Bigger Than Beckham (33 page)

Rex sauntered into Tony’s stadium office
carrying a mug of the high-test office coffee he insisted on. He
took one look at Tony and stopped dead, his eyes narrowing with
concern. “Good God, man. You look like you’ve been mugged.”

Tony shook his head, but with care. He
figured any sudden movement could bring the massive headache
pounding back for yet another round. “Bloody right, mugged by a
bottle of Scotch. It was touch and go, but I just might live.”

He relaxed into the comfy leather sofa, his
sock feet splayed across the low coffee table. In contrast to Rex’s
natty blazer and pressed slacks, Tony had settled for his usual
weekend attire of Lions jersey and faded jeans.

His friend plunked himself down in the
armchair opposite the couch. “With a hangover like that you really
shouldn’t be working today. Go back to bed. Or for a run,
perhaps.”

“I’ll run later.” Tony thought he might
actually feel up to that soon, able to pound out a few miles
without puking all over his Nikes.

What felt like an Inquisition-like iron band
circling his head had responded at last to the painkillers the team
doctor had prescribed for his periodic bouts of knee joint agony.
But this particular torture had resulted from his sheer stupidity.
He’d cursed himself all morning for his lack of discipline as his
head throbbed and his gut churned. Now, his stomach finally more or
less settled, Tony sipped strong coffee from his Lions mug and
tried to clear the remnants of painful fuzz from his brain. “Just
because I got drunk doesn’t mean today should be any different than
any other Sunday.”

Without fail during the Premier League
season, which lasted most of the year, he reviewed the video of the
Lions’ Saturday match and made extensive notes. Then on Monday
morning, he met with the team’s manager, one on one, to discuss the
results in depth and give his perspective.

Rex rolled his eyes. “You work too bloody
hard, mate.”

“And so do you—which is exactly why we kick
ass. Hell, we can rest when we’re eighty, Rex. Or when we’re dead,”
he said with a chuckle. Tony figured Rex wouldn’t argue since he
had the same work ethic when it came to the team as he did.

“So, I presume Martha must still be in high
dudgeon if you were that overzealous in your spirits consumption
last night,” Rex said.

“I guess. She’s still not returning my calls.
For all I know, she might already be on a plane to Florida.”

He’d tried to coax a sweet-voiced front desk
clerk at the Bell Tower Hotel into telling him whether or not
Martha had checked out, but all he got for his efforts was the
expected polite but firm rebuff. Staff at posh hotels protected
their guests’ privacy like the crown jewels.

Rex snorted. “The lady does have a rather
forceful personality, doesn’t she?”

“Hell, yeah. I can’t figure her out,” Tony
said in a gloomy voice, still trying and failing to fully
understand Martha’s explosive reaction to his proposal. “It was a
good offer. Why the hell would she fly off the handle like
that?”

“She was obviously surprised, Tony. I can’t
blame her, since I was, too. Not at what you said, but when and how
you said it.”

Tony blew out a sigh, feeling on a lot
shakier ground than he was used to. “Okay, but when was I supposed
to lay something like that on her? Over a candlelight dinner? Or
maybe in the sack?’ He shook his head. “She’d have gone completely
off the rails if I’d tried something that stupid. Even though we’d
agreed not to talk about the Thunder, I’d always planned to make
the offer before she went home.”

Rex gave him an understanding nod. “I doubt
there was any good time for it. Martha obviously continues to live
in some kind of fantasy world where she can hold onto the team and
maintain full control, too. But little does she know she’s about to
be run over by a train. A steam train.” Rex chuckled at his lame
joke. “But of course you couldn’t say a word about that.”

Part of Tony had badly wanted to let Martha
in on the apparent conspiracy that had been hatched by the bank,
the brewery and the cable company. He didn’t because he knew she’d
have been both hurt that he hadn’t told her right away and furious
that Cole Tate had been able to ferret out that information while
she remained in the dark. Besides, as much as he wanted her to
know, he figured it wasn’t his place to tell her.

“No, she needs to find that out on her own,
not from me. Since she’ll be meeting with those guys on Tuesday, I
expect they’ll put the hammer down then. She’s pretty sure she
can’t cut expenses anywhere close to the level they’re
demanding.”

“The rub is that the more she knows, the more
likely she is to play Steam Train and us against each other,” Rex
said. “So then we have no choice but to bid up the price as high as
we can go.”

“The whole thing is completely fucked up.”
Tony rubbed his gritty eyes as disappointment washed over him
again—both at Martha’s rejection of his partnership offer, and even
more at the kick in the teeth she’d given him personally. Grinding
away at it all night had made him realize just how deeply he must
have wounded her, however unintentional it had been. “I never
thought I’d make an offer like that as long as I lived, and I
really thought she might go for it. I still don’t have a clue what
her end-game strategy is, Rex. She can’t be naive enough to think
she can survive this crisis without either bankruptcy or a sale,
can she?”

Rex shook his head. “No, I’m sure she isn’t.
For Martha, it has to be about maintaining control of the team. Has
to be—because, hell, you offered her absolutely everything else,
including paying more than the team’s worth these days.”

Tony gave a reluctant nod. “And that leaves
us knee deep in shit, mate, because control is my bottom line, too.
I told her I’m not an investor when it comes to football. I’m an
owner, and that’s the end of it.”

“Of course, but she clearly feels the same
way,” Rex argued. “God only knows why, though. She didn’t have a
bloody thing to do with football until a few months ago, and yet
now she acts like she’s determined to go down with the ship if
necessary.”

Tony was equally in the dark. “She even
admitted to me that her writing career was still her priority in
life.”

“There’s a chance it could be simple pride, I
suppose,” Rex ventured.

Tony didn’t buy it. Not anymore. “Obviously,
she can’t stand failure, but my gut says no. I’d bet the Lions that
it’s not about money for her, either. She’s never spoken a word
about numbers. Not once.”

Rex clapped his hands down on the arms of his
chair, as if there was nothing more to be said. “Well, you gave her
your best offer, including taking care of her people. So, whatever
happens now is on her, Tony. We’re going to have to go head-to-head
with Steam Train if you still want the Thunder as badly as
before.”

How much
did
he want the Jacksonville
Thunder? Tony had been asking himself that question a lot. Maybe
Rex was right after all. Maybe his determination to own an American
team deserved to be called quixotic. He’d hoped he could work out a
mutually beneficial arrangement with Martha, but now it looked more
and more likely that he’d have to get into a bidding war if he
wanted to secure the team. Still, none of that had yet succeeded in
destroying his resolve to make the breakthrough in America he
longed to achieve. “Bloody right I still want it, especially since
there aren’t likely to be any other viable options in the ASL for a
good long while.”

He was positive that he and Rex could turn
the pathetic Thunder team around even before the end of the current
season. Derek Kavanagh had given his solemn word that he would
finally play as if he meant it. And he’d assured him that the rest
of the players would rally round their new owner—a man who
understood them, thought like them. The day he took over, Tony
would replace Sam Brockton with the manager of his League One side,
Owen Clark, a loyal friend who had already agreed to take on the
challenge in exchange for a generous salary bump. Tony himself
would fill in temporarily as general manager for a short time until
he secured the right replacement for Kieran McLeod, while Rex would
handle the business side of the operation. After last week’s visit
to Jacksonville, he had little doubt the fans and the media would
flock to him as the team improved on the field and he made good on
his promise to plug the remaining gaps in the lineup.

From every way he looked at it, he knew he
could take the team—and himself—to the next level. His vision of
making it big in America still beckoned with an irresistible siren
song. Although he’d rather do it with Martha’s willing
participation, if he had to go around her to get what he wanted
then that’s exactly what he’d do. He’d given her a golden
opportunity for a win-win outcome, so if the worst happened she had
no one to blame but herself.

Rex grunted his agreement. “Then we have to
sit back for a few days and see how it plays out in
Jacksonville.”

Tony leaned forward as he shook his head.
“No, mate, we keep pushing ahead with the plan. It’s all going to
happen next week, and I want to hit the ground running flat out
when we win. And we
are
going to win.” He knew dwelling on
the negatives would only make it more difficult to succeed.

Rex studied him through narrowed eyes. “But
at what cost, Tony? Are you prepared for what this might do to
Martha? Not to mention to our bottom line.”

“We’ll see next week, won’t we?”

With a resigned nod, Rex grabbed his coffee
and headed down the hall to his office.

Finding a decent measure of renewed energy,
Tony shifted to his desk and brought up the video of yesterday’s
match on his computer screen. Since the Lions had eked out a 2-1
win against a tough side, he figured his review would be mostly
pleasurable. Still, he’d missed a hefty chunk of the action due to
his blow-up with Martha. And even before that debacle, his thoughts
had been so preoccupied with her that he’d paid scant attention to
the intricacies of the play on the field.

Only two minutes into the video his mobile
rang. Irritated at the interruption, he let it ring three more
times before finally picking it up. “Tony Branch here,” he
snapped.

“Well, good morning to grumpy ol’ you, Mr.
B.” Martha’s honeyed voice slid over him with gentle warmth,
jerking his body and brain to full alert. “Miss me yet?”

Jesus, yeah. Do I ever.
“Let me think
about it,” he said, letting the smile on his face carry over into
his voice. Despite his frustration with her behavior yesterday, he
missed Martha more than he’d believed possible.

“Oh, sure, but I can tell you do, hon. You
just can’t fool a southern girl on that kind of stuff.”

Tony had little doubt that almost nothing got
by Martha Winston. “Well, then, of course I miss you, you daft
woman. Are you still in London, or have you fled home? Tell me it’s
the former.”

“Actually, right now I’m on top of a
double-decker tour bus, waving at Her Majesty as we trundle by
Buckingham Palace. Oh, I forgot, though. The Queen spends weekends
at Windsor Castle, doesn’t she?” Her bantering tone made it crystal
clear she was having him on.

“Give her a wave for me,” he said, playing
along. “Seriously, though, Martha, I’m afraid we screwed things up
royally yesterday, didn’t we?”

“Ha! Royally. I call that a nice segue,
darlin’.”

Tony groaned, though it thrilled him that she
seemed to be in such a playful mood. “Can we get together once your
alleged bus tour is over?”

“That happens to be exactly what I was
thinking,” Martha said. “In fact, let’s make it right now. If
you’re free, that is. I know a workaholic like you probably doesn’t
even take Sundays off. I bet you’re in your office right now,
aren’t you, plotting your next nefarious moves with Rex
Daltry?”

Good guess, babe.
“Maybe. But I can
sure be free for you.” His libido was already anticipating getting
her back into bed, with the predictable results. “I can pick you up
right away. We’ll go back to my place and—”

“I think not, Tony my lad. Let’s go for a
walk, instead. I’d rather enjoy the beautiful day out there.”

Bollocks.
He repressed a groan.
“Whatever you say, Martha.”

“Good. Why don’t we meet in Green Park in,
say, an hour? I’ll mosey on over and meet you at the Canada
Memorial.”

Tourist-packed Green Park was
definitely
not what Tony had in mind for a tryst with the
sexiest woman in London, but she sounded firm and he wasn’t about
to argue with her about details. But what was she up to now?
“You’re on, love. See you in an hour.”

He hung up, more mystified by Martha Winston
than ever.

* * *

Martha strolled through sedate Mayfair,
crossing Piccadilly to enter Green Park at Queen’s Walk. Despite it
being early autumn, the plane and lime trees remained in full
canopy, giving the smallest of the three royal parks a lush feel.
She always enjoyed the tranquility which St. James’s, Green and
Hyde Parks managed to maintain despite their location in the heart
of one of the world’s busiest tourist cities. Sometimes she enjoyed
imaging how picturesque the vista must have been a couple of
centuries ago when the opulent carriages of London’s
beau
monde
trundled down the gravel paths as the aristocrats and
gentry took in the morning air on the outskirts of Westminster.

She made her way along the quarter-mile path
to the south end of the park at a leisurely pace, stopping at the
magnificent Canada Gate that faced the marble and bronze Queen
Victoria Memorial and, in behind, glorious Buckingham Palace. An
unrepentant devotee of the royal family, Martha always felt as if
she’d stepped into a fairy tale world when she gazed upon the
famous part-time home of the British royals.