Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  But would it have made any difference if he’d known about Martha’s promise to her father? Would he have acted differently? Maybe. But all he could do now was deal with the situation as it stood. “My heart goes out to her, Nate. Honest to God, it does. But nothing you’ve said changes the fact that she’s up against the wall with Steam Train.”

  “No, but that’s where my idea comes in. I thought you needed to know all the facts first.”

  “Got it,” Tony said with a grim smile. He had no idea what was coming next, but he hoped like hell Nate had some kind of miracle stuffed in the pocket of his sodding Armani sports coat.

  “The way I see it,” Nate said, “the only way you and Martha can get yourselves out of this friggin’ mess with some kind of win-win is to work together. Join forces, instead of fighting while Steam Train walks off with the team. Sure, Martha wants to keep control in her family, like she promised. But she also knows that idea’s history now because she’s out of money and out of time. As for you, you’ve insisted all along that nothing short of full control of the team is acceptable, even if it’s that proposal you made her in London.”

  Tony frowned at his surprising mention of that idea, but said nothing.

  Nate ploughed ahead. “Tony, I know you’re not interested in becoming a minority owner, and I can’t blame you for that. But what about an equal partnership? Why not buy out Geoffrey, and then you and Martha run the team on a fifty-fifty basis? That way, neither of you would have full control, but in a real sense you both would. She couldn’t do anything without your agreement, and vice-versa.”

  Nate leaned forward, as obviously earnest and sincere as Tony had ever seen him. Martha clearly had a way of building a profound loyalty in the people who cared about her. He got that feeling in spades.

  “The way I see it, all the new cash coming in from your investment would keep the team afloat for the foreseeable future,” Nate continued, “and give you guys breathing room to rebuild.”

  Tony’s instinct was to give a disbelieving laugh. How could business ever get done with two equal partners? Especially partners with no history of working together, and such divergent backgrounds. How would a dispute between the two be settled—by a bloody coin toss? If the partners always had to agree before anything could happen, that sounded like a surefire recipe for stagnation and disaster.

  Ten minutes ago he probably would have thanked Nate for his surprise visit and told him to shove off so he could call Martha with his last-ditch, no doubt doomed-to-fail proposal. But, beyond all reckoning, Nate’s wild idea started to resonate in his gut, if not quite in his brain. After all, Martha didn’t want the sale money for herself. She’d no doubt be happy to keep most of her share invested in the team. So, to buy an equal share of the Thunder, he would have to put up only half the 13.5 million dollars that Steam Train had offered. Tony was sure Geoffrey Winston would just as soon sell his twenty percent to him if he matched Steam Train’s price, and Martha could sell him thirty percent from her share. Everyone would be happy except the bastards at Steam Train. And sod them.

  Then, of course, there was Rex. Rex would not be happy. In fact, he would think Tony had completely lost his mind to have spent almost seven million dollars and still not own or even fully control the team. Well, maybe he had lost his mind, because he was furiously thinking through Nate’s staggering idea.

  Tony simply could not stomach the idea of losing, especially to a corporation like Steam Train that didn’t give a sweet damn about his beloved game of football. Even worse, he hated the idea of letting Martha down. Allowing the team to go to Rance Malone and his band of beer-making assholes would constitute a terrible failure, both on his part and on Martha’s.

  “Jesus, I’m trying to get my head around it, Nate,” he finally said. “Think of the practicalities for a minute. In the end, someone’s got to be in charge, or otherwise nothing will get done. I couldn’t be having a debate with Martha every time a move needed to be made, could I? How the hell would that ever work?”

  Nate shot him a sly grin as he unfolded his rangy body from the couch. “I’d say that depends on where exactly you two might have the debate, if you catch my drift. Maybe you’ll end up wanting to share a whole lot of things, Tony. If you don’t let this stupid mess you’re in now fuck everything up. Everything that really counts, that is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Once Nate dropped her off at home, Martha descended deeper into the blue funk that had enveloped her since Rance Malone delivered his bitter news. Wearily, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, all too aware of the lonely silence in the rambling house. Shucking off her suit, pantyhose and jewelry, she pulled on jeans and a yellow cotton tank top, desperate to defeat the tension that knotted her insides into a wretched mess. If she could take a picture of her gut, it would probably resemble the ridiculous tangle of cords and wires under her computer desk.

  Impatient and out of sorts, it took all her will power not to pick up the phone and dial Tony’s number. What had he needed more time for, anyway? He’d made it spectacularly clear that he wasn’t going to be able to match Steam Train’s offer. Not even close. How long was she supposed to hang on while he racked his brain for an answer that would probably never come? Though she dreaded the ultimate outcome, the waiting was driving her mad. Plus, she expected either her uncle or Steam Train or maybe both to keep leaking information or misinformation about the negotiations. By tomorrow morning the media would be banging down her door again, demanding answers in the pushy fashion she scathingly associated with the broadcast media.

  The more she thought about it the more she realized how much she longed to get the deal over with tonight. Why prolong the agony? She’d failed in her promise to her father. She’d even failed in her attempt to protect her staff. But she damn well wasn’t going to wallow in a borderless slough of self-pity and regret. Yes, she’d made a hash of things, but she took comfort in the fact that at least her mistakes hadn’t stemmed from a failure of will or a lack of courage. She’d absorb the hurt and humiliation, then head back to Philadelphia and the career she loved. In truth, she had more blessings in her life than any one woman had a right to, and it would be immoral and downright stupid not to be grateful for everything she had.

  And although the past weeks had been torturous, she had to acknowledge that those days had brought her both pleasure and opportunity, too. Her particular silver lining had ironically come in the form of Tony Branch. Too many times she’d treated him with suspicion and outright hostility, little of which he’d deserved. Yes, he’d been steadfast—dogged—in his campaign to get her team, but how could she blame him for that? Tony knew what he wanted and he went after it with everything he had. Even now, at the very last minute, he was still trying to come up with something that would make a deal more palatable to her. He’d fail, of course, but the important point was that he tried. She sensed that now, at least, Tony was trying for her sake as much as his own.

  And, of course, he’d brought her Ginny Cross, risking their longstanding friendship. Sometimes Tony had merited Martha’s ire and sharp tongue, but the man was solid and decent to the very core of his being. What had started out so badly between them had turned into a blessing. With a little luck—and surely she deserved some right about now—she and Tony could forge a new and very different relationship once they got this dreary mess behind them.

  At least she prayed to God they could. She had to believe she meant more to him than just a pathway to further his business ambitions in America.

  Her home phone rang as she was rattling around the kitchen, filling a carafe to get a pot of decaf going. The sudden jarring noise made her hand jerk backward hard enough to splash water all over the counter. Putting down the carafe, she snatched the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

  “Hello, darling.” Geoffrey’s unctuous tone slid over her like thick motor oil long past its change date.

  “Ah…are you feeling better, Uncle?” She’d desperately hoped
it would be Tony, and now she had to try to hide the disappointment that no doubt came through in her tone.

  “A little, yes, thank you. These damnable viruses can knock the stuffing out of someone my age, you know. But, in any case, I’m anxious to hear the latest news. Where do things stand with Steam Train and Tony Branch, dear?”

  Martha stifled an instinctive snort, unable to believe he wasn’t talking to at least one of them, if not both. Then it suddenly struck her that tonight would mark the beginning of the end of her relationship with her uncle, at least as business partners and probably more. Part of her knew she’d welcome that eventuality. Still, it nevertheless marked a milestone and she had to wonder if any relationship between them would survive the family’s loss of the team. It added to her sense of melancholy, knowing her father would have hated the prospect of a complete estrangement.

  Geoffrey huffed heavily a few times but didn’t say a word as Martha briefly explained where things stood.

  “Interesting. Very interesting. Steam Train’s offer is really rather exciting, isn’t it?” Geoffrey said after she finished the quick recap. “Of course, Branch would have been a marvelous owner from a soccer point of view, but we can’t have everything, can we?”

  Martha suspected her uncle was positively salivating at the thought of a couple of million dollars soon arrowing into his rapidly depleting bank account, even though a goodly chunk of that would have to go straight to covering his burgeoning debts. “Let’s see what Branch comes back with, shall we?” she said. “After all, the opera’s not over until the chubby woman sings, is it?”

  She had no intention of discussing the matter of job security for her staff with Geoffrey, especially since it wasn’t going to happen.

  “Yes, of course. But I’d appreciate a call as soon as you hear back from him, Martha,” he said a bit sternly.

  “Absolutely, Uncle. So long for now, and make sure you keep taking care of that nasty ol’ virus,” she said.

  Sighing, she hung up. At least one family member would be happy.

  Ten minutes later, while she was surfing the internet for leaked details on the impending sale, the phone rang again. The call display showed the Hyatt Regency’s number.

  Martha snatched it up. “Tony?”

  “Yes, Martha. I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

  Despite how difficult this conversation would surely turn out to be, his deep rumble seemed to soothe her skittish nerves.

  “It’s fine,” she said, working to keep a betraying quaver out of her voice. God, more than anything she wanted Tony with her. Holding and comforting her in his powerful embrace.

  “I need to see you, Martha. And right now. So, I’ll jump into a cab and come straight to your place.” He paused for a moment, but finally spoke into the awkward silence. “Did you hear back from Steam Train? I’m not too late, am I?”

  She frowned, her excitement dialing back a few notches. Did he really think she would break her word and agree to the brewery’s offer without speaking to him first?

  “Yes, I heard from Malone,” she said coolly, “and no, I haven’t signed anything yet. Have you forgotten that you asked me not to?”

  “No. God, no,” he said quickly. “I guess I was fishing for whether Steam Train had said yes to your bottom line.”

  She supposed he had reason to worry, since if Malone had said the right words the deal would have indeed been as good as done. “They didn’t, but I expect you had a good idea that was going to be the case. Nobody in the so-called business world seems to share my naiveté on that score, do they?” Bitterness had seeped into her voice, so she clamped her lips shut, hating that she might sound like an old crone.

  “Martha, love, we need to talk face-to-face. Please.”

  Tony had obviously picked up on her depressed state of mind, and he was right that a phone call was probably going to get them nowhere. “Fine, then,” she said.

  “See you in ten.”

  Martha put the phone down, ashamed that she’d let her misery loose on poor Tony. She had to wonder how long the guilt over failing her father twice would continue to dog her. Only her promise to take over his team had finally healed the awful breach between them, but at least that decision had given them both a measure of peace during the last wrenching months of his life.

  For that she would always be grateful.

  Nate, of course, was right about her father’s misguided expectations. She knew that now. But how could she sit in cold judgment of the man who had done everything for her sake and had loved her as much as any father could love a child? Together, the two of them had somehow fought their way through the wasteland that followed of her mother’s sudden death, and had taken care of each other with a loving dedication forged by sudden, unthinkable tragedy. So what if his expectations might have been beyond what a father, in some dispassionate theory, should ask of his daughter? Will Winston had earned the right, hadn’t he?

  Damn right he had.

  Wiping away a few unwelcome tears, Martha headed into the living room to straighten up before Tony’s arrival. Why she cared at this point whether the throw cushions on the sofa were in their proper places or the magazines on the coffee table were neatly squared was a mystery, but she took a few moments to try to make the room look close to perfect, anyway.

  But then she made the mistake of glancing at her father’s portrait and her tears started to flow in earnest. Abandoning any more tidying, she hurried past the painting and up to her bathroom. There, she scrubbed off her ruined makeup and willed herself to get the hell off the emotional rollercoaster before Tony showed up at her door. She glared at herself in the mirror and delivered a silent lecture, ignoring the fact that she looked like a demented, bleary-eyed fool.

  Cab lights shone into her front window about ten minutes after Tony called. Martha didn’t wait for him to ring the bell. Instead, she threw open the door as he paid the driver. A moment later, he enveloped her in a fiercely warm embrace and she clung for a few moments, taking refuge in his strength. Neither of them tried to prolong the clinch, though. She chalked it up to them both being too battered by nerves to contemplate even a chaste kiss.

  “Did you leave Ginny to her own devices for the evening?” Martha led him into the living room. “Or is Rex taking care of her?” She waved him into one of the wingback chairs.

  “She sacked out early. Jet lagged, apparently. She’s not used to that kind of travel.”

  “Not like you, anyway, hot shot jet-setter that you are,” she quipped, trying to ease the tension. “Lord, you look as fresh as new powder in the Rocky Mountains.”

  In truth, Tony looked about as ragged as she felt. His blue, open-necked shirt and black slacks might have been slept in, his dark hair was mussed, and the dark, heavy stubble on his chin could have served as a perfect surface to strike a match. Only his eyes looked near normal, retaining their hawkish gleam.

  And those eyes were trained on her with familiar but still startling intensity.

  “And you look hot enough for me to want to peel off those skintight jeans and rediscover what I’ve been missing so bloody much,” he said in a sexy, gravelly voice that threatened to melt her from the inside out.

  “Um, that’s nice. Coffee or bourbon?” she blurted nervously. God, she sounded like a moron, but the squadron of butterflies flapping around in her stomach made it hard to think coherently, much less form elegant sentences.

  “Neither, thanks. Just sit, Martha, please. Maybe we’ll have a drink later. I hope so, anyway.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

  God, I hope so, too. Martha perched warily on the edge of the sofa, near him but not too near. “It’s your move, Tony,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap.

  She meant that in every possible sense.

  He leaned toward her, resting his heavily-muscled arms on his thighs. He’d rolled his shirt up to his elbows, and the top two buttons at the collar were undone, revealing a glimpse of dark chest hair. Against
all reason, Martha’s mind was immediately flooded with memories of how her cheek had felt resting on his warm chest, rising and falling in a gentle rhythm as Tony, exhausted from their lovemaking, slept peacefully beneath her. In those moments, she’d felt utterly safe and serene.

  After a deep breath, he launched into it. “Martha, until an hour ago, I was all set to come here and take one last, desperate shot at buying the Thunder. It was going to be the best offer I could give, but unfortunately it was also going to be one you’d probably have to reject.” He paused a moment. “I say that even though it would have met your demand to keep your staff in their jobs. Believe me, deciding to give in on that aspect was just about the hardest business decision I’ve ever had to make.”

  Almost involuntarily, Martha clapped a hand across her mouth, stunned by his words. She immediately realized that such an offer would have put her in an excruciating situation, knowing she could have protected her staff by selling to him but at the same time clearly unable to turn down Steam Train’s vastly better monetary offer. But now he seemed to be saying he was going to spare her that heartbreak.

  “Go on,” she was finally able to get out through her tight throat.

  “Then I started thinking outside the box,” he said with a crooked grin. “Something that I try to resist, at least when it comes to spending money.”

  Martha’s tired brain tried and failed to grapple with his enigmatic statement, so she simply nodded her encouragement.

  “I suppose it comes from the fact that I started playing competitive football at an age when I barely knew my alphabet,” Tony said. “All I’ve ever wanted to do was play football and win. To just beat the other guys’ arses into the ground every single time. And when I quit playing and started to buy and run my own teams, winning was still all that mattered. Winning on the field. Winning by taking over failing teams and turning them around. I didn’t even much care about making money—not as long as my guys were at or near the top of the standings and I was building up my little football empire.”