Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  At least I hope so. With that errant thought, sweat began to prickle along her hairline.

  “I have no doubt,” Geoffrey said as he stomped toward the door. “But you know very well that perception is everything. And I’m afraid the local media perceive you as something of a, shall we say, dilettante. I expect they’ll be like a dog with a bone the moment they get wind of what’s going on.”

  Dilettante. The word sliced right through her, cutting deep and releasing something ugly she’d been fighting for days to repress.

  Instinctively, she struck back. “Do tell, Uncle? Are you already in bed with Tony Branch, then? And here I thought you were more likely betrothed to Steam Train.”

  Geoffrey pivoted awkwardly to face her, his bloodshot eyes wide and startled. And, Lord help her, a hurt look on his face.

  Her stomach dropped like an express elevator. The stress of the weekend, piled on top of everything that had gone before, had obviously eroded her self-control and her common sense—not to mention her manners. However little faith she might have in Geoffrey, she had not an ounce of proof of any wrongdoing on his part. She made a quick, silent apology to her father for behaving in a way he would have deplored no matter what the provocation.

  “Geoffrey, I’m sorry. I—”

  “Save it Martha, because I don’t want to hear it!” He yanked open the door and then slammed it shut behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Shielding his eyes against the cold, driving October rain, Tony helped Ginny into the cab that had pulled up in front of the posh French restaurant where they’d met for lunch. When he closed the door, she stared back at him through the window, her emerald green eyes cool and unhappy before she averted her gaze.

  Ginny Cross was even more stunning than all those years ago when she and Tony had been lovers, with her amazing eyes, delicate features and long, glossy hair. Her pampered appearance was pretty much perfect, and was the result, he knew, of the fortune she spent at high-end spas and designer boutiques. Colton Butler’s money was making his ex-wife ever more attractive, though clearly not yet happy. As she picked at her salad during their meal, she’d confessed that there hadn’t been a man in her life since the gruesome, public break-up with her husband.

  Tony understood. Ginny’s cruel marriage had etched fear and distrust deep into her psyche—deep enough that she now kept even men she liked at arm’s length. She hadn’t quite entered a convent, but no one had managed to get close to her. Tony feared that perhaps no man ever would again.

  As he waited in the rain for the parking valet to bring his car around, Tony replayed their conversation in his mind. It had not gone well. Ginny’s angry, wounded “no” had told him he’d probably handled the situation like a bumbling idiot. He’d spent hours beforehand mulling over his approach, and yet had failed to come up with any good way to cushion the blow he’d reluctantly decided he had to inflict on his dear friend. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Martha that it felt as if she were forcing him to choose between continuing to see her and keeping Ginny’s friendship. And, by Ginny’s reaction, it seemed he may have been right. She had eventually calmed down, but Tony had to wonder if the damage to their relationship would ever be fully repaired.

  Yes, he’d chosen Martha, but in the end he’d made the decision because Colton Butler did need to be brought down. She’d been dead right about that. By deciding to cover up Butler’s abuse and keeping her mouth shut to this day, Ginny had missed the opportunity to ensure no one else suffered at the bastard’s hands the way she had. Tony had been complicit in that silence because of her utter conviction that getting away from Butler without any more drama was the best way to protect her future.

  Rightly or wrongly, Martha had made Tony see it in a different light.

  His suit pants flapped hard in the miserable wind that gusted down the narrow street near Leicester Square. Tony glanced at his watch. It was almost two o’clock, which translated to nearly nine in the morning in Florida. Martha had told him her meeting with the bankers was set for eleven. On an impulse, he pulled out his mobile to call her before she went in to face the lions. Not that his news about Ginny was good, but he was sure she’d want to know immediately. Besides, he longed to hear her sweet drawl, though not as much as he craved having her gorgeous body underneath him again. To say he couldn’t get enough of her was like saying Manchester United wasn’t too shabby a team.

  Martha picked up right away. “Impeccable timing, Branch. I just stepped out of the shower and I’m hot, steamy, and naked as a newborn. Oh, and I’ve got a towel wrapped around my head in an imitation of the world’s worst turban, too.”

  “Many thanks for that enticing image,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon me now while I run home and take a cold shower.”

  Martha’s throaty laugh washed over him. “Well, I sure wish I could join you there, pal, but we’d better make this a quickie. I’ve got a whole pack of alligators waiting to take a bite out of my butt in less than an hour, and I don’t want to look like something the tide washed ashore.”

  “You always look perfect, love,” Tony said, meaning every word.

  “You lie, but God love you, anyway.”

  Tony would have liked to banter with her all afternoon, but her slightly clipped reply told him she really was running out of time. “I thought you’d want to know that I spoke to Ginny. Just now, in fact.”

  “You did?” Martha squealed. “Oh, I’ve been keeping my fingers crossed until they hurt, because I wasn’t sure you were going to do it. Oh, Lord, thank you, thank you, Tony. You should just see me now—I’m practically covered in big ol’ goose bumps.”

  He grimaced. “You’d better not get too chuffed, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, crap.” Martha’s voice deflated. “Not good, huh? She said no?”

  Only about ten times, in between calling him some choice names in a deadly serious voice. Wretch. Traitor. Wanker.

  “Not really, but let’s just say that for a while there I figured I was going to be lucky to get out with my manhood intact. I was actually damn thankful I’d suggested meeting at a crowded restaurant. Otherwise, I’ll wager she’d have been throwing sharp things at me.”

  “I’m so sorry, hon,” she replied in a regretful voice. “But what does ‘not really’ mean?”

  “It means that it took a hell of a lot of work, but in the end she left the door open a crack, at least.”

  Tony hadn’t asked Ginny to do it for him. That would have made no sense, because this wasn’t about him. Or about Martha, either. It was about justice for Ginny herself, and about stopping Colton Butler from treating other women in the vile way he’d treated his wife.

  “She’s going to think about it?” Martha ventured.

  When Tony’s car pulled up to the curb, he tipped the uniformed valet before climbing inside. Traffic on the noisy, narrow street was backed up, so he decided to stay put and finish the call right there. “She wants to think about the implications for her and her family, and about whether it would even make any sense if she were to come forward publicly after so much time has passed.”

  That had actually surprised the hell out of him. Ginny had taken a long restroom break, obviously to try to cool down, and then came back with a barrage of questions. Some of those pointed queries had been about who the hell Martha Winston was, and why exactly Tony was doing her bidding. The initially difficult conversation that followed satisfied her to some extent, and led to the door opening just enough to see a shaft of daylight on the other side.

  “Fair enough,” Martha said. “I just hope she can think pretty fast. I’d really like to do this as one blockbuster feature, not two separate pieces. And I’m already starting to get a little tight for time with everything I’ve got to deal with here.”

  Tony bristled a little. “You need to take a step back, Martha. I know Ginny, and she’ll make her decision on her timetable, not yours.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said quickly. He could
practically see her wincing. “I’m sorry if I sound impatient. It’s just that with all the crap going on right now…” She let her words trail off.

  He knew exactly what she was talking about. “No need to apologize. I know you’re dreading the meeting.”

  “Like six root canals on the same day,” she said.

  Tony smiled at her always-vivid imagery. “There’s one other thing Ginny mentioned, and it’s the most important one, I’ll venture. She said she won’t even start to give it serious consideration unless she can meet you face to face and see for herself what you’re all about. And that’s basically a direct quote.”

  That Ginny was prepared to meet with Martha—had actually insisted on it—had struck Tony as the most hopeful sign, because he’d developed a great deal of confidence in Martha Winston’s powers of persuasion. After all, he’d found himself across from Ginny today, doing something he would never have imagined he’d do.

  “Fantastic! Absolutely wonderful!” Martha exclaimed. “I can’t wait to meet her, Tony. I’ll get a flight over as soon as I possibly can, though things are going to be a little rocky around here for the next few days.”

  “You don’t have to worry about booking a hotel,” Tony said firmly. “In fact, don’t even think about it.”

  “You are just too hospitable, sir,” Martha cooed. “And I thank you very much for that kind invitation, which I gratefully accept. But I’m afraid that if I don’t get off this phone I’m going to be unfashionably late, and I suppose I shouldn’t make the vultures keep circling too long. I’m sure they’re most eager to pick away at my bones.”

  Tony didn’t want to hang up. He missed Martha more than he’d have believed possible. Just hearing her voice seemed to fill some of the emptiness that had gripped him since she got out of his car and walked away into the crowd outside that Heathrow terminal.

  “Good luck today, love,” he said, only a bit surprised to find that he fully meant it.

  * * *

  Martha forced a confident smile at the lineup of frostbitten faces on the other side of the boardroom table—the same tough crowd that had delivered the ultimatum last week. She couldn’t recall a more somber atmosphere outside of a funeral. Or maybe a Philadelphia house party after watching the Flyers lose in the final of the Stanley Cup playoffs.

  Geoffrey sat on her right, with Kieran McLeod and Bob Arnott on her left. Kieran and Bob had done a better job over the weekend than Martha had even hoped for. They’d wrestled with every possibility for cutting expenses over the short term, coming up with a somewhat more optimistic outlook than the last time they’d met. But what she was about to say to the suits across from her represented the end of the road as far as stripping costs down to the bone. If the bank didn’t buy this last attempt and keep their line of credit open, the team wouldn’t have sufficient working capital to meet payroll for the rest of the season, much less deal with the mounting bills from suppliers.

  The noose was firmly lodged around her neck, and tightening.

  Jameson Cockburn, the chief bank hatchet man, gave her an oily smile. “The floor is yours, Ms. Winston.”

  Martha nodded to Bob, who stood and distributed copies of the thin brief they’d prepared. None of the men across the table opened the document.

  “Gentlemen,” she began, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach, “y’all will be able to see from this document that we have done absolutely everything humanly possible—and I mean everything—to slash the team’s expenses while still maintaining a viable, forward-looking operation for the Jacksonville Thunder.”

  She proceeded page by page through the short document, highlighting the admittedly optimistic revenue projections for the remainder of the season as well as detailing the cuts to be implemented. Virtually every word stuck in her throat as she met the gazes of Cockburn and Rance Malone. Neither man made a comment or asked her a question.

  “This is the low point in the Thunder’s history, I’ll be the first to admit,” she concluded. “But if y’all can see fit to afford us the means to see ourselves through this year and the off-season, we are one hundred percent confident that our general manager and his staff will be able to restructure player contracts and make the other personnel moves that will set the team on the path to success on the field. And that success will of course lead to profitability on the balance sheet, too.” She inhaled a deep breath. “All we need is for you to grant us the necessary time to do that work.”

  Skepticism, even disdain, radiated from the rigid bodies across the table.

  Cockburn pushed the brief away as if he thought it might be laden with Ebola virus. “Thank you, Ms. Winston, but let me be clear from the outset. I’m afraid I can only characterize your attendance projections as pure fantasy—something that’s obvious even at a glance. I’m also extremely disappointed that you’ve failed to propose anything close to the level of cost reduction objectives we asked for.”

  Martha bristled at his dismissive salvo. “Fantasy? I don’t think so, Mr. Cockburn. As for projected attendance, if nothing else the cooler weather is bound to bring more fans out to the park. That’s always been the case in the past, and it’s been hotter than a sweat lodge out there this year. Hell, some days we could’ve used a darn water cannon to cool the folks off.”

  Her voice sounded on the verge of desperation, even to her.

  Cockburn shook his head, cynical amusement in his eyes. “We’re aware of the weather factor, but that impact has never been substantial. Certainly not substantial enough in any case.” He waved a dismissive hand. “No, you must face facts. You’re not quite Greece yet, Ms. Winston, but you’re right up there with Spain. Your debt load is approaching the point of being entirely unmanageable, and I see nothing in your presentation today that would give the bank sufficient reason for optimism about a resolution of the issues you face, either now or in the foreseeable future.”

  “Steam Train agrees,” Malone chimed in with his typical arrogance. “There’s absolutely nothing here that would make us reconsider our decision to terminate the sponsorship agreement.”

  Martha expected Finley Roberts to pile on next on behalf of SportsNet, but he remained silent and, she thought, even somewhat uncomfortable.

  “You may consider the bank’s line of credit terminated,” Cockburn said curtly. “You’ll receive a letter later today confirming that, as well as a notice of demand that the outstanding balance on your loan be repaid within thirty days.”

  Martha barely stifled a gasp. She’d braced herself for a possible refusal by the bank to extend the line of credit. Maybe even anticipated it. But she’d never expected Cockburn to invoke the thirty day on-demand repayment provision. “But that’s impossible and y’all know it,” she sputtered, reeling under the impact.

  Cockburn’s patronizing smile made her want to throw up.

  “I don’t agree, Ms. Winston,” he countered. “But, in any case, that is your problem. Perhaps you’ll be able to secure other financing or, more likely, seek to sell the team. I’m afraid First Coast National Bank cannot continue to infuse further financing into an apparently intractable situation. Not with a bankruptcy scenario more and more in play.”

  Evil bastard.

  Martha bit back the words. Every instinct in her screamed that the men sitting across from her had made the decision to pull the plug days if not weeks before, and the stupid dance they’d put her and her people through had been nothing more than window dressing.

  “All I can say is that I’m so very glad my father didn’t live to see such treachery from the very people he’d been loyal to. He would have been ashamed of y’all,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Kieran touched her arm and whispered, “Let’s get out of here, Martha. I can’t stand the sight of these smug arses for another minute.”

  As during the previous meeting, Geoffrey had said nothing. He continued to sit back in his chair, his face a blank mask.

  Martha gave a tight nod, refusing to even look
at the “gentlemen” any longer. She led her people out of the room without a glance back, and only stopped when she’d made it through the bank’s lobby and out onto the sidewalk. There, she came to a halt, sucking in deep breaths as she desperately tried to think of what she could say to Kieran, Bob and Geoffrey about the future.

  Whatever motives the bank and the sponsors might have, she knew they’d just shoved her in a lock-box. Her room to maneuver had been reduced to near zero because the chances of finding another financial institution willing to step up and offer the team credit were so minimal as to make the exercise pointless. At least with First Coast National, the Thunder had several years of history and a legacy of close cooperation with her father—a cooperation that had kept the team afloat during earlier lean times. In her current predicament, no other lender would give her the time of day.

  Declaring bankruptcy, or finding a buyer willing to take on a last place team awash in debt, seemed the only two options. But one inescapable fact remained—either way, she was finished as owner of the Thunder, and so was the vow she’d made to her father.

  Not that it would be difficult to find a buyer. Despite the team’s debt and the shrunken fan base, ASL franchises were still worth good money. Even now, once the team’s debts were discharged, her people had guessed that the Thunder’s net value could be around ten million.

  And then there was the impulsive offer Tony had made at Fenton Park. She couldn’t help wondering if that proposal would still be on the table once he learned that the bank had axed the line of credit and called in the loan. If she had no choice but to sell, why would he offer to share the team with her and her uncle? Why would he put himself in a position where he had to worry about minority owners? That wasn’t the way Tony Branch operated.

  “Martha!”

  She turned around to see Rance Malone striding out the bank’s front doors, heading straight for her group. What did the jerk want now?