Bigger Than Beckham (4 page)

But staying competitive in the Premier League
was getting tougher every season, and it was inevitably going to
get worse in the future. Even with lucrative sponsorships, how were
teams like the Lions going to compete with the billionaire-backed
likes of Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea and Manchester City?
Hell, United was now listed on the U.S. stock exchange, for God’s
sake.

The simple answer: they couldn’t.

Tony would never give up on his dream of
winning a Premier League championship or an FA Cup as an owner. But
he was enough of a realist to acknowledge that such a glorious
future might well be out of his reach. He had money, but it utterly
paled in comparison to the bankrolls of Middle Eastern oilmen and
Russian oligarchs who now owned the biggest teams.

No, he foresaw the time coming when he would
have to make a choice. Either sell the Lions to some foreign
billionaire or mega-corporation, or see his beloved team slowly
fall out of the elite of the Premier League and into the second
tier, or worse.

To him, both those outcomes felt like forms
of death.

But America held out greater promise of
glory. In America, Tony figured he could be number one. As far as
American football—no,
soccer
, he corrected himself—was
concerned, the country was a limitless frontier. Rex might think it
was insane to buy a failing franchise in a small market city, but
where his brain man saw risk, Tony saw opportunity. Opportunity to
do even more than what he’d already achieved in Blackhampton.
Opportunity to succeed in a vast, dynamic country that had beckoned
to him for as long as he could remember. He wanted Tony Branch to
be big in America.

Bigger than Beckham.

And gorgeous Martha Winston held the key.

Martha ripped the sheet of paper off the pad,
balled it up, and lofted an arcing left-handed shot into her mesh
wastebasket six feet away.

Nothing but net.

The perfect hit made her smile, if only for
an instant. She’d always been deadly at medium range. If she’d only
had a more reliable three-point shot, she might have made it big as
a pro basketball player. Four years as a point guard—three of them
starting—for the Tennessee Lady Vols had opened the door to that
kind of future. But her injury-plagued stint in the WNBA had been
frustrating and brief. So frustrating that after she launched her
journalism career, she’d wanted to cover any sport other than
basketball.

She picked up her fountain pen, hoping for
inspiration in preparing an introduction for her presentation to
the bank and sponsors. The computer was great for pounding out a
quick story, but whenever she needed to think something through,
she pulled out pen and paper. In that way she resembled her father,
who had scorned computers and email as devil-spawned creations that
would bring about the end of civilized society.

Her assurances to Kieran that she would nail
the meeting with the bank had been pure bravado. In truth, it would
be hell convincing her skeptical backers that her plan to turn the
team around was working since there was scant evidence to back up
the claim. The Thunder had been sinking fast when she arrived in
June, and they’d fallen ever deeper down the rabbit hole since.

Sadly, her team sucked. It needed a full
overhaul, requiring both time and money. A lot of money. Meanwhile,
the fans would have to be patient.

Fat chance.

Jane Corrigan, her personal assistant and
long-time friend, tapped lightly on her open door. Ever-cheery, she
gave Martha a grin as she stepped into the spacious but sparsely
furnished office. “There’s a guy named Tony Branch on the line.
He’s calling from London, and that’s London as in England,” she
said, her thin brows lifting in a question.

Martha’s pen fell from her fingers.
Tony
Branch?
With his ruggedly handsome face, toned body, and
penetrating gaze, he’d made an impression she’d never forgotten,
even two years later.

Suddenly flushed, she brushed a hand
carelessly across her heated forehead. It was exactly the same
physical reaction she’d experienced when their paths had crossed in
England.

“Are you all right, girl?” Jane asked. Her
friend knew every one of Martha’s arsenal of looks and gestures,
having spent five years working alongside her in the sports
department of the
Philadelphia Post
.

“Right as rain,” Martha said with forced
cheeriness as she fanned a hand in front of her face. “It’s just a
little warm in here. As for Mr. Branch, please tell him I’m just
finishing up another call, and I’ll be with him in a minute.” She
needed a few seconds to regain her equilibrium.

Tony frigging Branch. The way-too-sexy Brit
had wasted no time undressing her with his smoking hot gaze after
that Wimbledon charity dinner. Though the encounter had been short,
Martha had no trouble remembering all the relevant details about
the man. Tall, with longish dark and wavy hair. Deep-set, dark
eyes. Square jaw. On the lean side, but with a soccer player’s
well-toned, well-muscled body. A British sports hero, a man
worshipped by rabid fans since he was a teenager.

And a total lady-killer, if the gossip rags
held even a hint of truth.

She couldn’t deny that his roguish, arrogant
smile had almost knocked her off her pins. She’d been instantly
attracted both to his looks and his can-do reputation, and had
thought the attraction was shared. But, sadly, she’d let that twit
from the tennis magazine hustle her off so quickly. The event had
practically bored the silk stockings off her, and she’d been happy
to leave early. Until she met Tony Branch, that is. Then the
evening had ended all too soon.

When she got home, she’d even pitched a
feature about him to her editor at the
Post
. But he’d told
her that nobody in the States wanted to read about a British soccer
personality unless his name was David Beckham.

But why would Tony Branch call her now?
They’d just met the once, and that had been over two years ago.

Flutters danced below her ribcage. She
pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to ignore them.

She picked up the phone and punched the
flashing light. “Good morning, Mr. Branch. Oh, but I guess it’s
already afternoon for y’all over there, isn’t it? You’re way ahead
of us colonials, at least in that regard.”

People had always told her she sounded
naturally perky, but she ladled an extra measure of southern sass
into the mix to try to cover her twitchy nerves.

“Yes, it’s well into afternoon here,” Branch
said with a deep chuckle. God, his voice sounded like whiskey
poured through dark chocolate. “And please call me Tony. I’m not
calling too early, am I?”

Martha remembered the way she’d been
instantly drawn to his deep, throaty rasp when they met. There was
no trace of poncey schooling in Branch’s voice. A working class lad
all the way, and she’d found that enormously appealing.

“Oh, heavens, no,” she said. “It’s nine
o’clock here. I’ve already put in two hours’ work.”

“That’s the stuff. Got to get up with the
roosters if we want to stay ahead of the pack, don’t we?” Branch
said, with a spectacular mixing of metaphors.

“Indeed we do.” She thought she’d enjoy a bit
of banter with him, but her nerves made her impatient to discover
the purpose of his call. Still, that didn’t stop her from firing a
little salvo. “I have to say how glad I am you called. Maybe you
could give a rookie owner some tips,” she said in a playful voice.
“Lord knows I could use a few. My team’s five and nineteen, and I
can’t find a fan these days with a GPS and a bloodhound.”

Branch let out a rumbly chuckle. “Ouch. I can
feel your pain. But look, Martha—may I call you Martha?” When he
purred her name, her knees actually went weak.

You can call me intrigued.
“Why, sure
you can,
Tony
.”

“Excellent. Martha, believe me, I’ve been
there. My first year after taking over Blackhampton, we managed one
miserable win and two draws in our first fifteen matches. The fans
wanted my bollocks on a plate.” He paused. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be
using coarse language speaking with a lady. But in any case, after
that we only lost six of the final twenty-one, and suddenly I’d
become a savior instead of an incompetent, washed-up football
player, as one columnist called me.”

Martha smiled. She knew Branch had performed
miracles with his top tier club, getting them promoted to the
Premier League in only a couple of years. And now they were more or
less competitive for the league championship. “How did y’all turn
it around, Tony? I’ll pay real good money for any of your
secrets.”

Okay, I don’t have any money, but that’s
beside the point.

Branch laughed again. Martha liked the
throaty sound of it. Low and sexy as, well, sex on a stick.

“I had to kick a few backsides and get rid of
some deadwood,” he said. “But the key was that I was able to
convince the lads that I’d do whatever it took to turn the side a
winner. I promised them that the next season we’d pick up a couple
of top-flight midfielders no matter what the cost. The lads trusted
me because they knew I’d been one of them. A player who’d gone
through all the negative garbage they were going through, both on
the field and off. Pretty soon they started acting like winners.
Playing hard every minute of every match. Gutting it out.”

Martha sighed.
No matter what the
cost
. It must be a sweet feeling to have deep pockets. Right
now, hers were about as deep as a coat of paint. Hell, at this rate
she’d be lucky to make payroll until the end of the season.

“You’ve certainly made a success of it,” she
said, forcing a cheery voice. “Sixth place last year. Maybe fifth
this season.”

“You follow the Premier League that closely,
Martha?”

She frowned at the obvious note of surprise
in his voice, hoping he wasn’t like some of the team owners and
players who considered her little better than a dumb blonde.

“Of course,” she said as a flush of
resentment swept over her. But she tamped down the spike and kept
her tone light. “Some of us over here on the frontier still manage
to keep track of what’s going on in the soccer motherland.”

Branch laughed again, and the rumble sent hot
pinpricks dancing across her skin. The charming Brit seemed to
appreciate her quirky sense of humor, something she’d found many
men didn’t. “I’m glad to hear it. I think I’ll sleep better at
night now knowing that.”

She picked up her fountain pen and tapped it
against the leather trim of her desk blotter. Why wasn’t he getting
to the point? She rather liked chatting away with him, but her
stomach kept rolling around and perspiration was beginning to
trickle down her spine. “Well, then, sweet dreams,” she said,
hoping he’d get on with it.

He seemed to pick up her change in tone. “All
joking aside, Martha, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m contacting
you.”

“Can’t say the thought didn’t flicker through
my mind. But we southern folk would never be so impolite as to ask
straight out.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ll come straight to
the point, then. I know you’re in a bit of a pickle over there, and
I’d like to find a way to help you out of it.”

Find a way to help me out of it.

Martha clenched her teeth and squeezed her
eyes shut, hating that her instincts had once again been dead-on.
And she instantly thought of Geoffrey. Had he put Branch onto her?
She hadn’t a single grain of trust in her uncle, but she still
didn’t want to believe he’d stoop to going behind her back,
blabbing their problems outside the family.

Her wounded pride demanded that she slam the
phone down, but she forced herself to take a deep breath before
responding. “And just how would y’all, way over there in merry old
England, know what sort of
pickle
I’m in,
Mr.
Branch
?”

He paused a moment before saying, “I suppose
that was a poor choice of words. I’m sorry, but I’m not much for
subtlety. I just say what’s on my mind, Martha. And, like I said,
please call me Tony.”

Now he sounded condescending. Suddenly, she
realized she was clutching the receiver in a crushing grip. Taking
another deep breath, she forced the muscles in her hand to relax.
“Mr. Branch, I like a straight-shooter as much as anybody, but how
about answering my question?”

“How do I know about your situation? Well, I
make it my business to keep on top of these things, Martha. And I
have a man who’s been watching the ASL very closely for the past
year.” His deep rasp was marinated in effortless self-confidence.
“It’s clear that things are rough for your team right now. At the
present rate, I’m told the Thunder may even have to fold at the end
of the season.” He paused again. “If not before.”