Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  Suddenly flushed, she brushed a hand carelessly across her heated forehead. It was exactly the same physical reaction she’d experienced when their paths had crossed in England.

  “Are you all right, girl?” Jane asked. Her friend knew every one of Martha’s arsenal of looks and gestures, having spent five years working alongside her in the sports department of the Philadelphia Post.

  “Right as rain,” Martha said with forced cheeriness as she fanned a hand in front of her face. “It’s just a little warm in here. As for Mr. Branch, please tell him I’m just finishing up another call, and I’ll be with him in a minute.” She needed a few seconds to regain her equilibrium.

  Tony frigging Branch. The way-too-sexy Brit had wasted no time undressing her with his smoking hot gaze after that Wimbledon charity dinner. Though the encounter had been short, Martha had no trouble remembering all the relevant details about the man. Tall, with longish dark and wavy hair. Deep-set, dark eyes. Square jaw. On the lean side, but with a soccer player’s well-toned, well-muscled body. A British sports hero, a man worshipped by rabid fans since he was a teenager.

  And a total lady-killer, if the gossip rags held even a hint of truth.

  She couldn’t deny that his roguish, arrogant smile had almost knocked her off her pins. She’d been instantly attracted both to his looks and his can-do reputation, and had thought the attraction was shared. But, sadly, she’d let that twit from the tennis magazine hustle her off so quickly. The event had practically bored the silk stockings off her, and she’d been happy to leave early. Until she met Tony Branch, that is. Then the evening had ended all too soon.

  When she got home, she’d even pitched a feature about him to her editor at the Post. But he’d told her that nobody in the States wanted to read about a British soccer personality unless his name was David Beckham.

  But why would Tony Branch call her now? They’d just met the once, and that had been over two years ago.

  Flutters danced below her ribcage. She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to ignore them.

  She picked up the phone and punched the flashing light. “Good morning, Mr. Branch. Oh, but I guess it’s already afternoon for y’all over there, isn’t it? You’re way ahead of us colonials, at least in that regard.”

  People had always told her she sounded naturally perky, but she ladled an extra measure of southern sass into the mix to try to cover her twitchy nerves.

  “Yes, it’s well into afternoon here,” Branch said with a deep chuckle. God, his voice sounded like whiskey poured through dark chocolate. “And please call me Tony. I’m not calling too early, am I?”

  Martha remembered the way she’d been instantly drawn to his deep, throaty rasp when they met. There was no trace of poncey schooling in Branch’s voice. A working class lad all the way, and she’d found that enormously appealing.

  “Oh, heavens, no,” she said. “It’s nine o’clock here. I’ve already put in two hours’ work.”

  “That’s the stuff. Got to get up with the roosters if we want to stay ahead of the pack, don’t we?” Branch said, with a spectacular mixing of metaphors.

  “Indeed we do.” She thought she’d enjoy a bit of banter with him, but her nerves made her impatient to discover the purpose of his call. Still, that didn’t stop her from firing a little salvo. “I have to say how glad I am you called. Maybe you could give a rookie owner some tips,” she said in a playful voice. “Lord knows I could use a few. My team’s five and nineteen, and I can’t find a fan these days with a GPS and a bloodhound.”

  Branch let out a rumbly chuckle. “Ouch. I can feel your pain. But look, Martha—may I call you Martha?” When he purred her name, her knees actually went weak.

  You can call me intrigued. “Why, sure you can, Tony.”

  “Excellent. Martha, believe me, I’ve been there. My first year after taking over Blackhampton, we managed one miserable win and two draws in our first fifteen matches. The fans wanted my bollocks on a plate.” He paused. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be using coarse language speaking with a lady. But in any case, after that we only lost six of the final twenty-one, and suddenly I’d become a savior instead of an incompetent, washed-up football player, as one columnist called me.”

  Martha smiled. She knew Branch had performed miracles with his top tier club, getting them promoted to the Premier League in only a couple of years. And now they were more or less competitive for the league championship. “How did y’all turn it around, Tony? I’ll pay real good money for any of your secrets.”

  Okay, I don’t have any money, but that’s beside the point.

  Branch laughed again. Martha liked the throaty sound of it. Low and sexy as, well, sex on a stick.

  “I had to kick a few backsides and get rid of some deadwood,” he said. “But the key was that I was able to convince the lads that I’d do whatever it took to turn the side a winner. I promised them that the next season we’d pick up a couple of top-flight midfielders no matter what the cost. The lads trusted me because they knew I’d been one of them. A player who’d gone through all the negative garbage they were going through, both on the field and off. Pretty soon they started acting like winners. Playing hard every minute of every match. Gutting it out.”

  Martha sighed. No matter what the cost. It must be a sweet feeling to have deep pockets. Right now, hers were about as deep as a coat of paint. Hell, at this rate she’d be lucky to make payroll until the end of the season.

  “You’ve certainly made a success of it,” she said, forcing a cheery voice. “Sixth place last year. Maybe fifth this season.”

  “You follow the Premier League that closely, Martha?”

  She frowned at the obvious note of surprise in his voice, hoping he wasn’t like some of the team owners and players who considered her little better than a dumb blonde.

  “Of course,” she said as a flush of resentment swept over her. But she tamped down the spike and kept her tone light. “Some of us over here on the frontier still manage to keep track of what’s going on in the soccer motherland.”

  Branch laughed again, and the rumble sent hot pinpricks dancing across her skin. The charming Brit seemed to appreciate her quirky sense of humor, something she’d found many men didn’t. “I’m glad to hear it. I think I’ll sleep better at night now knowing that.”

  She picked up her fountain pen and tapped it against the leather trim of her desk blotter. Why wasn’t he getting to the point? She rather liked chatting away with him, but her stomach kept rolling around and perspiration was beginning to trickle down her spine. “Well, then, sweet dreams,” she said, hoping he’d get on with it.

  He seemed to pick up her change in tone. “All joking aside, Martha, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m contacting you.”

  “Can’t say the thought didn’t flicker through my mind. But we southern folk would never be so impolite as to ask straight out.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll come straight to the point, then. I know you’re in a bit of a pickle over there, and I’d like to find a way to help you out of it.”

  Find a way to help me out of it.

  Martha clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, hating that her instincts had once again been dead-on. And she instantly thought of Geoffrey. Had he put Branch onto her? She hadn’t a single grain of trust in her uncle, but she still didn’t want to believe he’d stoop to going behind her back, blabbing their problems outside the family.

  Her wounded pride demanded that she slam the phone down, but she forced herself to take a deep breath before responding. “And just how would y’all, way over there in merry old England, know what sort of pickle I’m in, Mr. Branch?”

  He paused a moment before saying, “I suppose that was a poor choice of words. I’m sorry, but I’m not much for subtlety. I just say what’s on my mind, Martha. And, like I said, please call me Tony.”

  Now he sounded condescending. Suddenly, she realized she was clutching the receiver in a crushing grip. Taking another de
ep breath, she forced the muscles in her hand to relax. “Mr. Branch, I like a straight-shooter as much as anybody, but how about answering my question?”

  “How do I know about your situation? Well, I make it my business to keep on top of these things, Martha. And I have a man who’s been watching the ASL very closely for the past year.” His deep rasp was marinated in effortless self-confidence. “It’s clear that things are rough for your team right now. At the present rate, I’m told the Thunder may even have to fold at the end of the season.” He paused again. “If not before.”

  Martha had to stifle a gasp. How the hell did he know that? Tanking attendance didn’t automatically mean a death spiral in sports. Not if the organization had sufficient backing to weather the storm. How did he know she was up to her butt in financial quicksand?

  She visualized her uncle’s ruddy face again. This time he had horns coming out of the top of his balding head.

  “You’re told,” she said in a lethal voice. “And who, may I ask, told you?”

  Branch seemed taken aback by her knife-edged tone. “Uh, my man is very good, Martha.”

  Right. Like a damn vulture circling relentlessly in its determination to spot a carcass. “Then maybe you should just tell me exactly what you want. And make it plain enough for a little ol’ backwoods thing like me to grasp.”

  “All right, then. I would like to make you an offer to buy the Thunder franchise.” His voice had turned all-business. “I’m sure we’d be able to come to an agreement that is more than fair to you and your minority partner.”

  He paused for a long moment, long enough that she felt like jumping through the phone and shaking him by his broad shoulders. “I’ll be candid with you, Martha,” he continued, “even though I usually keep my intentions close to my chest. I’m determined to have an ASL team, and I’m prepared to pay bloody well to get one. I want the Jacksonville Thunder.”

  Damn, damn, damn. Martha pushed out of her chair and began to pace—at least until the cord on the outdated phone brought her up short. She just caught the base of the phone before it clattered off the desk.

  She sucked in a calming breath. Her instant reaction was to tell Branch to stick to his own business and let her worry about hers. A much less polite phrase had actually come to her lips, but she rejected it out of hand. After all, she was a southern lady, with politeness bred in her bones.

  Martha opened her mouth to tell him to get lost—politely, of course—but then her mind began to race through all the implications of summarily rejecting him. She knew his offer wouldn’t remain a secret. Even if Geoffrey didn’t already know about it, he would find out soon enough and he’d blab to anyone who would listen, including the press. On top of that, she figured Branch would make sure his bid became public at some point. From what she knew about Tony Branch, she didn’t see him as the kind of man who easily took no for an answer. He’d told her straight out that he wanted her team and was prepared to pay handsomely for it. Anybody who would reveal his hand like that before negotiations had even started wasn’t about to be put off.

  And once word got out that an English soccer titan had offered to swoop in and rescue her dying team, the local fans and media would be after her with tar and feathers for blowing him off.

  In the seconds she took to work that through, she’d become so irritated she decided to give Branch’s chain a little yank. “Well, there’s no doubt I could use an infusion of cash. Maybe I could be talked into parting with a piece of the team—say, twenty percent? You could make an offer on that if you like.”

  Branch heaved a frustrated sigh. “Martha, I’ll tell you what. This really isn’t the sort of thing we can properly discuss over the telephone. I was just calling to give you a heads up, really—to let you know that I’ll be flying to Jacksonville tonight. I’ll meet you tomorrow, and we’ll have lunch—just the two of us. No money men or lawyers involved. Let’s see if the two of us can work out an arrangement that will meet both our needs. And if we can’t, then—what’s that expression you people use? No harm, no foul?”

  What utter gall. Did Tony Branch think he could swoop down out of the sky and sweet talk her out of her team over some two-martini lunch? She almost slammed the phone down, but something stilled her hand. Possibly it was her manners. Or maybe it was something she had absolutely no intention of acknowledging, even to herself. This was about business and the survival of the team. Nothing else.

  She cleared her throat. “I have to say I’m a little bit impressed that you’d jump right on an airplane like that, Mr. Branch,” she said, ladling on the southern syrup. “But, no, I think not. In fact, I need to be completely direct with you, because I don’t want to waste your time. I’m not interested in selling the Thunder to you or to anybody else. So, unless you might be interested in owning just a piece of the action, I suggest you have your man focus his efforts on pursuing some other organization. My team is not road kill for you to pick over.”

  It was a bit of a harsh shot, but what the heck.

  “Good God, Martha. Are you actually saying you don’t even want to hear my proposal?” Branch sounded incredulous. “I’m sorry, but I think that would be a very big mistake.”

  She felt like pounding her head against the wall. Or, better yet, his head.

  “As I said, I don’t want to waste your time. Or mine, for that matter. I don’t intend to sell. Not now. Not ever. But if the day should come when I change my mind, I promise to dig out your number. I assure you I’ll keep it on file.”

  Martha heard a muffled noise that sounded like a curse. He’d probably covered the phone with his palm and let fly with a thoroughly salty one.

  A couple of seconds later he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear that.” His husky growl sent a cascade of shivers coursing down her spine.

  Keep your eye on the ball, girl.

  “But I hope that sometime soon I’ll be able to persuade you of the wisdom of hearing me out,” he added.

  “I very much doubt that, Mr. Branch,” she said politely.

  “In the meantime, I really do wish you good luck. You’ll surely need it.” He hung up.

  Martha sank into her chair, her hand trembling as she placed the receiver back in its cradle. She’d been able to more or less fake an unconcerned air during the conversation, but now she didn’t have to pretend any more. She was the furthest thing from unconcerned. As much as the thought of selling the team horrified her, she couldn’t help wondering if she might have blown her best chance to keep the Thunder out of bankruptcy. She’d promised her father she’d do everything in her power to make a success of the team, and that above all she’d make sure that ownership stayed in the family. But if the team was going to fold ignominiously and fade into history on her watch, wouldn’t it be better to sell it to Branch and keep it alive—even if a Winston no longer controlled it?

  She lightly knocked the knuckles of one hand against her forehead. Sometimes, she couldn’t be entirely sure what her father would have wanted her to do. She missed him so much, and the pain of his absence gnawed away at her every day—probably even more so because she occupied his office and lived in his house. She constantly felt his presence, but could only guess at how far he’d want her to go at the end of the day. Save the team, of course, and keep it in the family. But what if that became impossible?

  Martha gave herself a mental slap. The point was that she couldn’t let it become impossible.

  Restless, she got up again and eased over to the windows that looked out at the St. John’s River. She drew open the fraying vertical blinds and gazed down at the miniature people and cars bustling below along South Laura Street. How many times had her father stood at this same spot, looking down at the city he’d come to love? He’d been happy here, and relentlessly enthusiastic about the future of the team no matter what was or wasn’t happening on the field.

  She told herself again she hadn’t made a mistake rejecting Branch’s lifeline. There was still a decent chance the bank wo
uld extend the team’s line of credit, or the sponsors would pony up more cash. And maybe they’d somehow be able to lure more fans into the stadium for the last few weeks of the season.

  If she was going to go down, she’d damn well go down fighting. That was what her father would have wanted. Selling out to a British big shot on the prowl for a new toy to stroke his ego just wasn’t going to happen.

  After all, she was a Winston. And a true Winston never surrendered.

  * * *

  A voice like hot melted butter.

  Tony knew he would be thinking about Martha Winston for a good long while. And not just about her team, that was for sure. How could a voice, an accent, a something, make him get hard in the midst of such a frustrating conversation? And while he was negotiating his car through Kensington High Street traffic, no less. He’d always been good at multi-tasking but that was a bit much.

  Martha Bloody Winston. Too stubborn to even admit that her team was circling the drain. Did she really think her bank would bail her out? Or her sponsors? According to Rex, her primary sponsor, Steam Train Breweries, was unlikely to extend its contract with the Thunder beyond the end of the season. But yet the woman had remained adamant and unmoving in the face of impending doom.

  Given the odds, her hard-ass attitude made no sense. He’d been sure she’d be impressed by his plan to race over to America to meet her but she’d dismissed it out of hand. Didn’t even do him the courtesy of listening to him over bloody lunch, and that really pissed him off.

  Tony dodged a slow moving lorry and then a taxi, repressing the urge to curse. Even with the stiff congestion fees, cars still clogged central London streets from morning to night. Rex had been after him to hire a driver so he could work while stuck in heavy traffic, but the idea of riding around in the back seat like some nob or rock star had always made his skin crawl.

  His Mercedes barely moving, he speed-dialed Rex.

  “Rex Daltry here.”

  “Why do you always answer like that when you can see it’s me by the call display? And I bloody well know your voice after all these years, you enormous nit.”