Love from Left Field (5 page)

“Maybe he won’t be out too long.”

She frowned. “He’s had heart issues before. He probably shouldn’t come back to the office for a while.”

“Good luck keeping him down.” He gestured to her mother. “She seems to be doing okay.”

“She is. I didn’t expect that, to be honest. She always seemed so dependent on my father, looking to him for direction.” She paused then spoke, the words sticking like peanut butter in her mouth. “I’m sorry I was rude before. Thank you so much for being here for my mom, for me.”

“I understand. You were under extreme stress. And I shouldn’t have snapped either. My momma taught me better than that.”

Miranda grinned, a faint ghost of a smile. “How’s your mom doing?”

He sighed, his face taking on the look of a sad memory. “My mom’s a rock. When my dad got sick, I was away at college and my brother and sister were still in high school. She had to handle everything. She refused to let me come home at all and took care of everything. Honestly, I felt completely useless. She’s in Florida now, with a more active social life than I have.”

Miranda looked at him, his strength radiating to her. “Sounds like your mom. Say hi next time you talk to her.”

The doors to the ICU opened and the doctor stepped out. They all stood, Miranda going to her mother and taking her hand. Despite her mother’s show of strength, she gripped Miranda’s hand so tightly Miranda thought her fingers would lose all blood flow. Lucas came and stood next to her, a steadying presence, his hand low on her back, silently offering his strength. A stray thought tickled her mind. She could get used to his strength and she reminded herself why he was really there.

“We finished the procedure and he’s resting now.” The doctor gestured to a few chairs and they all sat back down. “I’m afraid he has significant damage to his heart. We put a stent in and did the angioplasty, but he’s going to need a bypass, at least a triple, but more likely a quadruple.”

“Why didn’t you do it now?” Miranda asked, trying to focus on the words and not the implications.

“We need to let his heart recover a bit from this heart attack before we can do it. We’ll keep him in ICU for a few days then do the bypass.”

“Doesn’t a stent have the same impact as a bypass?” Lucas asked.

The doctor frowned at him. “There are studies that indicate that, however, with the damage Mr. Callahan has suffered, a stent may not be enough.”

The doctor stood. “You can visit him now, but only for a short visit. He needs rest and no stress.”

Lucas’s hand was warm against her lower back, pushing her towards the doors. He leaned in and said, “I’ll wait out here.”

Miranda ushered her mother after the doctor through the maze in the ICU. The beeping of machines and hushed voices reinforced the almost church-like solemnity to the unit. She wrestled down the fear threatening to choke her, and focused instead on her mother who was leaning heavily on her. The doctor led them into a semi-private room where Seamus lay on the bed, tubes and monitors coming out of everywhere on him, his white face almost the same color as the sheets. As they stepped in, her mother let out a sob. Miranda grabbed Gwen’s shoulder and turned her around, not allowing her to bury her head in Miranda’s chest.

“You’re not helping the situation. If you can’t control yourself, you won’t be allowed in the room.” She forced herself to speak almost harshly, breaking through the flood of emotions.

Her mother straightened, wiping her eyes and taking a deep calming breath. “Of course you’re right. I need to be strong for Seamus, like he was for me all those years.”

She walked to the bed and picked up his hand, cradling it in hers. Lightly stroking it, she whispered his name.

Seamus opened his eyes and took in the two people by the bed. “Why the sad faces? I’m not dying. Where’s that vulture, Wainright? Thought he would wangle his way in here to see if I was dead or something. It’s his fault I’m in this boat.”

Miranda leaned forward. “Your bad eating habits, lack of exercise, and insane desire to control everyone and everything got you in this situation. The work stress didn’t help.”

“Where’s Cole? I need Cole in here.”

“Father.” Miranda leaned forward and spoke soothingly. “Only family is allowed in here. You know that.”

“Bah, he’s my right hand. I need to give him instructions before Opening Day. The team can’t run without me.”

“And whose fault is that?” Miranda asked, frustration in her voice. “If you had let go of some of the day to day operations, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Maybe it’s true, Seamus.” Gwen brushed the thinning red hair liberally sprinkled with white back from his forehead. “I’ve been telling you for years now to slow down, let other people do their job. Look where it got you. If you die, I swear I’ll follow you and kill you all over again.”

The affection in her tone did nothing to hide the thread of steel in her voice, or the thread of fear.

He patted her hand. “Easy Gwennie. I’m going nowhere. I’m too crabby to die. The devil doesn’t want me and heaven is no place for me. I’ll be around a long, long time.”

Gwen kissed the back of his hand and held it. “We should go and let you rest now.”

“Not yet.” He barked, his voice capturing some of the vigor that had been lost. “Wainright and the damn league are trying to take over the team. He doesn’t think I know, but he’s been making deals behind my back. But he can’t take me out, not as long as we stay firm. That’s why I need you.”

Miranda stroked his hand, willing him to calm down. “We’ve got it under control, Daddy. You have good people in command at the stadium.”

Her father gripped her hand in a surprisingly strong grasp. He tugged her close until she was leaning over him face-to-face. “I never expected this. You’re not prepared. That’s my fault. But all you need to do is keep things going and block Wainright. If you could hang on until the All-Star break, I’ll be back and everything will be okay. I’m sure I’ll be back long before then, able to take care of this little upstart.”

“He’s not a little upstart, Daddy. He’s from the league and we have to work with him. He’s not trying to take over.”

Her father growled and pushed her away. “He’s gotten to you already, didn’t he? That little bastard. You watch out for him. He’s a snake in the grass and he’ll try to steal everything from you. This team is your birthright, your inheritance. If he takes ownership, you’ve got nothing. All those nice clothes you like, that hot little sports car you drive? He’ll have it all and you’ll have nothing. Make sure you watch out for him. He’s not your friend.”

She tugged her hand out of his grasp, and straightened up. “I know that, Daddy. I’ll be careful.”

He fell back against the pillows, his eyes closing with weariness. “See that you do. I’m trusting you with everything. Don’t disappoint me.”

Miranda resisted the urge to scream. She’d been installed as president for the past year after working her way up the ranks in all aspects of the team. The only area her father refused to relinquish the reins was in player development and management. He preferred to remain in the forefront in that aspect, wheeling and dealing his way to a championship, yet always falling short. Now, when they needed players and solid direction the most, he was out of commission and leaving her in charge. No matter what she did, even if she deferred completely to Cole, she would never be right.

“Seamus, this can certainly wait until tomorrow.” Gwen gently rebuked him.

Seamus turned his stare on his wife, suddenly appearing weak. “You’re going to lecture me while I lay on my death bed?”

Gwen rushed to fluff his pillows and reassure him. Miranda took a few steps away, mind whirling.

Her father fixed a stern glare on her. “It’s your chance to show me that you have what it takes. You’ve been asking for more responsibility. Here it is. Don’t screw it up.”

The doctor walked in at moment and shooed her out of the room. Her mother remained sitting next with Seamus, soothing him. Miranda slipped out of the room and weaved her way through ICU and out to the family waiting room. Lucas stood at her approach.

She sank down into a seat, legs no longer able to hold her, blood pounding in her ears, drowning out all other sounds. The season was only a couple of weeks away and they had so much to do, players to sign, press releases about Seamus’s illness, not to mention the challenge they faced from the league. Her brain hurt just thinking about everything. Lucas stood next to her, patiently waiting.

Miranda stood up, squared her shoulders and looked Lucas squarely in the eye. “My father will be here for a while. I’m in charge in his absence.”

“I can help out more; take some of the burden off of you.” Lucas grasped her elbow, pulling her close.

Her mind flashed back to her father’s warning not to trust Lucas. Barely out of the first surgery and Lucas was already homing in on the team. She had to be careful, not be swayed by his seemingly helpful ways.

“I’ve got this, Lucas. You can report to the commissioner than we’ll be fine.”

Lucas cocked an eyebrow. “I can’t lie to him. You’re stuck with me. You can’t do anything without my approval.”

She pulled her arm out of his grasp with as much dignity as she could muster. Straightening her jacket, she tossed her hair and met his gaze firmly. “We’ll see about that. It’s still my team.” She glided away like the beauty queen she once was.

She had work to do.

A
couple of
days after Seamus’s heart attack, Lucas settled back in the chair and laid his head on the headrest, closing his eyes. Only, when he closed them, he saw his father and the way things were supposed to be, before Lucas had screwed it all up. This was supposed to be Lucas’s office, when he had finished college and joined the family business as his father’s right-hand man, ready to step in to his role as heir-apparent. His younger brother and sister had no interest in baseball or business, so the weight of the family heritage fell to him to carry.

And he dropped it, shattering his family and his father’s dreams.

Lucas studied the reports submitted by the departments, outlining their strategy for the upcoming season and their projections for the year. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times to wipe the grit out of his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well since being told about the job. Usually the excitement of a new challenge fired him up and he’d dig right in. The shock of being back in the stadium offices where he had spent so much time, the sudden heart attack of Callahan, and the resulting uproar in the offices threw him off his game. For the first time in his career as a turnaround consultant, guilt prodded him, reminding him he was playing with people’s lives, people he knew, and the timing of this job couldn’t be worse.

A knock at the door tore into his memories. He straightened up and put on his game face. Cole Hammonds poked his head around the door, a carefully blank look on his face.

“You wanted to see me?”

Lucas remained seated and gestured to the seat in front of him. “Yes, Hammonds. Thanks for joining me.”

Cole stepped into the office and Jason Friar followed him. “Since you wanted to discuss players, I thought I’d bring the head of player development.”

Lucas nodded once and gestured to the chairs. “Perfect. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

The men sat across from him and Lucas took a moment to assess the playing field. Something else his father, and Lucas’s own experience, had taught him. He’d use the silence to see how his opponents acted. Once they did, and they always did, he could determine if they were true opponents or could be switched to his side. Then the real work began.

Predictably, Cole was the first to speak, loyalty to the old guard deeply ingrained in him. Jason Friar, on the other hand, kept his own council, studying the situation, assessing the options. But Jason was new, too new to be a real ally. Cole was the key, the linchpin.

“So, how do you want to play this? Pander to my ego? Or appeal to my survival instinct?” Cole asked.

After a long moment, Lucas pulled out a folder and tossed it across the table. “Is this your proposal?”

Cole leaned forward and opened the folder, scanning the beginning of it. His jaw tightened and he glared at Lucas. “How did you get this?”

“Irrelevant. I’ve read it. A few points are not quite accurate but overall, a good plan. I assume you’ve received no encouragement from upper management?”

Cole closed the folder and sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m not going to help you undermine Mr. Callahan, especially now.”

Lucas folded his hands in front of him and studied the other man. “I’m not trying to undermine him. I’m trying to save his team before it sinks beneath him. We can work this two ways. One, you help me. Two, you don’t and you’re out of a job in a few months. Which will it be?”

Cole’s face reddened, anger a slow boil beneath the surface. “I don’t appreciate threats.”

Lucas spread his hands out in a gesture of supplication. “I don’t make threats, only promises.”

Jason leaned forward, insinuating himself into the conversation. “So, what are you looking for, Mr. Wainright? And don’t tell me that you just want to help us. What do you really want?”

Lucas studied him for a long moment. “I underestimated you, Mr. Friar.” He propped his elbows on the table. “Fine, let’s lay it all out on the line. Yes, my father used to own the Knights and you’re damn right I’m pissed that Callahan took advantage of my father when he was sick. But that’s in the past. I work for major league baseball, from whom you took a sizable loan. I help teams regain solid financial status or maintain it. Your team has major issues that won’t be solved overnight or with half measures.” He glanced at the other man, changing his tactic suddenly. “Friar, you’ve played on a lot of teams and against plenty of others. What are your thoughts on these ideas, these methods of the shift and pitching changes? Can teams win with them?”

Jason glanced at Cole then back to Lucas. “I hated playing against the shift. I swear, it dropped my batting average by several points every year. However, we never employ it. We have a short right field porch, meaning fly balls turn into home runs easily. And most of our pitchers are fly ball pitchers. As a hitter, I love that. But now, we can’t win this way.”