Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  “We’re on life support now, Daddy, but I won’t let them pull the plug,” Martha muttered to herself as she got moving, her back straight and her head held high.

  * * *

  Tony had always thought Derek Kavanagh was a monumental asshole, but had to acknowledge that the man had been one of the better midfielders in the Premier League before Will Winston lured him away to the ASL.

  Kavanagh lounged across from him at a Starbucks in the San Marco district, one actually not far away from Martha’s house. He’d asked Kavanagh for a private meeting, coming clean with the fact that he was investigating the possibility of making an offer for the Thunder. The player had unfortunately insisted on Starbucks, which Tony regarded as probably the least private place in the world short of Waterloo Station or the Las Vegas Strip.

  “Aren’t you a little worried about being hounded by fans in a place like this?” Tony asked after they sat down at a miniature-sized table in a corner.

  Kavanagh snorted. “Are you daft, man? I could hang a sign around my neck with my name on it and walk around the bloody Jacksonville Town Center without being recognized.”

  Tony chuckled at the image. “It’s really that bad here?”

  “Worse.” Kavanagh moped for a few seconds, then returned to his girly drink, something he’d called a caramel macchiato. What the hell was wrong with just a plain cup of coffee, anyway?

  The shop was going full tilt, but half the patrons had their eyes glued to their computers and iPads, while the other half appeared to be in earnest discussions with their tablemates. Nobody paid either of them the slightest attention. Had they been in London at the same sort of place, at least half the patrons would have been pestering them for autographs or asking them annoying questions.

  Tony set his large black coffee on the table and left it alone, waiting for the scalding hot liquid to cool down. “It’s good to see you again, Derek,” he said with all the false sincerity he could muster.

  Kavanagh rolled his eyes. “Right,” he drawled, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “We both know you wouldn’t piss in my mouth if my bloody teeth were on fire, so you don’t have to pretend.”

  The bastard wasn’t far wrong in his assessment, but Tony needed him now and maybe in the future, too. And while the two had enjoyed something of an adversarial relationship in England, Tony knew full well that Kavanagh respected him both as a player and an owner. And he respected Kavanagh’s natural ability on the field and what had been a fierce determination to win at all costs. The fact that such determination appeared to have entirely evaporated this year was the reason for the meeting. Tony wanted to know the reason for the dramatic change.

  “Times change,” Tony said with a shrug.

  “True enough, but they can’t change fast enough to get me the hell out of here,” Kavanagh shot back.

  “It’s never much fun when you’re playing on a losing side. I’ve been there, as you know.”

  “Fun? It’s a bloody nightmare,” the player scoffed. “Sure, maybe you’ve been on one or two losing sides, but have you ever played at a stadium where ninety percent of the seats are empty? Try getting up for a match under those conditions.”

  Poor you. Tony had zero time for Kavanagh’s self-indulgent whining. When you’re a professional player—not to mention one getting paid a small fortune—you work your ass off every game whether there are fifty thousand hyped-up fans in the stadium or only five hundred loyal souls.

  “I’ve got to ask you a tough question, Derek,” he said, keeping his distaste from his voice.

  Kavanagh shrugged. “It’s not like I was under the impression you wanted to get together for old times’ sake.”

  “Right, and I’m going to be completely frank with you. I’m not a damn bit interested in buying this team if its star player isn’t operating at full throttle. And to be blunt, Derek, you aren’t. Not by a long shot. You’re coasting, and you bloody know it.”

  Kavanagh’s mouth turned down. “Sod it, what do you know about it? Hell, I could be playing hurt for all you know.”

  Tony leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Are you? It didn’t look like it, at least from the videos I saw. You’re getting older, but you should still have plenty of good years left in those legs.”

  “Old? Sod that, too.” Kavanagh said in a sullen voice. “You want the truth? All right, then, you’ll have it. And don’t bother telling Martha Winston what I say because I’ve already told the daft woman myself.”

  Tony clenched a fist under the table in response to the sneering anger in Kavanagh’s words. But he held his revulsion in check—for now. “I’m not going to tell her anything. Why would I? This is just between you and me. Completely private, one footballer to another.”

  Kavanagh let out an ugly laugh then leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs wide to take up as much space as possible. The woman at the next table shot him an angry glare when his foot knocked against her handbag. Predictably, the asshole ignored her.

  “I left a bloody good career back home to come to this hellhole,” he said in a voice full of contempt. “Sure, the money was better than I was going to get from Tottenham or anybody else at the time, but money wasn’t the whole story of why I decided to come.”

  “It never is, is it?” Tony said in a neutral voice.

  “I figured it would be a challenge here—and an opportunity. A fresh start. And I liked Will Winston. Trusted the man. He was a bit daft to give me such a big contract, but he said it spoke to how much he wanted me as the marquee player for his franchise. He promised I’d be the face of the Jacksonville Thunder.”

  Yeah, Tony got that. Kavanagh might be a prick but he had celebrity good looks, something Winston had no doubt thought he could use to full advantage. “And you were going through a messy divorce, as I recall,” Tony added dryly.

  Kavanagh shot him a cheeky grin. “That was another good reason to get the hell out of London.”

  “I hear you,” Tony said. “But now you’re regretting your decision to take Winston’s offer?”

  “Bloody right I am, since the old man died and left the bloody useless daughter in charge. Martha Winston has a great ass, but she doesn’t know a football from a Frisbee and she’s driven the team into the ground in just a few short months.” Kavanagh blew out a breath. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  Tony kept his anger under control, adopting a puzzled look for Kavanagh’s benefit. “I don’t quite understand, mate. The last time I checked, Martha wasn’t in the lineup.”

  “Ha ha. Hilarious,” Kavanagh muttered.

  “So, what exactly is she doing wrong, then?”

  “You’d be better to ask what she’s doing right.” Kavanagh finished his fancy drink and set it to the side. “First, she just does everything Kieran McLeod tells her, and McLeod’s day is done. We both know that. That’s why he’s here instead of still at Blackburn.”

  That was the prevailing sentiment in British football—that McLeod had become stuck in a mental rut and had fallen out of the group of top-level managers. Well out. Tony reluctantly shared the view that McLeod’s move to Jacksonville had simply been a form of early retirement for the once-powerful Scotsman.

  Tony gave a slight nod. “What else?”

  “Then McLeod brought in sodding Sam Brockton to manage at the end of last season, and the man’s been a bloody disaster. I argued like hell with both McLeod and Will Winston that Brockton’s system wouldn’t work here, and I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “The system wouldn’t work with your own style of play, you mean.”

  “Exactly. Believe me, absolutely nobody on the team wants Brockton. But for Diego Flores and me in particular, it’s down to a matter of he goes or we go. And, so far, Martha Winston is backing McLeod and refuses to fire Brockton.” Kavanagh practically spat out the last sentence. “Bloody stupid and stubborn woman. She’s destroying this team. It’s going to die unless she’s out of here.”

 
Tony’s instinctive reaction was to slug the prick on Martha’s behalf. He could see the merits of Kavanagh’s analysis, but his disrespect toward Martha was bullshit. But there was no point in getting into that now. “You’ve asked to be traded, have you?” he said as coolly as he could manage.

  “Of course I have. But it’s not going to happen. Winston would have to eat a big slice of my salary in any trade, and she hasn’t got a pot to piss in. What I really want is for her to buy me out so I can latch on with an English side next year, but there’s no hope of that, either. It’d surprise me if she even has enough cash flow to see the season through. This team is finished unless there’s new ownership.” He met Tony’s gaze and held it. “Despite our checkered history, Tony, I’d be bloody glad to see you take over. All the lads would, I guarantee it.”

  “That’s good to know.” Tony reached a long arm across the table and grabbed Kavanagh by the sleeve of his leather jacket. “But the way I see it, Derek, with the way you’ve been dogging it, the team’s slide is on you as much as it’s on Martha Winston or anybody else. You’re as much responsible as anyone else.”

  Kavanagh jerked back. “Dogging it? Fuck you, Tony. Let’s just say I lack my usual motivation. But whatever happens, I’ll tell you this. Diego and I are going to do every last thing we can to run Sam Brockton right out of this league.”

  The meeting was proving to be everything Tony expected it would be. He’d found out what was wrong with the team—from Derek Kavanagh’s point of view, anyway. The man disgusted him, but right now he needed him. For a while, anyway.

  Tony relaxed back in his chair, giving Kavanagh an easy smile. “Okay, let’s say I can come up with an offer Martha Winston can’t refuse, and I wind up buying the team. If that happens, are you going to play for me, Derek? I mean, really play. The way you and I both know you still can?”

  Kavanagh’s eyes narrowed. “What about Brockton, then? You’ll fire him?”

  Tony had made that decision before he even boarded the jet from London. “My first act as the new owner.”

  “And McLeod?”

  Tony shook his head. “No, but I’ll ease him out before next season gets underway, and give him a nice package. He’s been a good football man, Derek, despite what you think, and I’m not going to embarrass him.”

  Kavanagh weighed that for several seconds. “Fair enough, Tony. All right, I’ll play for you. We all will.” He stuck out his hand.

  Tony locked Kavanagh’s hand in a hard grip. “You’d better, my friend. Or you’ll have me to answer to, and you know I don’t take prisoners.”

  With a curt nod, Tony got up and walked out the door. He’d just as soon have made a bargain with the devil as with Derek Kavanagh, but it had to be done.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Martha picked Tony up at his hotel a half hour before kickoff, he seemed in good spirits. He even made a risqué joke that managed to skate just inside the line of good taste as he settled into the passenger seat. It was pretty funny and she managed to force out a chuckle even though her sense of humor was currently M.I.A. She figured that was hardly surprising after the drubbing she’d taken at the bank that morning.

  After the meeting ended, her first instinct had been to head home and get Biblically drunk, and then call Tony to beg off the game with a migraine. But in the end, she did neither. Ducking her responsibilities and promises—that wasn’t in her DNA. Nor was indulging in a pity party.

  Suck it up, Winston.

  Instead of hitting the bottle, she’d hit the gym. Normally, she worked out at the crack of dawn three or four days a week, but today she’d spent the entire afternoon at her fitness club. By the time she left the club at five-thirty and headed home for a quick change of clothes, her energy had returned and her mind had mostly cleared. Sure, she was still worried as hell about the team’s future, and as mad as a grizzly with a toothache at the treatment she’d suffered at the hands of the arrogant bastards who’d shoved ultimatums down her throat. But the thought of spending time with Tony had given her an extra kick of energy, and she looked forward to it more than she cared to admit.

  That, of course, was not a good sign, since a relationship with the man—a fling—would likely end in disaster. Then again, she was tired of second guessing herself. Tired of everything and in desperate need of a little R & R. Tony Branch might be as dangerous as a sack full of rattlesnakes, but she could handle him.

  She hoped.

  “Like I said, I figured it would be better if it were just the two of us tonight,” she said as she pulled into traffic. She’d left that message for Tony earlier, asking him to leave Rex behind. They had too much to talk about and she didn’t want an audience, especially for what she had planned for later in the evening. “Kieran usually joins me for some of the match and Geoffrey often comes too, but I asked them both to skip it tonight.”

  That request had gone over like a lead balloon with her uncle. But he grumpily assented, sensing correctly that she was still furious with him.

  Tony gave her a thoroughly sexy smile. “Fine with me. We can talk more frankly if we’re alone.”

  From the look in his eyes, Martha had the feeling that talking wasn’t all he was thinking about. All too predictably, her mood kicked up another notch. “Was Rex disappointed?”

  “Heartbroken,” Tony said. “Absolutely refused to go to the game by himself.”

  “Really?” Martha suddenly felt terrible.

  “No,” he said, grinning. “Not a bit.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, but he just laughed at her.

  On the short drive to the stadium, they chatted comfortably and Martha couldn’t help sneaking glances at him. He looked smoking hot again tonight, wearing a beautifully-cut linen jacket in a shade she thought of as écru, but he would no doubt call light gray. A tight, black tee shirt stretched over his broad, muscled chest. Loose-fitting black slacks and black loafers completed the understated outfit. Classy and most definitely sexy. Just looking at the man made her nearly swoon.

  Which made her plan for tonight all that much better.

  Martha knew a couple of things with absolute certainty. First, she hadn’t changed her mind about selling the Thunder, not to Tony Branch or anyone else. As rough as the morning meeting had been, she was determined to stay the course. If that meant going through some even more horrifying cost-cutting exercise, she’d take a hard look at it. Since they had her up against the wall, she would do whatever she could—within reason—to appease the obnoxious money men.

  The second thing she knew for sure was that she was wildly attracted to Tony Branch. Yes, he wanted to pry the team from her hands, but that hadn’t prevented good old-fashioned lust from flaring every time he was in close proximity. She was equally certain Tony wanted to get her in the sack. She’d sensed it pretty much from the moment he walked into her office, and when he’d shown up at her door last night with that armload of roses his intent became even more obvious.

  She wasn’t naïve and she wasn’t an idiot. Martha knew Tony could very well stoop to seduction as a means to get what he truly wanted—her team. But there was only one way to find out for sure.

  Sleep with him, possibly as soon as tonight.

  Yes, it was a crazy plan that had grabbed hold of her while she pounded out the miles on the gym treadmill. But taking things to that level should make what was going on between them crystal clear. Tony would either back off or he would push harder, and either response would be instructive. Besides, if he was trying to use her, she was perfectly capable of doing the same to him.

  Two could play at that game, and have some damn good fun while they were at it.

  As for fun, Martha hardly remembered the meaning of the word. Nothing about inheriting her father’s team or living in Jacksonville had been fun. It had in fact been exhausting and dispiriting, and she was lonelier than she’d been in a very long time. She needed—no, she craved—a man’s touch, and she knew that deep down she’d been craving this m
an for two years. Her brain told her to tread carefully, but everything else in her body urged her to kick off her shoes and have a good old-fashioned party.

  Yes, she needed some fun in the worst kind of way, and if other things became clear in the process, so much the better.

  Could things between them get intense if they slept together? She didn’t see that happening. Tony would return to England once he realized she meant business, well before any chance for emotional involvement.

  It sounded like it could be a win/win.

  Once they reached the stadium, Martha led Tony past a few milling patrons—hopefully more spectators would show or she’d be mortified—to the elevator that whisked them to the skybox level and her suite.

  On game nights, Rosaria normally arrived a half-hour before kickoff and readied the suite, but Martha had asked the attendant to arrive earlier for set-up and make sure she left well before game time. When she unlocked the door and stepped inside ahead of Tony, it was clear that Rosaria had indeed come and gone. A generous sandwich tray and two bowls of salad—one Caesar and one mixed greens—had been laid out on the center table, along with cutlery, glasses, napkins and pitchers of iced tea and water. A plate of Rosaria’s homemade killer brownies sat next to the coffee pot, and two small table lamps and a floor lamp bathed the suite in a soft, yellow glow.

  “Brilliant,” Tony said. “I can see why you told me not to bother with having dinner.”

  “I thought you might like to chow down while we watch the match,” Martha said as she took off her light cardigan. She’d paired a white sleeveless cotton blouse with a straight skirt in a pale orange. For shoes, she’d chosen the Jimmy Choo sandals she absolutely adored, and which she’d snagged at a fire sale price the last time she was in New York. The outfit was businesslike but also feminine, with the white and orange shades serving as a nice palette with her tanned, bare skin.

  Tony’s gaze slowly tracked her body after she shucked the sweater, heating with smoky intent. It had been obvious from the moment they met in England that he wasn’t a guy who hid his appreciation for feminine charms. Martha didn’t entirely trust guys who made a point of not checking out a woman’s assets—not any more than she trusted guys who leered like dumbasses.