Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  “Jesus, I’d definitely pay to see that. You’d be quite a picture in shorts and knee socks. But, hey, I’ve got something for you that might take your mind off your troubles for a while.”

  Martha leaned casually against the doorframe even though her brain automatically kicked up to full alert. She knew that cagy tone of voice. Martin reserved it for times when he was about to hand over a ripe, juicy plum, and she found herself reacting like Pavlov’s dog.

  But then she remembered her responsibilities, and her excitement deflated. “Martin, you’ll understand that I’m a little busy down here, hon.”

  “I get that, but listen to this. The chief has just given me the go-ahead for a major feature on Colton Butler. Colton told me a couple of days ago that he’s ready to spill.” He paused, wheezing a little with excitement. “But only to you, Martha. Only to you.”

  “What?” Martha jerked upright, grabbing the doorframe with her other hand.

  “You heard me. Colton says he’ll give you the real story—the drugs, the women, the rehab, the road back. All of it. And it’ll be the truth, not the crap the tabloids make up. You’d have about a month, and whatever budget you need. Within reason, of course.” She could practically hear the grin in his voice. “We need you on this one, sunshine.”

  Martha’s knees were buckling, forcing her to stagger back to her bed and flop down. Colton Butler. Superstar golfer and world class dickwad.

  Would Butler really talk to her? The guy had obviously had a thing for her at one point, and had even casually propositioned her after the ESPY Awards awhile back. She’d had to clench her fists at her sides to stop from slapping the superficially charming but black-hearted golf star. Even after he got married to a lovely British girl, Butler still couldn’t keep it in his pants, and maintained his reputation as a hard-living stud. Twice since the ESPYs, he’d even drunk-dialed Martha in the middle of the night, offering to fly to Philadelphia instantly if only she’d see him. She’d told him she’d rather run a cheese grater over her face, but—given what Martin had just said—even that imagery hadn’t been a deterrent.

  She exhaled a tense breath. A feature where Butler would lay it all out? A piece like that would sell big around the world, and could be the kind of story that could drive her career a level higher than she’d even dreamed about. Maybe she could even talk Butler into letting her expand the article to book-length later.

  “Well?” James said when she didn’t respond. “You didn’t faint, did you? I didn’t hear a thump as you hit the floor.”

  Martha flopped back horizontal on the bed, with her feet still planted on the hardwood. The band of muscles circling her head had tightened in a sudden spasm. She grabbed at her forehead with her free hand, massaging it with stiff fingers. She so wanted to do this story. Every cell in her body screamed at her to say yes.

  “I didn’t faint, but I may be having a stroke. Martin, where on God’s green Earth did this wild idea come from?”

  He hacked his usual smoker’s cough, followed by a gulp of something Martha hoped was coffee and not the Scotch he kept in a flask in his desk drawer.

  “Sorry about that,” he managed. “Well, Butler says he’s had it with all the flak he’s taken since he left the tour. He’s coming back next month, starting with a tournament in Australia, and says he wants to set the record straight. One feature article, no holds barred. And, like I said, he wants you. Only you. He’s adamant about that.”

  She almost groaned. “Martin, that doesn’t make any sense. He and I have a bit of history. Not very good history.”

  “Hell, I didn’t interrogate the guy,” Martin rasped. “All I know is that he’s offered this paper the best sports feature we’ve had in probably a decade.”

  Martin wasn’t exaggerating. This was a huge, stinking deal.

  But how could she accept the insanely tempting assignment when her team was teetering toward bankruptcy? Even if she could manage some time away from her responsibilities, the optics would be a nightmare.

  Get thee behind me, Martin.

  “Hon, it’s a fabulous opportunity, and under normal circumstances I’d give at least one arm to be able to do it. But, damn, it just couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m trying to save my team here. How could I drop everything and run?”

  “Martha,” he said sternly. “Don’t even think about turning this one down. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re accomplishing down there with that gang of misfits and losers, but whatever it is it’s not worth missing out on this story.”

  Martha slowly pulled herself vertical. Her brain told her Martin had it right. In a month or two, the Jacksonville Thunder could very well be history, and she’d be back at her desk in Philadelphia, bawling into a Starbucks skinny latté that she’d passed on the biggest opportunity of her career.

  “How much time can you give me to think it over?” Her throat was so tight she could barely force out the words.

  Martin literally growled. An image of a fat brown bear rearing up in front of her jumped into her head. “About as long as it’ll take me to fly down there and shake some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

  She squeezed her throbbing forehead with her thumb and index finger. “Seriously, darlin’. This is hard for me.”

  She could sense him deflating. He gave a wheezing sigh, his signal of frustrated capitulation.

  “Oh, hell, I guess I can give you up to four days. But not a minute more. Butler’s comeback is late next month, so we’re facing a clear and tight deadline. And I don’t know what in God’s name I’m going to tell the guy now.”

  She exhaled a relieved sigh. “Tell him the truth. Say I’m interested, but explain the mess I’m in down here, and that I need a bit of time to sort some things out. He’ll understand that I’ve got commitments.”

  Like hell he will.

  “Maybe I should just give him your cell number,” Martin groused. “Then he can yell at you instead of me.”

  “Help me out here, Martin. Please.”

  He wheezed a sigh. “Anybody else but you, Martha Winston—”

  “And that’s one of the myriad of reasons why I love you, Papa Bear,” she interrupted. “Thanks so much. I’ll call you in four days.”

  She hung up, cutting off another growl.

  Four days. If the meeting with the bank and sponsors went completely south, she could still grab Martin’s offer. It would be a small, silvery lining inside a big, black cloud. A shiver of excitement skated across her skin.

  That excitement lasted maybe a minute before reality swamped her again. Researching and writing a feature like the Butler piece would take at least a couple of weeks of work. Knowing Colton Butler, he’d dole out information in microscopic chunks, playing her every step of the way. That was just the way he rolled. It might take half a dozen interviews before she’d have squeezed everything out of him—everything he was willing to give her.

  How could she be away from the team for that long? Especially now, at such a critical time.

  Four days to decide.

  She picked up her beer and headed back downstairs. Cutting through the cavernous living room, she slowed her pace as she passed the twin portraits of her mother and father. The artist had painted the forty-year-old version of Will Winston with a penetrating gaze and an endearing, if somewhat sly, half-smile. The expression had perfectly captured his essence of both kindness and dogged determination.

  And that gaze stopped her in her tracks.

  I brought you up better than that. Her father’s voice rang clear in her mind as his eyes stripped away her thoughts of running away. Daddy had never run away from anything, even in that horrible time after Mama’s death. Together, they had stood their ground and fought their way back to something resembling a normal life.

  Martha gave the portrait a grim nod. Daddy had loved his team, and she’d made him a solemn promise to do her best by it. And damn it all, she wasn’t about to let him down.

  CHAPTER SIX

>   Kieran McLeod lowered his eyes as Martha gave him a quick hug. The general manager had asked for an urgent meeting in her office, but he seemed nervous, almost embarrassed. The potential reasons for why he might be acting so oddly made prickles of anxiety dance across the back of her neck.

  She retreated behind her desk, trying for a light tone even though her heart felt as heavy as a cruise ship anchor. “What’s the matter, hon?”

  The general manager swallowed audibly as he pulled a chair closer to her desk and sat. “Martha, I got a call from Tom Flint in Los Angeles.”

  Martha opened her eyes wide. Had the L.A. Surf`s general manager called with an offer for one of her players? If so, it couldn`t have been much to write home about, judging from Kieran`s long face. “Your expression tells me he was bottom-feeding.”

  Kieran nodded. “At another time, I would have told him where to shove an offer like that, but—”

  “But in our dire circumstances, you felt compelled to bring it to me,” Martha said, finishing his sentence. “And you were right. So, let’s hear it. I’ve got my big girl panties on.”

  When McLeod didn’t smile, her gut clenched.

  “I suppose it’s not ridiculous when you look at it from their point of view, and from where things stand for us,” he said. “They’re offering to take Diego Flores off our hands, and they’ll give us one of their reserve midfielders, Jamie Crawford, in return.”

  “And?” Martha said. There had to be more than that, because Crawford wasn’t worth much more than a can of creamed corn.

  “And they’ll assume half of what’s left on Flores’s contract.”

  “Half,” Martha repeated. Half was actually more than she’d expected, but it would still leave the Thunder on the hook for about two million dollars over the remainder of the contract. And that was a very tough nut to swallow. She wanted to dump Flores, all right, but not be stuck paying him to play for somebody else. Still…

  “You’re right, Kieran. It’s not a bad offer to a team that’s in a desperate situation. And trading Flores would certainly get rid of a rotten influence.”

  “Indeed, but it would also rid us of our second most talented player,” Kieran said, clearly surprised by her response. “Even though he’s been under-producing, Diego is one of the few lads we’ve got who can score goals.”

  “Sure, but we’re not winning with him, are we? As far as I can see, we could hardly do worse without him,” Martha said acidly. “Maybe a trade would shake things up a little. Put some fire into the other guys. What do you think?”

  Kieran grimaced, rubbing his chin. “Perhaps. But more likely it would just depress and piss off the other players even more. Especially Kavanagh.”

  Martha absorbed his justified skepticism. “I hear you. But the salary impact for next year would help. We’d save close to a million, and the bankers might be impressed by that.”

  The general managed fixed her with a stony look. “It sounds to me like you’re working too hard to convince yourself, Martha.”

  Kieran was right, of course. The amount they’d save from dumping half of Flores’s salary wouldn’t be nearly enough to right their sinking ship. Especially when it was likely that the Thunder would be even worse on the field with the departure of the troublesome striker. “I suppose the fans would see a trade like that as a fire sale, wouldn’t they?” she asked gloomily.

  “Without a doubt. The message they’d read into it would be that we’re giving up, at least for the near future. In the meantime, our attendance would tank even more, as hard as that is to imagine.”

  “Is there any chance that the Surf would take on more than half?” Martha said, grasping at straws.

  “Nil, lass. Flint made it clear that he’d had to push hard to get his ownership to agree to offer that much. They’re not exactly rolling in cash these days, either.”

  “So, I guess we’re pretty much screwed any way you look at it, aren’t we?” Martha said, feeling grim.

  Kieran managed a wan smile. “I look at it this way—the patient’s sick, but at least he’s still drawing breath. But to go forward, we need two things to happen: the bank needs to keep the line of credit going, and we need to get the lads to dig down really deep for the rest of the season. The talent is there, if only they’d work hard enough. Somehow, we have to help them find the motivation.”

  In other words, we need a miracle, or actually two. Martha’s normal bravado was deserting her, but she forced a smile onto her lips. “Well, hon, I’m leaving the second part in your capable hands. As for the bankers, that might come down to our prayers, because we’re sure going to need the Lord’s help.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Her eyes aching from poring over dense columns of numbers and explanatory notes, Martha shoved aside the presentation her accountant and marketing manager had prepared for her final review. She’d have the dubious pleasure of trying to explain the projections to the bank tomorrow, and she’d pretty much already memorized her lines. It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand the broad strokes of the presentation perfectly; she might just be a sportswriter, but she wasn’t a complete financial illiterate. In fact, she grasped the numbers clearly enough to know that her speech was going to amount to trying to make the proverbial silk handbag out of the ear of a big, fat Georgia porker.

  The problem was that the bank and the sponsors would have no trouble figuring that out, too.

  The essence of the pitch was her conviction, flying in the face of the odds, that strengthening the team’s marketing efforts and signing a major free agent in the off-season would kindle excitement and confidence in the hearts of the long-suffering Thunder fans. Geoffrey thought the proposal amounted to throwing good money after bad, but her uncle had no alternative solutions to offer besides decimating management. In fact, Martha sometimes even wondered if he actually wanted the team to fail so she’d be forced to sell and he could cash out his twenty percent share. Though he knew very well that such an outcome would make Martha’s father do back flips in his grave, Geoffrey seemed to have not the slightest regard for fulfilling his brother’s wishes.

  She gently pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, longing for a Starbuck’s latté. Time for a break. She rummaged around in her purse for a fiver, ready to nip down to the street to grab a caffeine infusion when her assistant bashed the door open and practically stumbled into the room.

  “Holy crap, Martha,” Jane said in a breathless voice, “you’re not going to believe this. Tony Branch just waltzed into the office, and he insists on seeing you right now.”

  Martha’s jaw hit the deck. “What?” she asked stupidly.

  Jane nodded so vigorously that her high ponytail bounced on her shoulders. “It’s true. Branch is here. I told him to wait in the outer office because you were tied up at the moment.” She frowned. “I probably should have said you were out of town, shouldn’t I?”

  Incipient panic made it hard to breathe. What the hell was wrong with the man? She’d blown him off yesterday, and now he shows up unannounced at her office door?

  Martha sucked in a few huge breaths, ordering her racing heart to calm down. But what followed on the heels of her diminishing panic was an uptick in anger. What colossal nerve the man had! He must think his charm so irresistible that she’d fall into his arms in gratitude for his mere presence, if not for his money.

  Arrogant jerk.

  “No, you did right, hon. That man has so many spies he’d probably know you were lying.” She forced herself to relax her clenched fists. “I’ll see him all right, and he’s going to wish he hadn’t wasted all that jet fuel.”

  Jane was turning to leave when inspiration struck Martha. “Hold on a sec,” she said, raising a hand. “Let’s make Mr. Branch cool his heels for a while. Maybe that’ll ratchet down his arrogance a notch or two. Ply him with coffee, and even throw in some of that special bourbon you keep on hand for emergencies, if he’ll go for it. That should loosen him up a bit.”

  Jane shot her
a wry grin. “Well, take all the time you want, then, because I can’t say as I mind looking at the dude. He’s even sexier than his pictures. The Brit accent is to die for, too.”

  Martha narrowed her eyes at her friend’s uncharacteristic gushing. “You better make sure all you do is look, hon. That sucker is primetime dangerous.”

  Jane got a little tilt to her head, the one that signaled she was on to Martha. “Well, you’ve always liked them a little dangerous,” she said in knowing tone.

  Hell’s bells. Martha did not need that reminder.

  “Not when they’re trying to steal my damn team.” She worked her jaw, trying to ease the tension. If she had a stick in her mouth, it would snap in half like a toothpick. Why the hell was she so nervous? It didn’t matter to her what the man offered. She’d made a promise to her father and she was damned well going to keep it or die trying.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself it’s all about business.

  The fact that she knew, deep down, that her anxiety was due to how she might react to Branch’s charm and raw sexual power was no reassurance at all, especially considering the stakes.

  Forcing her mind away from the ticking bomb waiting in her outer office, she spent several minutes trying to scan the bank presentation yet again. And then gave up when she couldn’t absorb a word of it.

  Martha leaned her forehead on her desk, groaning. She was the one who needed a shot from Jane’s bourbon stash. Since her nerves were getting jumpier by the moment, it didn’t make sense to prolong the agony simply to try to punish Tony Branch for his unbridled masculine arrogance.

  Yanking open her top desk drawer, she pulled out a compact and did a quick check of her teeth to make sure there were no poppy seeds from her breakfast muffin lurking in sight, and slicked on some lip gloss. Then she took in a fortifying breath and picked up her phone.

  “You might as well send him in now, hon.”