Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  All her excitement over the crazy-great night with Tony and the prospect of a whirlwind trip to England had collapsed in minutes under the onslaught of Arnott’s grim financial numbers and their cruel implications. Her mental energy sapped, Martha felt physically drained, too—a stark contrast to the way her body had pulsed with life as she fed breakfast to Tony mere hours ago.

  Martha’s unseeing eyes were locked on the pile of treasonous papers arrayed in front of her when Jane knocked on the open door. “Are you okay?” her assistant asked.

  Martha met her concerned gaze, but couldn’t seem to force words past her tight vocal cords.

  “Oh, God, you sure as hell don’t look okay.” Jane rushed around the end of the table and plopped down in the executive chair next to her boss, reaching for her hand.

  Martha gave Jane’s cool fingers a light squeeze and fought the tears she’d struggle through most of the meeting to suppress. A second later, when Jane put her arm around her shoulders, Martha finally gave in to her emotions with a choked sob.

  “Easy, sweetie,” Jane murmured, tightening her embrace. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Martha shook her head, pulling back so she could look straight at Jane. “Sure, I’ll be all right, hon, but I can’t say the same about everyone else on the payroll.”

  “Am I fired, then?” Jane said in a semi-joking voice.

  “Hell, no. You know I can’t brew a decent cup of coffee to save my very soul.” She could kid Jane, because her friend knew exactly how important she was to Martha and to the team.

  Jane gave her a lopsided smile. “Or do much of anything else around an office, if we’re speaking truth here.” Then she turned serious. “But you know you don’t have to worry about me, sweetie. Martin will have me back at the Post in a New York minute, same as he will you.”

  Martha simply nodded. Martin had made his commitment on that score crystal clear to both of them when they gave their notice. She was glad her pal would have a soft landing if the worst case scenario really came to pass, but the outlook was a whole lot different for most of the other Thunder employees. Their landing could be damn hard.

  “Kieran and Bob looked like death when they left the room,” Jane said, “but Geoffrey sauntered out like the meeting was just business as usual.”

  Martha’s uncle had barely said a word during the tense, hour-long session. Even when Martha had asked him point blank for his opinions, he’d shrugged his shoulders and carped that no one listened to his views on anything, anyway, so why should he bother? She didn’t completely get his passivity because a bankruptcy scenario would be a disaster for him personally, too. She had to conclude that he was so confident that the team would be sold, and for a decent price, that he had little interest in the cost-cutting exercise the bank had mandated.

  Or, perhaps he was simply certain it would fail and didn’t want to waste his breath.

  “Oh, you know Geoffrey,” Martha said evasively, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. There was no point in slagging the man to Jane. “My make-up is wrecked, isn’t it?”

  Jane shrugged. “Who cares?”

  Martha managed a smile at her friend’s honesty.

  “So, we’re going to lay off how many people?” Jane asked.

  “We don’t know for sure, but it doesn’t look pretty.” Martha stretched her neck and slowly twisted her spine, trying to work out the kinks that had formed as her body tensed up during the brutal meeting. “But we do know that what the bank and the sponsors have asked us to do is impossible—that we cut enough to balance our income and expenses. That notion’s all very fine in theory, but the projected income stream for the rest of the season is pretty much just a guess at this point. Who the heck knows how many fans are going to stick with us for the remaining games? Two thousand? Fifteen hundred?” She paused, swallowing. “Five hundred?”

  With the team in disarray on the field and the ownership situation in turmoil, Martha wouldn’t be entirely surprised if the players outnumbered the fans some evening soon.

  “You’ll have to use a conservative estimate for attendance or the bank won’t buy it,” Jane said.

  “Exactly, and that makes the situation that much worse. On top of that, now we won’t even have Steam Train’s sponsorship money in less than a month.”

  “Bastards.” Jane’s lips curved into such a fiercely protective snarl that Martha wanted to hug her.

  “You know what that all adds up to, hon? What this little cost-cutting charade shows?”

  “That we’re thoroughly screwed?” Jane ventured.

  Martha gave a little snort. “Let’s just say instead that if we were to cut spending down to the level of our projected income, we’d have to axe almost all the front office staff—basically, every one of them except you, Kieran, and Bob, plus one or maybe two in marketing. Then we’d have to move to smaller, cheaper office space, and slash our advertising and promotion spending by at least two-thirds.” Martha’s stomach gave another wrench as she saw the faces of all the hard-working men and women she would have to let go under that dreadful scenario.

  “Sure, because you can’t cut a dime from the big-ticket item—the salaries of the players, coaches and trainers,” Jane said.

  “Right again. Those guys are all under contract except the trainers, and Kieran made it clear that the players would kill us if we tried to fire any of the training staff.”

  “So, what are you going to tell the bank, then?”

  Martha shook her head sadly. “Since chopping expenses to the bare bone would effectively kill the team, I’m going to tell them that they have to come up with some kind of a compromise. They just have to give us more breathing room. We’ll cut cost as much as we can, but not the way they’re demanding. Hopefully, they’ll take a hard look at our numbers and see we’re right.”

  Jane shot her a skeptical look. “I admire your optimism, but do you really think there’s any chance of that happening?”

  “We’ll just have to see,” Martha said with a little shrug. What point would there be in depressing Jane even more with her truthful opinion?

  “Well, on a happier note,” Jane said, “I was able to cancel your appointments for tomorrow and Monday.”

  Earlier, Martha had fessed up to Jane about hitching a ride on Tony’s plane to London so she could meet up with Colton Butler and talk about the feature story she’d been offered. Jane had been over the moon happy for her, and had confessed to a healthy dose of envy. Martha could hardly blame her for that reaction. Here she was, jetting off to spend the weekend in London with an awesomely hot man. Who wouldn’t be envious?

  “Thanks, hon,” she said.

  Jane shifted in her seat—a little nervously, Martha thought.

  “Martha, last night…you and Tony…did you…” Jane let her question trail off. Then she shook her head, her ponytail flying back and forth. “No, forget I said that. None of my business.”

  “Thanks, hon,” Martha said, rising to her feet. She avoided meeting her assistant’s eye, turning to look out the window until Jane left the room.

  Normally, she and Jane shared almost everything. But it hadn’t felt right to Martha to be spilling everything to Jane earlier this morning. So, she’d told her about the situation with Colton, and explained that Tony had kindly offered a lift to London so she wouldn’t have to fly commercial. It had been shading the truth a bit and she regretted doing that to her friend, but it hadn’t felt right to reveal what had actually happened between them at the stadium and later at her home.

  Was it shame that had stopped her? Shame that she’d so readily scampered off to the bedroom with a man who was determined to pull the rug—however threadbare it might be—from under her feet?

  Maybe, but Martha judged it was more likely simple doubt about what it all meant, and the implications for her and for the team’s future. She was grimly determined not to inquire too deeply into that subject. Not now, anyway. Now, she was going to try as hard as she could to enjoy
some long-overdue fun, however difficult that might turn out to be. Though she thought Jane would understand that, her pangs of uncertainty, especially in light of the Thunder’s financial situation, made her decide to keep her own counsel on the subject at least until after London.

  For now, Martha thought it best to keep what had happened between her and Tony off the record for as long as she possibly could.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Martha gazed down through the private jet’s small window, blinking to focus her weary eyes. As London’s majesty revealed itself through the broken cloud cover, her nerves jangled with a combination of eager anticipation and something close to dread.

  A few minutes ago the pilot had announced that Tony’s timeshare jet was on its final approach into London City Airport, which she knew was somewhere on the Thames east of the city center. Despite the fluttery sensation in her stomach, she couldn’t hold back a grin when they passed directly over the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

  She glanced to the right to meet Tony’s gaze. His eyes tracked her every move, and he sported an entirely self-satisfied smile. Actually, smug was more like it. No doubt he could tell from her goofy expression and by the way her eyes had been glued to the landscape below that she was excited out of her sleep-deprived mind. Despite her trepidation about what was to come tonight, her return to London thrilled her.

  For an hour after they left Jacksonville early that morning, she and Tony had chatted about places to visit and the latest hot restaurants, carefully avoiding any mention of the Thunder. Soon enough, Tony had moved to the rear of the luxurious cabin to sit across a small table from Rex. The two men had quickly become locked in animated discussions about their English teams. Bored after a short time with the in-flight entertainment, Martha had pulled out her notebook and begun to sketch out some notes for her meeting with Colton that evening—not that it would be the beginning of an actual interview since she hadn’t even made up her mind that she was going to take the assignment.

  No, this was a more of an exploration aimed at helping her come to a decision. She had to be prepared for various scenarios that could play out, and she needed to think all of them through because that was the only way she knew how to operate as a reporter. Winging it was for fresh out of journalism school hotshots with more fire in their bellies than sense in their heads.

  Her phone call to Colton the previous afternoon had unfolded with less angst than she’d anticipated. She’d obviously caught him a bit off-guard, though his imbalance was only momentary and he quickly made it clear he was delighted she’d be coming to London to meet him. But when he insisted on taking her to dinner on Friday evening after her plane arrived, Martha had tried to demur. Saying she’d be exhausted from the long flight, she suggested meeting the following morning, perhaps for breakfast. She hadn’t yet confessed to Tony that she had an ulterior motive for letting him whisk her off to London, and she knew he’d be less than thrilled at the prospect of her spending the evening of their arrival with a notorious bad boy like Colton Butler. In fact, there was a very strong likelihood that he’d be royally pissed.

  But Colton had told her he’d was going to spend the weekend in Scotland working on his game, so unless she wanted to meet him up there—and he had no problem with that option—their get-together would have to be on Friday evening. Seeing no other choice, Martha had reluctantly agreed. Now, she was still waiting anxiously for the right moment to break the news to Tony. It obviously didn’t mean she wouldn’t spend the night with him—in fact, she had every intention of doing exactly that. But the romantic evening he’d likely been planning would be torched when she finally owned up to what she’d done.

  “We passed Fenton Park on your side a minute or two ago,” Tony said. “Did you spot it?”

  Martha hadn’t even thought to try to pick out the west-end stadium in the sprawl of the metropolis. “Sorry, no. But there’s St. Paul’s ahead.” She gestured to her left. “And there’s the Tower of London, too.”

  Tony chuckled, making her think she must sound like a rookie tourist even though she’d been to London close to a dozen times, mostly on assignment.

  “No matter. You’ll see Fenton up close tomorrow,” he said. “I told Rex to make sure you and I have the suite all to ourselves.” He gave her a sly wink. “I doubt anything could ever top the evening in your suite, but I think we should give it a good go, don’t you?”

  Lord have mercy!

  As the image of the two of them doing it all over her stadium suite—like they hadn’t had sex in a decade—came back to her, Martha’s body temperature rose a few degrees and a flush travelled up her neck to her face. She was way too young to be getting hot flashes, she figured, so it had to be all Tony’s doing.

  “Did I shock you?” he said, leaning toward her. “I was only pulling your leg, you know.” He gave her a smoldering look that made her really start to sweat. “Well, sort of, anyway,” he finished with a sensual purr.

  This is getting ridiculous. She was acting like a schoolgirl on a first date with the high school quarterback.

  Martha grabbed a firm hold of her wayward libido. “You certainly did shock me, mister. I expect to be wined, dined and thoroughly pampered on this little excursion, not shagged on some lumpy sofa above a soccer pitch.” She tried to level him with a firm, headmistress glare, but ended up smiling at him instead.

  Apparently biting back a laugh, Tony schooled his features into a serious gaze. “Oh, wined and dined and pampered you’ll surely be, love. We’ll head to my place first, of course, and get settled in and grab a quick shower. Then I thought we’d have drinks at the Savoy, followed by dinner—”

  “Oh, crap,” Martha blurted, interrupting him because it was clear she’d run out of time. “Tony, I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”

  His brow furrowed. “A confession?”

  The engines changed pitch again at that moment and Martha realized that they were gliding toward an imminent touch-down. Instinctively, she gripped the armrests of her seat and braced for the plane’s impact with the runway. She’d always been a bit nervous about landings, and even the smooth descent of the Falcon hadn’t eliminated her nerves. Fortunately, the wheels hit the surface with a barely perceptible bounce, and she gave a grateful mental high-five to the pilots.

  As the plane slowed in its roll toward the end of the runway, the flight attendant unbuckled, rose and pulled back the curtain that separated the galley from the cabin. Then she headed past Martha and straight to the back of the plane, presumably for some final clean-up. After the attendant passed, Martha turned to face Tony who was still gazing at her in obvious puzzlement.

  “I have a little story I need to tell you,” she said, after peeling her fingers from their death grip on the armrests.

  Tony shifted, leaning toward her, his jaw tight. “I’m listening.”

  She gave him a bare-bones summary of her calls with Martin James and told him about the dilemma she faced over accepting or declining an assignment to write a high-profile feature that could possibly take her journalism career to another level. His brows arched a few times during her brief monologue and Martha thought he actually looked rather pleased. She sensed from his reaction that he was inferring that it meant she was looking at her future in terms of journalism rather than in continuing her ownership of a losing soccer squad.

  “Why are you calling that a confession?” he said as the plane continued to hold at the entrance to a taxiway, waiting for another small aircraft to crawl by.

  “I was getting to that,” she said, trying not to sound too tense or apologetic. “I’ve come to London mainly to be with you, of course, Tony. But it’s not the only reason.” Oh, God, she hated the way that had sounded. “What I mean is, I decided I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, since I was already going to be here with you.”

  That sounded better. At least it didn’t put out the erroneous impression that Tony might be second in importance to her journalistic
mission.

  Tony simply nodded, his expression almost blank. As the plane got rolling again, Martha sucked it up and told him what the assignment was, the name of the man she needed to talk to, and why she had to spend the evening with Colton Butler instead of him.

  As soon as Colton’s name left her lips, Tony’s hands tightened into fists and his cheekbones flushed the color of brick. “You’re having dinner with sodding Colton Butler?” he snarled. “Martha, please tell me you’re having me on.” He looked angry enough to put his fist through the seat in front of him.

  Martha gaped at him, stunned. Of course he’d be unhappy about her blowing him off for dinner, but he seemed way more steamed about who she was having dinner with than the fact that she was temporarily standing him up. She didn’t understand that, and she didn’t appreciate either his tone or his bristling posture.

  She returned Tony’s hostile gaze with an implacable one of her own. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, I really am. It was cowardly of me, and I feel terrible about disappointing you. But surely I don’t have to apologize for scheduling a business dinner that’s going to help me make a big career decision,” she said, keeping her voice firm but still pleasant.

  Tony closed his eyes for a couple of moments, clearly gathering himself. When he met her gaze again, the fury in his eyes had abated. “Martha, listen. Yes, I wish you’d told me earlier, and I’m disappointed that we won’t have a celebratory dinner on your arrival on my home ground. It isn’t the way I wanted us to kick off a great weekend. But I get it. This story is obviously important to you, and if you say you’ve got to have a meeting about it tonight, then you’ve got to have a meeting about it tonight.”