by V. K. Sykes
But at least now she knew exactly where she stood with her minority partner—with her back firmly against the wall.
“No matter what we do, it all comes down to money,” she finally said grumpily. “The rich teams get richer, and the poor get screwed.” Martha had covered pro sports for years and knew that was the way things worked in that world. But it still made her crazy.
“Always, lass. Why do you think a handful of wealthy clubs have totally dominated English football for twenty years?”
Martha nodded. “My father had some money, but he was sure no Roman Abramovitch,” she said, invoking the name of the Russian billionaire who’d bankrolled Chelsea into a powerhouse in the English Premier League. “Daddy sank what he had into the team but it was never enough, especially not with horrid mistakes like signing Kavanagh and Flores. And now it feels like the last damn days of Pompeii around here.”
McLeod clucked his tongue in a soothing noise. “We can’t let ourselves get too down, though. We’ve got to look and act confident in that meeting with the money men this week, even if we’re the modern version of Christians being fed to the lions.”
Martha gave a ghost of a laugh. “Human sacrifice just about captures the sense of the situation.”
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the buttery fabric of the sofa. Kieran knew their financial picture all too well, and the tough odds she would face when she went cap-in-hand to her bankers and sponsors.
She thought again about the life she’d put on hold to try to keep her father’s dream alive. She’d had a good life in Philadelphia, with great friends, a solid job at a major daily newspaper, and a sweet little apartment in Society Hill. With every day that went by here in Florida, she missed her old life more and more.
For about twenty seconds she felt sorry for herself. But then she sucked it up and decided to get on with what needed to be done. If there was one thing she’d learned from her daddy since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, it was never to be a quitter.
Martha rustled up the kind of grin a cocky prisoner might give the judge as his sentence was about to be handed down. “Hon, you’re totally right. I’m going to do my best to charm the asses out of their three-piece suits. By the time I’m done, I think we’re going to be sashaying out of their fancy office with a big stack of blank checks or my name isn’t Martha Winston.”
CHAPTER TWO
Tony Branch knew better than to keep arguing with his Brain.
That’s what he sometimes called Rex Daltry, because the guy never steered him wrong. Not once in all the years they’d been working together. The man was a genius, and hands down the best football businessman in England. But Tony had already made his decision, and while it might turn out to be the dumbest mistake he’d ever made, it would be his mistake and he’d bloody well live with it.
“I get it,” he said, rolling his shoulders against the frustration building in his muscles. He and Rex watched the match from Tony’s spacious suite overlooking the jam-packed Fenton Park. Usually the suite was chock-a-block with friends, sponsors, and various hangers-on. Today, though, he’d kept the place off-limits so he and Rex could talk freely.
“Yeah, most Americans think the only kind of football worth watching is the one played by three hundred-pound gorillas in helmets and body armor,” Tony said, keeping his gaze on the pitch below where his Blackhampton Lions were locked in a scoreless draw with London rival, Arsenal. “And you’re right that there’s a fairly good chance we’ll take a bath.”
He narrowed his eyes at Rex to make it clear that the time for arguing was over. “Your job is to give me the best advice, and you do it bloody well. But it’s my money and my call, mate. I want to buy an American Soccer League team, and you’re going to find me one.”
“I hear you.” Rex pulled his mouth to one side in an expression signifying you’re wrong, but you’re the boss. “Listen, don’t get too chuffed about it, but as a matter of fact I think I’ve already found a situation that has a chance to work out.”
Tony put down his beer and stood toe-to-toe with his lanky friend. Tony was six-one and had a hard, muscular body that contrasted sharply with Rex’s gaunt frame, but Rex towered over him by a good six inches. Rex’s detractors called him “The Stork”. Tony’s own critics—mostly the same idiots—had taken to calling Rex “Branch’s Brain”. At first, Tony had fumed every time he heard the insulting, stupid moniker. But as his successes piled up, he’d learned to shrug it off. Sure, Rex’s undeniable smarts were a big key to their triumphs, but any thinking person knew that Tony Branch didn’t end up owning three football clubs worth tens of millions of pounds without having bloody good business sense of his own.
He shoved Rex back a half-step and landed a playful jab to his shoulder. “You’ve been riding my arse about this, and yet all the time you had my future team shoved in your back pocket?”
Rex winced dramatically over the soft punch. “I held back because I can’t help feeling like the rope I’m about to throw you has a sodding big noose on the end. This American adventure of yours is a damn dodgy idea.”
“Bollocks,” Tony countered. “It’s a great idea, and you’re just pissed off you didn’t think of it first,” he said as a joke.
Outside the suite, the crowd of over forty thousand erupted in a stadium-shaking roar as the Lions scored to take a one goal lead. Tony grinned, slamming Rex a high-five as he watched the jubilant Blackhampton players pile onto the man who’d just put the ball in the net. The crowd started to chant Kee-nan, Kee-nan. Superstar midfielder Kevin Keenan had unleashed one of his famous bending shots from about sixty feet out.
“Bloody good to see Keenan earning some of that four million pounds we’re putting in his pocket this year,” Rex said.
No arguing with that. The salaries lavished on stars had climbed to outrageous levels. The most Tony had ever made in his own long career as a world class player with ninety English caps—one of the highest totals of any player in history—had been about a fifth of Keenan’s current take. But what really made his blood boil was the way skyrocketing salaries were straining many teams’ budgets to the breaking point, and that of his Lions as much as any. Tony had to face the stark reality that if you wanted to play with the Premier League big boys, you had no choice but to spend like the big boys.
But how could he continue to keep his Lions competitive with the elite clubs that were almost obscenely flush with cash?
“Unless Keenan breaks a leg,” he said, “he’s going to get a seven million Euro offer next year from Barca or Real Madrid. There’s no way we can match that.” He shrugged, giving Rex a wry grin. “But we’ll worry about that little problem later. Right now I want to hear about that noose you’re making for me.”
Rex snorted. “I’ve been focusing on the ASL franchises that are not only hemorrhaging cash, but have ownership that can’t afford to sustain the losses. I’ve looked at a wide range of factors, including free cash flow, debt servicing costs, access to working and long-term capital, and—”
“I get it.” Tony spun his finger to indicate his impatience. “You were zeroing in on Phoenix, the L.A. Surf, and Jacksonville, right?”
Jacksonville. A stunningly beautiful face surrounded by silky blond hair drifted before his mind’s eye. That beautiful face sat atop a slender, but deliciously curvy body that had put his cock at attention the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Martha Winston.
That was an extra bit of incentive if there ever was one.
Rex looked pained. “That’s right.”
Tony felt a twinge of guilt. He’d never backed Rex into a corner like this, but he had both his mind and his heart set on America and he was going to get a team whether his brain liked it or not. He was hoping for Jacksonville. Hoping like he hoped to win the FA Cup. But in the end, whatever Rex recommended was what he’d go with. Tony had made the big decision—to go for it—and it was now up to Rex to get the target right. Failure had never been an o
ption for the two of them.
“If we really are going to do this, then it’s got to be Jacksonville.” Rex heaved a sigh, as if just saying the words had been an ordeal. “But it’s my duty to say again, one last time, that don’t like the whole idea. That Jacksonville team operates in a small market city to begin with, and now they’ve lost twelve of their last fifteen matches. The average attendance at home has sunk to well under three thousand.”
That number was ridiculously low for any professional sports franchise. But while it sucked for Martha Winston, that dire situation sounded like sweet music to Tony’s ears. Owners of successful teams didn’t sell, or they demanded outrageous prices if they wanted out. No, Tony couldn’t afford a winning team. A loser sliding down the chute was exactly what he was looking for. “So? That’s pretty much what we want, isn’t it?”
“To some extent,” Rex agreed. “But my greatest concern is that Jacksonville area fans are insane for American football—both pro and college—and that crowds out everything else. Even before the current collapse, the Thunder team struggled to stay out of the red.”
“Sure, we’d obviously rather get a team in a bigger market. But you’re telling me there’s no hope for L.A. and Phoenix, right?”
“Those teams are both losing money, too, but the ownership is committed and stubborn and they aren’t going to sell at anything close to our price band. We simply can’t afford teams like that, no matter how much you might hunger for a new adventure.” Rex gave him a morose smile. “I say that with all respect and affection, of course.”
“Oh, sure you do,” Tony said with a grin. “So, Jacksonville it is, then.” He had to resist a celebratory fist pump.
“Yes, if you insist.” Rex blew out a sigh. “And it surely won’t hurt our cause that you’re personally acquainted with that particular owner.”
Tony snorted as he glanced back at the field. “Acquainted? Barely. I told you I met her once, for maybe a few minutes. And that was a couple of years ago.”
That much was true. But Tony remembered Martha Winston very well indeed, and had a hunch she would remember him, too. When they were introduced at a charity dinner in Wimbledon, the statuesque blonde—easily as tall as him in her spike heels—had eyed him with a sultry look that had sent his lad hormones rocketing through the roof. Her smoky blue eyes had made a quick, almost imperceptible, scan of his body at the same time that his own eyes were travelling from her lush mouth to the hem of her floor-length black gown. When she spoke, her southern accent had slid like warm, sweet honey over bare skin.
Unfortunately, she’d been on the arm of the stuffy publisher of British Tennis at the time, and the man had pulled her away after only a short chat. Tony supposed he couldn’t really blame the bloke. If he ever latched on to a goddess like Martha Winston, he’d want to stash her away in his own very private lock-box.
Despite the fact that they’d only spoken for a brief time, something had passed between them. Electricity. Chemistry. Pure, elemental lust. Tony had felt the rush instantly, and strongly suspected Martha had, too. That was why when Rex told him at a pub a few months ago that Martha Winston now owned the Jacksonville Thunder, Tony had almost choked on his ale. Rex had said that the previous owner of the Jacksonville team, Will Winston, had passed away and bequeathed control of the team to his daughter, Martha.
“Even so, a direct call from you would surely be in order,” Rex said. “She’s in rather desperate straits already. The team’s line of credit is stretched, and her bankers aren’t likely to be anxious to sink more money into an operation that could implode any day. Very few financial institutions would be. In that kind of situation, it’s tantamount to trying to catch a falling knife.”
Rex didn’t say: and why the hell would we want to try to catch that knife, either? But his questioning eyes made that sentiment crystal clear to Tony.
Tony had a sudden, ridiculous vision of himself galloping into Martha Winston’s life on a white charger, ready to sweep her up onto the stallion’s back and whisk her from financial oblivion. But, when he thought about it, he figured that dramatic scenario might not be totally farfetched. The woman obviously needed cash, and fast. Tony had a fair bit of cash on hand, along with a strong line of credit, and he wanted her team. In those circumstances, the lovely Martha might just be overwhelmed with gratitude, and who knew where such overflowing emotions might lead?
Sounded like bloody kismet to him—a total win-win. Sure there was risk, but Rex tended to worry too much. The two of them could turn any team around, and the proof was that they’d done it three times already. Jacksonville would be triumph number four, and the American breakthrough Tony craved. “I’ll ring her tomorrow.” He drained the last of his beer and plunked down the glass. “Now, let’s go watch the last ten minutes outside.”
They took the private elevator down to their seats in the grandstand below. As Tony bounced down the steps, dozens if not hundreds of fans stood and cheered. Those near the ends of the rows stuck out their hands for a shake or a slap. One young woman stepped out to partially block his path, grabbing his shoulders firmly and planting a wet kiss on his cheek.
Christ, he loved it.
“Jesus, Tony,” Rex shouted about the noise, “you could run for Parliament and bloody near every one of these blokes would vote for you. You’ve finally given them a winning side after all those losing years.”
“We’ve given them a winning side,” Tony replied brusquely. “You get the credit as much as me, mate.”
But the thought of running for Parliament, or doing anything else for that matter, was the furthest thing from Tony’s future plans. Football was his life, and always would be. After multiple surgeries, his legs were too banged-up to be on the field any more, but he’d die if he couldn’t be part of football. Winning football.
But staying competitive in the Premier League was getting tougher every season, and it was inevitably going to get worse in the future. Even with lucrative sponsorships, how were teams like the Lions going to compete with the billionaire-backed likes of Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea and Manchester City? Hell, United was now listed on the U.S. stock exchange, for God’s sake.
The simple answer: they couldn’t.
Tony would never give up on his dream of winning a Premier League championship or an FA Cup as an owner. But he was enough of a realist to acknowledge that such a glorious future might well be out of his reach. He had money, but it utterly paled in comparison to the bankrolls of Middle Eastern oilmen and Russian oligarchs who now owned the biggest teams.
No, he foresaw the time coming when he would have to make a choice. Either sell the Lions to some foreign billionaire or mega-corporation, or see his beloved team slowly fall out of the elite of the Premier League and into the second tier, or worse.
To him, both those outcomes felt like forms of death.
But America held out greater promise of glory. In America, Tony figured he could be number one. As far as American football—no, soccer, he corrected himself—was concerned, the country was a limitless frontier. Rex might think it was insane to buy a failing franchise in a small market city, but where his brain man saw risk, Tony saw opportunity. Opportunity to do even more than what he’d already achieved in Blackhampton. Opportunity to succeed in a vast, dynamic country that had beckoned to him for as long as he could remember. He wanted Tony Branch to be big in America.
Bigger than Beckham.
And gorgeous Martha Winston held the key.
CHAPTER THREE
Martha ripped the sheet of paper off the pad, balled it up, and lofted an arcing left-handed shot into her mesh wastebasket six feet away.
Nothing but net.
The perfect hit made her smile, if only for an instant. She’d always been deadly at medium range. If she’d only had a more reliable three-point shot, she might have made it big as a pro basketball player. Four years as a point guard—three of them starting—for the Tennessee Lady Vols had opened the door to that kind
of future. But her injury-plagued stint in the WNBA had been frustrating and brief. So frustrating that after she launched her journalism career, she’d wanted to cover any sport other than basketball.
She picked up her fountain pen, hoping for inspiration in preparing an introduction for her presentation to the bank and sponsors. The computer was great for pounding out a quick story, but whenever she needed to think something through, she pulled out pen and paper. In that way she resembled her father, who had scorned computers and email as devil-spawned creations that would bring about the end of civilized society.
Her assurances to Kieran that she would nail the meeting with the bank had been pure bravado. In truth, it would be hell convincing her skeptical backers that her plan to turn the team around was working since there was scant evidence to back up the claim. The Thunder had been sinking fast when she arrived in June, and they’d fallen ever deeper down the rabbit hole since.
Sadly, her team sucked. It needed a full overhaul, requiring both time and money. A lot of money. Meanwhile, the fans would have to be patient.
Fat chance.
Jane Corrigan, her personal assistant and long-time friend, tapped lightly on her open door. Ever-cheery, she gave Martha a grin as she stepped into the spacious but sparsely furnished office. “There’s a guy named Tony Branch on the line. He’s calling from London, and that’s London as in England,” she said, her thin brows lifting in a question.
Martha’s pen fell from her fingers. Tony Branch? With his ruggedly handsome face, toned body, and penetrating gaze, he’d made an impression she’d never forgotten, even two years later.