Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  “Come on, Martha,” Grange scoffed. “Can you at least confirm that there have been talks with Steam Train and Branch? I mean, both those options are going to sound damn interesting to the fans at this point, aren’t they?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call them talks, Rick,” Martha said, firming up her voice. She certainly didn’t view what had transpired with either Malone or Tony as “talks” in the sense of even mildly serious negotiations. “It’s true that they’ve both expressed considerable interest in the team.”

  “That doesn’t exactly accord with what my source says, Martha,” Grange said with obvious skepticism. “Will you be holding more talks with both, or zeroing in on one?”

  Martha shifted her shoulders to try to ease her growing tension. “All I can tell you, my friend, is that I’m not picking up the phone. I can’t predict what Steam Train or Tony Branch might do, so you’ll have to ask them about that.”

  “You bet I will. But I’m picking up that you might actually still think you can hold on. Isn’t that pretty much wishful thinking in light of the current situation?”

  Oh, yeah, my friend, and getting more so by the moment.

  Martha’s stomach roiled at the thought of having to endure this type of conversation a dozen more times as other reporters latched onto the story. “Rick, you and I go back a ways, so I promise you’ll be the first call I make if and when anything happens. But that’s all I’ve got to say right now, pal. You say hi to your gorgeous wife, for me, okay? Bye for now.” She hung up before Grange could get in another word.

  She headed straight out to Jane’s desk where Kieran was standing close by. “If anybody else calls about the so-called pending sale, hon, please just take messages.”

  Jane’s eyebrows arched. “If? Are you kidding? I’ve had four more calls since you went into your office. I figure any minute now TV and radio crews are going to start showing up at the door.”

  Martha knew Jane had that right, so she should probably pull herself together and hold a media scrum to tell everybody that showed up the same innocuous stuff she’d just told Grange. But the very thought made her legs rubbery—not from fear of being confronted by a gaggle of reporters, but from having to put a brave face on what had become an impossible, gut-wrenching situation. Though that reaction made her feel cowardly, she needed to get away for a while. To settle down and figure out what she could do. What she really wanted to do. And that would be a lot more productive use of her time than engaging in a useless verbal two-step with a slew of reporters who would press her for answers she either didn’t have or wasn’t prepared to give.

  “You’re right,” she said, “but I won’t be here when they arrive. What I’ll do is call you in around an half hour. I’ll dictate a statement that you can hand out to anybody who shows up. After that, you should go ahead and release it to all the media outlets.”

  “You got it,” Jane said resolutely.

  “Don’t worry, you guys,” she said to both Jane and Kieran. “I’ll figure this out. I just need a little quiet time to think.”

  “Absolutely. Go. Get out of here,” Kieran said with a bracing smile.

  Martha grabbed her bag from her office and headed for the elevators, making sure to hold her head as high as she could. Maybe such a confident posture would make it look just a little less like she was abandoning ship.

  * * *

  Tony subtracted five hours to calculate the current time in Jacksonville. He’d been in his office all day, trying to work but pretty much just drinking coffee and thinking about Martha and her meeting with the money men. Rex, Molly and the rest of his staff had departed for the day, leaving him alone in the silence of the empty suite of offices in Fenton Park.

  For some reason the place felt lonely to him, even though he was used to working late and alone. He blamed the unfamiliar feeling on Martha and the brief time she’d spent with him on his home turf. For good or bad she’d infiltrated every corner of his life, sneaking in and taking hold before he’d been fully aware of it.

  Since it was after lunchtime in the States, the decisive meeting would be over by now. Should he call Martha? Would that send a positive signal that he cared about her, or a negative one that he was predatory, anxiously waiting for news of her team’s pending demise so he could make his next move? Part of him honestly hoped she’d be able to hold on longer, because he knew how devastated she’d be to lose the team. But he couldn’t deny his full readiness to scoop up the Thunder if the bank forced Martha into a corner so tight that she had to sell. He’d done all he could to convince her of his commitment to do right by the team. And he figured that when it came down to a choice between him and Steam Train, she’d see him—a true football man—as the one best able to carry on the work the Winstons had started.

  The big problem, of course, was Steam Train. Though the brewery was looking to grab the Thunder on the cheap, they had the resources to clobber him in any bidding war. Plus, who knew what the people of Jacksonville would think of it all? If a bandwagon got rolling against him, painting him as some kind of marauding British upstart, his bid would be dead on arrival. The bad blood flowing from a sale under such circumstances would make it too hard for him to succeed in building a solid, committed fan base.

  His mobile vibrated inside his jacket pocket. The call display came up as Andy Barton, a sports reporter and a bloke he’d known for years.

  “Andy, what can I do for you, mate?” he said with forced joviality.

  “Hi, Tony. Look, mate, I just got an intriguing call from one of our sister papers—in Jacksonville, Florida, of all places. In any event, the chap said he’d been trying to reach you at your office, but kept getting the answering machine. He wanted your mobile number, but I said not sodding likely. At least not until I had a chance to talk to you first.”

  What the hell?

  Tony jerked upright in his chair. “What’s going on, Andy?”

  “It seems the media over there are in a flap because of an alleged battle going on between some American brewery and your organization over buying the Jacksonville football club. Is this story for real? You know my readers are going to be bloody interested in something like that. Tony Branch heading for America?” Barton laughed. “I can see the headline already.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Tony hadn’t seen this coming, at least sure as hell not so soon. Someone had obviously leaked like a sieve—either Steam Train management or Geoffrey Winston. Certainly not Martha. Especially not after she’d made it clear that she was keeping his offer secret from everyone except her uncle.

  He figured the likeliest source was that pompous idiot uncle of Martha’s, since Steam Train wouldn’t want to pimp out another possible bidder. And that put poor Martha in a hell of a bind, sod it—exposing her hand before she was ready to deal.

  He struggled to contain his conflicting emotions so he could focus on the immediate issue. If he was going to fight for the Thunder, he’d have to get his head fully in the game and right now.

  “All I can tell you, Andy, is that I’ve indicated to the Thunder ownership that I’d be very interested in pursuing such an opportunity if it ever arose,” he said.

  Barton gave a skeptical snort. “Ah, would that be the ownership that you squired to the last Lions match? The ownership I saw you with in that interesting photo in the Sunday papers? One Martha Winston, to be precise?”

  “Easy, mate,” Tony growled as his protective instincts kicked into gear.

  “Just doing my job,” Barton countered. “Since you’re apparently on very good terms with the lady, would you say you’ve got a leg up in your bid?”

  Tony forced himself to ignore the juvenile gibe since responding wouldn’t help Martha or him. “Listen carefully, Andy. There’s nothing else I can tell you right now. Ms. Winston is well aware of my interest. But where it might go from here, if anywhere, I can’t say.”

  That was nothing but the truth. Tony had rarely felt less in control of anything, and that was
something he had a very hard time abiding.

  “Won’t say, more like,” Barton countered. “Apparently the team is up to its arse in debt, and the bank said they’re cutting off all credit. I have to say I’m a little surprised you’d want to dive into that kind of mess.”

  That was the lead-in Tony was waiting for. “Actually, it’s a great opportunity for a turnaround, Andy. And you know how much I like turning losers into winners.”

  “Well, good luck with that, mate,” Barton responded dryly. “All right, one last question, but it’s a big one.”

  “Fire when ready.”

  “My question is why, Tony? What sparked your interest in an American side in the first place? Even though Beckham’s had some success in the States, it’s still a damn hard sell over there for our version of football, isn’t it?”

  Tony leaned back in his chair and smiled. This one he had down pat. “I don’t agree, mate. Do you have any idea how many people in the States are playing what they call soccer? Playing, not watching?”

  “Not a clue, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

  “Close to twenty million people. And most of them are under the age of eighteen. Those kids are growing up loving the game, and I’ll wager they’ll be buying tickets to ASL matches for decades to come. Soccer’s already the fourth most-watched sport in America. Sure, a few ASL teams have poor attendance records, and some in the other league do, too. And, yes, Jacksonville is by far the worst at this point. But the best franchises are doing very nicely, and it’s only going to get better.”

  “Maybe, but if you do get the Jacksonville outfit, isn’t that likely to spread you a little thin?” Barton said skeptically. “You’re a hands-on bloke, so won’t you be spending a lot of time over there, to the detriment of the Lions and your other sides?”

  That was true enough, although he didn’t say those words out loud. It was a problem he worried about, and it made it all the more imperative that he find the right general manager and field manager for the Thunder.

  But Andy Barton had one thing dead right. If Tony got the team, he did plan on spending a good deal of time in America.

  Especially if he had his way when it came to Martha Winston.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  By scurrying out of the parking garage before the media invaded the building, Martha had easily made it across the river to her home before any press scribes or satellite trucks showed up. But she had little doubt they’d be out in force soon enough. The Thunder played only third string at best when it came to sports coverage in the city, but any news involving the possible sale of a pro franchise was big news everywhere. Hell, she figured it would be all over SportsNet by now, and ESPN wouldn’t be long picking it up if they hadn’t already.

  She hurried into the house, tossing her purse on the kitchen counter as she hustled to put on a pot of coffee. Her head was pounding with a crappy headache and she desperately needed a clear head to pull together a coherent press release. She was going to have to choose her words with special care, knowing they’d be repeated endlessly during at least a twenty-four hour news cycle.

  The damn release had to do a lot of things, including making a statement about Steam Train and the possibility of Tony making a bid. And she finally had to admit that she was going to listen to any and all offers for the Thunder. Though her stomach soured at the thought, remorseless logic told her that she was out of options and out of time.

  The bitter, ugly end game had begun.

  Martha grabbed a notepad and a pencil from the counter and sat down at her tiny kitchen table with a cup of steaming coffee, a dark roast that she prayed would give her a jolt of energy. She could go to her home office, but she wasn’t quite ready to traverse the living room—not unless she put a bag over her head and groped her way through. Facing her father’s portrait was not going to happen right now. Looking up at his face, frozen in time, would probably reduce her to a bawling, boneless sack of self-recrimination. The man had entrusted his team to her, just as he’d tried to entrust his company. And she’d failed him on both accounts. It didn’t matter one bit that the Thunder had already sunk into a debilitated state by the time of his death. It had been her mission, however unwillingly accepted, to stabilize the team and turn it around.

  Instead, she’d obviously driven the final nails into its coffin.

  If selling was all there was left, who would her father want her to choose? The brewery or Tony Branch? No contest there at all—of course he would have chosen Tony. Not just because Tony was a Brit, like Daddy, but because the man had lived, sweated and bled for soccer since he was knee high to a fire hydrant. For Steam Train, owning the Thunder was simply a marketing tool—just another way to sell beer. But for Tony Branch, it was a logical extension of his life’s work and his driving ambition to succeed.

  But Martha’s rat bastard of an uncle remained a huge wild card. If Steam Train decided to outbid Tony and yet she sold the team to him anyway, Geoffrey would raise holy hell. And not just with her but with the fans and everyone else in Jacksonville and beyond. While the decision ultimately rested with her as majority owner, accepting a lower bid from Tony would raise all kinds of suspicions.

  Especially about their relationship. If her sex-filled weekend with him in London somehow wormed its way into the local press, then any vestige of credibility she had would be shot. And the chances of that happening were more than good, thanks to the muckraking British tabloids.

  And then there was Tony himself, and how he would react to the news about Steam Train. Would he think she’d been withholding that news from him? She was desperate to call him, both to seek emotional comfort and to discuss the situation with him. But she held back, afraid he’d think she might be pushing him into a bidding war with Steam Train.

  What a Jesus awful mess you’ve made of everything, Martha girl.

  Sighing, she crossed her arms on the kitchen table and rested her throbbing head on her hands. More than anything, she wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and stay there for days. She hadn’t felt this dejected since the weeks that followed her father’s terminal cancer diagnosis.

  She was well on her way to an epic pity party when her cell phone buzzed against the hard glass surface of the table. Jerking upright she grabbed for it, hoping it was Tony.

  No, Nate.

  Nate Carter, former boyfriend, star pitcher for the Philadelphia Patriots, and Martha’s best friend in the whole, wide world.

  She picked up right away.

  “How’s lunch tomorrow?” her pal said without any greeting. “I’ll fly down first thing in the morning and be there by noon at the latest.”

  His words weren’t a total surprise, since he’d emailed her last week that he was planning to pop down to Florida soon for a visit. After she got the email, she’d been really looking forward to it, and the fact that she’d forgotten Nate’s visit until now was indicative of her badly messed up state of mind.

  Martha took a deep breath, sucking some air into her tight chest. The prospect of being able to lean on her best friend felt a little like getting a stay of execution as she marched toward the guillotine. In fact, she wished Nate could fold his big, lanky self into his pint-sized airplane and take off south right this minute.

  “Hon, I am at this very moment cancelling every single thing in my schedule,” she fibbed in as perky a voice as she could manage, which really wasn’t very perky at all. Actually, her schedule was virtually empty, though she might have filled in most of tomorrow’s blank agenda spaces with “trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.”

  “Great. I’ll have a car waiting for me at Craig Airport,” Nate said. “I’ll pick you up at your office and take you to that Italian place in Avondale you and Holly are always raving about. Sound good?” Nate’s fiancée grew up in Jacksonville, and both she and Nate spent a fair bit of time in the area.

  Martha’s stomach turned in on itself at the idea of going out in a public. Coward s
he might be, but she’d wasn’t yet ready to face the kind of attention she might attract, especially with Nate as her lunch partner.

  “Hey, you know what? How about I make you lunch at my place? Or we can order something in. I may be working out of home for a little while.”

  When Nate didn’t answer immediately, Martha knew he’d heard something in her voice. Hardass baseball player he might be, but the man had an uncannily sensitive radar when it came to the people he loved.

  Finally, he said, “Babe, whenever you have that tone in your voice I know something’s not right. So, you might as well just spit it out now and save me dragging it out of you tomorrow.”

  She was so tired of having to think about the whole mess with the team, but she couldn’t bring herself to clam up on her best friend. Not that he’d actually let her, anyway.

  “Yeah, it’s been a pretty rough day, my friend. The frigging bank finally pulled the plug this morning. No more credit. Zero. Zip. Nada.” Martha heaved a tired sigh. “Even worse, they gave me all of thirty days to pay off the whole damn loan. Can you believe that?” At that last bit, her voice wavered.

  “No way!” Nate exploded. “Can they really get away with that? What the hell kind of loan have you got there, anyway?”

  She nodded grimly, even though he couldn’t see her. “They can, and they will. Daddy had to agree to those conditions last year because the value of the team had fallen so much. But I’m sure he never expected the loan to be called on thirty days’ notice. Who would?”

  Martha decided not to tell him just yet about the likely collusion between Steam Train and the bank. She would happily sue the bank for conspiracy if she had even a shred of proof to back up her suspicion that they’d connived with Steam Train, but getting such proof would be a total long shot. And who knew if what they had done was even illegal?