Calm was what she needed.

And calm felt utterly out of reach.

Her heartbeat thudded hard in her chest, and the blood rushing in her ears drowned out the steady tick of the wall clock. She clenched the arms of her chair, white-knuckled, willing herself not to unravel.

Lucas Wainright.

His name alone was enough to make her pulse jump for a whole different set of reasons.

There was something about him—his quiet confidence, his maddening logic, the infuriating calm he weaponized in every conversation—that made her want to hurl her phone across the room… or kiss him again just to shut him up.

And that terrified her.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he pushed her buttons—it was that sometimes, annoyingly, he was right.

The buzz of the intercom startled her.

“H-Town on line one.”

She reached for the phone, swallowing hard. “Tom, thanks for taking the time to talk.”

“No problem,” came the gravelly voice of the Houston GM, filling her earpiece with its signature rasp. “Heard about your dad. How’s he holding up?”

Miranda winced at the raw compassion in his voice. “He’s hanging in. Still in ICU, but stable. Thanks for asking.”

She paused, fingers drumming lightly on her desk. Now that the moment had arrived, she wasn’t sure how to say what she needed to. Her father had always drilled one message into her: Never show weakness . Asking for help? That was weakness in Seamus Callahan’s world.

But pride wouldn’t save the team. She had to be stronger than his voice echoing in her head.

“Miranda?”

She closed her eyes briefly, then straightened in her chair. “Sorry. It’s been a long few days. I wanted to ask you about the changes you’ve made over the last couple seasons. I’ve been watching, and… I had some questions.”

Tom laughed. “Asking me to share state secrets? We’re still competitors, you know.”

She smiled faintly. “You’ve already been quoted in Sports Illustrated and on ESPN, and I know you’ve advised a few other team owners. Don’t play coy.”

“Fair,” he admitted. “Why not just ask your new consultant? Wainright’s the one who helped us implement some of that strategy.”

Her stomach flipped. “You worked with Lucas Wainright?”

“Some of it came from him, yeah. Look, we may not be technically small-market, but in Texas, football eats everything else alive. We’ve got a loyal fan base, but we can’t throw money around like L.A.

or New York. We were bleeding cash, and we couldn’t keep chasing stars who didn’t deliver.

Wainright helped us recalibrate—realign the budget, build a system that let us develop smarter and win without chasing headlines. ”

“But… you need players to bring in fans,” Miranda said quietly, the words sounding eerily like her father’s voice in her head—only now, they came from her own lips.

“No,” Tom said bluntly. “You need wins. A name brings the fans in, sure—but if you’re losing every week, they’re gone before the hot dogs cool. Wins build momentum. Wins build trust. Sponsors and broadcast deals follow that trust. But it starts with building a foundation.”

Miranda sagged in her chair. “We made the playoffs last year. And yet, our season ticket sales are lower than ever. It didn’t carry over.”

“It’s because you didn’t have the foundation. You had a flare-up season, not a long-term strategy. That’s where the star player comes in—you use the name to build hype, but you’ve gotta back it with performance. Otherwise, it’s flash without substance.”

“And Seamus never bought into that.”

“Because it’s not flashy,” Tom said. “And it doesn’t come with instant gratification. It takes time. Losing seasons. Fan blowback. You have to survive it before you see results.”

She nodded slowly, not even sure he could hear it. “Thank you, Tom. Really.”

“Any time. One more thing, Miranda.” His voice dropped slightly. “Don’t underestimate Wainright. He’s smart. He plays long game. He’s not your enemy—unless you treat him like one.”

Then the line went dead.

She lowered the handset back into the cradle, her thoughts spinning.

Lucas had helped Houston. Helped them win. He wasn’t just some finance hawk parachuting in to sell the team out from under her. He knew what it took to build something sustainable.

Maybe he could help here too—if she could get him to work with her, instead of simply watching from the sidelines with that maddening, smug expression.

But would he? Or would he, like her father, shut her down the second she challenged him?

Miranda rubbed the back of her neck, then glanced toward the door as if half expecting him to walk in.

You’re not his enemy , she told herself.

But if you want to save this team… maybe it’s time to start acting like his partner.