Bigger Than Beckham (3 page)

She thought again about the life she’d put on
hold to try to keep her father’s dream alive. She’d had a good life
in Philadelphia, with great friends, a solid job at a major daily
newspaper, and a sweet little apartment in Society Hill. With every
day that went by here in Florida, she missed her old life more and
more.

For about twenty seconds she felt sorry for
herself. But then she sucked it up and decided to get on with what
needed to be done. If there was one thing she’d learned from her
daddy since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, it was never to be
a quitter.

Martha rustled up the kind of grin a cocky
prisoner might give the judge as his sentence was about to be
handed down. “Hon, you’re totally right. I’m going to do my best to
charm the asses out of their three-piece suits. By the time I’m
done, I think we’re going to be sashaying out of their fancy office
with a big stack of blank checks or my name isn’t Martha
Winston.”

Tony Branch knew better than to keep arguing
with his Brain.

That’s what he sometimes called Rex Daltry,
because the guy never steered him wrong. Not once in all the years
they’d been working together. The man was a genius, and hands down
the best football businessman in England. But Tony had already made
his decision, and while it might turn out to be the dumbest mistake
he’d ever made, it would be
his
mistake and he’d bloody well
live with it.

“I get it,” he said, rolling his shoulders
against the frustration building in his muscles. He and Rex watched
the match from Tony’s spacious suite overlooking the jam-packed
Fenton Park. Usually the suite was chock-a-block with friends,
sponsors, and various hangers-on. Today, though, he’d kept the
place off-limits so he and Rex could talk freely.

“Yeah, most Americans think the only kind of
football worth watching is the one played by three hundred-pound
gorillas in helmets and body armor,” Tony said, keeping his gaze on
the pitch below where his Blackhampton Lions were locked in a
scoreless draw with London rival, Arsenal. “And you’re right that
there’s a fairly good chance we’ll take a bath.”

He narrowed his eyes at Rex to make it clear
that the time for arguing was over. “Your job is to give me the
best advice, and you do it bloody well. But it’s my money and my
call, mate. I want to buy an American Soccer League team, and
you’re going to find me one.”

“I hear you.” Rex pulled his mouth to one
side in an expression signifying
you’re wrong, but you’re the
boss.
“Listen, don’t get too chuffed about it, but as a matter
of fact I think I’ve already found a situation that has a chance to
work out.”

Tony put down his beer and stood toe-to-toe
with his lanky friend. Tony was six-one and had a hard, muscular
body that contrasted sharply with Rex’s gaunt frame, but Rex
towered over him by a good six inches. Rex’s detractors called him
“The Stork”. Tony’s own critics—mostly the same idiots—had taken to
calling Rex “Branch’s Brain”. At first, Tony had fumed every time
he heard the insulting, stupid moniker. But as his successes piled
up, he’d learned to shrug it off. Sure, Rex’s undeniable smarts
were a big key to their triumphs, but any thinking person knew that
Tony Branch didn’t end up owning three football clubs worth tens of
millions of pounds without having bloody good business sense of his
own.

He shoved Rex back a half-step and landed a
playful jab to his shoulder. “You’ve been riding my arse about
this, and yet all the time you had my future team shoved in your
back pocket?”

Rex winced dramatically over the soft punch.
“I held back because I can’t help feeling like the rope I’m about
to throw you has a sodding big noose on the end. This American
adventure of yours is a damn dodgy idea.”

“Bollocks,” Tony countered. “It’s a great
idea, and you’re just pissed off you didn’t think of it first,” he
said as a joke.

Outside the suite, the crowd of over forty
thousand erupted in a stadium-shaking roar as the Lions scored to
take a one goal lead. Tony grinned, slamming Rex a high-five as he
watched the jubilant Blackhampton players pile onto the man who’d
just put the ball in the net. The crowd started to chant
Kee-nan, Kee-nan.
Superstar midfielder Kevin Keenan had
unleashed one of his famous bending shots from about sixty feet
out.

“Bloody good to see Keenan earning some of
that four million pounds we’re putting in his pocket this year,”
Rex said.

No arguing with that. The salaries lavished
on stars had climbed to outrageous levels. The most Tony had ever
made in his own long career as a world class player with ninety
English caps—one of the highest totals of any player in history—had
been about a fifth of Keenan’s current take. But what really made
his blood boil was the way skyrocketing salaries were straining
many teams’ budgets to the breaking point, and that of his Lions as
much as any. Tony had to face the stark reality that if you wanted
to play with the Premier League big boys, you had no choice but to
spend like the big boys.

But how could he continue to keep his Lions
competitive with the elite clubs that were almost obscenely flush
with cash?

“Unless Keenan breaks a leg,” he said, “he’s
going to get a seven million Euro offer next year from Barca or
Real Madrid. There’s no way we can match that.” He shrugged, giving
Rex a wry grin. “But we’ll worry about that little problem later.
Right now I want to hear about that noose you’re making for
me.”

Rex snorted. “I’ve been focusing on the ASL
franchises that are not only hemorrhaging cash, but have ownership
that can’t afford to sustain the losses. I’ve looked at a wide
range of factors, including free cash flow, debt servicing costs,
access to working and long-term capital, and—”

“I get it.” Tony spun his finger to indicate
his impatience. “You were zeroing in on Phoenix, the L.A. Surf, and
Jacksonville, right?”

Jacksonville
. A stunningly beautiful
face surrounded by silky blond hair drifted before his mind’s eye.
That beautiful face sat atop a slender, but deliciously curvy body
that had put his cock at attention the moment he’d laid eyes on
her.

Martha Winston.

That was an extra bit of incentive if there
ever was one.

Rex looked pained. “That’s right.”

Tony felt a twinge of guilt. He’d never
backed Rex into a corner like this, but he had both his mind and
his heart set on America and he was going to get a team whether his
brain liked it or not. He was hoping for Jacksonville. Hoping like
he hoped to win the FA Cup. But in the end, whatever Rex
recommended was what he’d go with. Tony had made the big
decision—to go for it—and it was now up to Rex to get the target
right. Failure had never been an option for the two of them.

“If we really are going to do this, then it’s
got to be Jacksonville.” Rex heaved a sigh, as if just saying the
words had been an ordeal. “But it’s my duty to say again, one last
time, that don’t like the whole idea. That Jacksonville team
operates in a small market city to begin with, and now they’ve lost
twelve of their last fifteen matches. The average attendance at
home has sunk to well under three thousand.”

That number was ridiculously low for any
professional sports franchise. But while it sucked for Martha
Winston, that dire situation sounded like sweet music to Tony’s
ears. Owners of successful teams didn’t sell, or they demanded
outrageous prices if they wanted out. No, Tony couldn’t afford a
winning team. A loser sliding down the chute was exactly what he
was looking for. “So? That’s pretty much what we want, isn’t
it?”

“To some extent,” Rex agreed. “But my
greatest concern is that Jacksonville area fans are insane for
American football—both pro and college—and that crowds out
everything else. Even before the current collapse, the Thunder team
struggled to stay out of the red.”

“Sure, we’d obviously rather get a team in a
bigger market. But you’re telling me there’s no hope for L.A. and
Phoenix, right?”

“Those teams are both losing money, too, but
the ownership is committed and stubborn and they aren’t going to
sell at anything close to our price band. We simply can’t afford
teams like that, no matter how much you might hunger for a new
adventure.” Rex gave him a morose smile. “I say that with all
respect and affection, of course.”

“Oh, sure you do,” Tony said with a grin.
“So, Jacksonville it is, then.” He had to resist a celebratory fist
pump.

“Yes, if you insist.” Rex blew out a sigh.
“And it surely won’t hurt our cause that you’re personally
acquainted with that particular owner.”

Tony snorted as he glanced back at the field.
“Acquainted? Barely. I told you I met her once, for maybe a few
minutes. And that was a couple of years ago.”

That much was true. But Tony remembered
Martha Winston very well indeed, and had a hunch she would remember
him, too. When they were introduced at a charity dinner in
Wimbledon, the statuesque blonde—easily as tall as him in her spike
heels—had eyed him with a sultry look that had sent his lad
hormones rocketing through the roof. Her smoky blue eyes had made a
quick, almost imperceptible, scan of his body at the same time that
his own eyes were travelling from her lush mouth to the hem of her
floor-length black gown. When she spoke, her southern accent had
slid like warm, sweet honey over bare skin.

Unfortunately, she’d been on the arm of the
stuffy publisher of
British Tennis
at the time, and the man
had pulled her away after only a short chat. Tony supposed he
couldn’t really blame the bloke. If he ever latched on to a goddess
like Martha Winston, he’d want to stash her away in his own very
private lock-box.

Despite the fact that they’d only spoken for
a brief time, something had passed between them. Electricity.
Chemistry. Pure, elemental
lust
. Tony had felt the rush
instantly, and strongly suspected Martha had, too. That was why
when Rex told him at a pub a few months ago that Martha Winston now
owned the Jacksonville Thunder, Tony had almost choked on his ale.
Rex had said that the previous owner of the Jacksonville team, Will
Winston, had passed away and bequeathed control of the team to his
daughter, Martha.

“Even so, a direct call from you would surely
be in order,” Rex said. “She’s in rather desperate straits already.
The team’s line of credit is stretched, and her bankers aren’t
likely to be anxious to sink more money into an operation that
could implode any day. Very few financial institutions would be. In
that kind of situation, it’s tantamount to trying to catch a
falling knife.”

Rex didn’t say:
and
why the hell
would we want to try to catch that knife, either?
But his
questioning eyes made that sentiment crystal clear to Tony.

Tony had a sudden, ridiculous vision of
himself galloping into Martha Winston’s life on a white charger,
ready to sweep her up onto the stallion’s back and whisk her from
financial oblivion. But, when he thought about it, he figured that
dramatic scenario might not be totally farfetched. The woman
obviously needed cash, and fast. Tony had a fair bit of cash on
hand, along with a strong line of credit, and he wanted her team.
In those circumstances, the lovely Martha might just be overwhelmed
with gratitude, and who knew where such overflowing emotions might
lead?

Sounded like bloody kismet to him—a total
win-win. Sure there was risk, but Rex tended to worry too much. The
two of them could turn any team around, and the proof was that
they’d done it three times already. Jacksonville would be triumph
number four, and the American breakthrough Tony craved. “I’ll ring
her tomorrow.” He drained the last of his beer and plunked down the
glass. “Now, let’s go watch the last ten minutes outside.”

They took the private elevator down to their
seats in the grandstand below. As Tony bounced down the steps,
dozens if not hundreds of fans stood and cheered. Those near the
ends of the rows stuck out their hands for a shake or a slap. One
young woman stepped out to partially block his path, grabbing his
shoulders firmly and planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

Christ, he loved it.

“Jesus, Tony,” Rex shouted about the noise,
“you could run for Parliament and bloody near every one of these
blokes would vote for you. You’ve finally given them a winning side
after all those losing years.”

“
We’ve
given them a winning side,”
Tony replied brusquely. “You get the credit as much as me,
mate.”

But the thought of running for Parliament, or
doing anything else for that matter, was the furthest thing from
Tony’s future plans. Football was his life, and always would be.
After multiple surgeries, his legs were too banged-up to be on the
field any more, but he’d die if he couldn’t be part of football.
Winning football.