Bigger Than Beckham (5 page)

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her chair and began to pace—at least until the cord on the outdated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 would 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.”

“It’s the product of a decent public school
education, my crude friend. And a precursor to polite discourse,
which has always been something of an alien concept to you.”

Tony laughed. “Mutts like me don’t much worry
about such niceties.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Rex said
sarcastically.

“Well, I called Martha Winston just now.”

“And?” Rex’s voice displayed no
enthusiasm.

“And nothing. The woman basically told me to
sod off. She not interested in selling.”

“Interesting. In that case, I have to say
she’s got her head stuck firmly in the sand. But you’re not taking
it personally, are you?”

This was far from the first time he and Rex
had faced a setback together. Tony hated rejection, and hated it
ten times over if he sensed the person was being dismissive of him.
Whenever that happened, he simply redoubled his determination.
“Hell, I even offered to fly over there to meet her, but she didn’t
show a whit of interest. She even had the gall to tell me she’ll
keep my number on file.”

Rex gave an amused snort. “She might want to
program it into her phone, since she’s going to need it. And sooner
rather than later, I should think.”

Or not. Rex hadn’t heard the depth of resolve
in Martha Winston’s voice. Tony thought he’d caught a tiny bit of a
waver early in the conversation, but by the end she’d pulled it
firmly together. She’d meant what she said.

“You’re going to tell me we should just sit
back and let it fall apart around her,” Tony said. “But what if
somebody else jumps in? I don’t want to take that chance, Rex. This
looks like the best opportunity we’ve got to break into America. We
can’t sit on our arses let it slip away.”

“Understood. Look, Tony, don’t fret too much
about it. I’ll keep on top of the situation. Our man on the ground
there is really very good. If anything breaks, we’ll know right
away.”

Tony slammed on his brakes as a furniture
delivery van jerked to a sudden stop in front of him. He barely
missed plowing into the van’s high fender. “Wanker!” he shouted,
laying on the horn.

Rex chuckled. “That’s a fine way to talk to
your friend.”

“Not you, the idiot in front of me.” Tony
sucked in a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ve got to put the daft
woman out of my mind. For now.”

“That’s the ticket. Why don’t you take the
afternoon off. Go play a round of golf, or something. Enjoy
yourself, and don’t waste another thought on Martha Winston.”

“Easy for you to say,” Tony muttered before
he hung up.

Martha stared at her uncle across the
cluttered expanse of her mahogany desk. Before she’d even finished
telling Geoffrey about Branch’s phone call, he’d jumped up from his
chair and stomped to the window, fists clenched and chin jutted out
in almost comical fashion. For a moment, she thought he might even
punch the plate glass and get himself a broken hand. But then,
red-faced, he’d whipped back around as fast as his big bulk would
let him.