Bigger Than Beckham (15 page)

Malone sighed audibly. “We understand that,
Martha. Which is why, in the immediate period, you need to slash
your other operating costs to the bare minimum. Get rid of all but
essential staff, for starters. And knock off most of the marketing.
There’s no point in splashing out more advertising until you get a
decent product on the field.”

Martha bristled both at Malone’s use of her
first name and at his clammy, patronizing tone. When it came to
products, she wanted to tell him that his beer sucked way worse
than her team, which it surely did. Malone wouldn’t know a “decent
product” from horse pee.

“The bank agrees,” Cockburn said
sonorously.

“As does SportsNet,” Roberts piled on.

Martha thought she finally understood what a
quarterback felt like after getting brutally sacked on the opening
play from scrimmage. Slash costs? She and her staff had already
gone through that exercise, paring in non-essential areas. What did
they expect her to do? Fire Jane and the rest of the office staff?
Axe the marketing director and his people?

She nudged Geoffrey with her elbow, and for
the first time he looked at her directly. But she could read no
message of support in his expression, and he seemed to have no
intention of speaking this morning at all.

“Well, what kind of cuts would satisfy you?”
she asked, feeling more helpless by the second.

Malone looked at Cockburn, who nodded.
“Whatever it takes to balance your income and expenses, of course,”
Malone said. “And to meet your loan payment obligations.”

Martha knew exactly what message was being
delivered. And they hadn’t even had the courtesy to let her finish
her presentation.

She fixed Cockburn with a cold stare. “Let’s
cut to the chase, then, shall we? Do I take it to mean that First
Coast National is not inclined to extend our line of credit?” Even
saying the words made her stomach cramp. Despite the dire
situation, she’d held onto some hope the bank and the sponsors
would give her team a few more months to turn it around. Now, it
looked like all might be lost.

“Let me say this,” Cockburn said, as pompous
as a judge delivering a verdict. “The bank wants to avoid a
bankruptcy filing as much as you do, Ms. Winston. Once you have
prepared a plan for an immediate and major reduction in costs, we
will sit down again with you to discuss extension of the line of
credit for the remainder of the season. I would ask you to have a
fully fleshed-out plan in that regard ready by no later than this
time next week. But unless we find that plan to be fully
satisfactory, I have to advise you that the flow of funds from the
bank will cease as of that day.”

Cut or die was the clear message Martha
heard.

Martha started to respond, but Cockburn spoke
over top of her. “Before you say anything, Ms. Winston, my strong
advice to you, on behalf of the bank, is that you seriously
consider trying to sell your franchise to an owner with the
financial means to actually carry out the kind of turnaround plan
you’ve spoken of.”

“While the team’s still worth something,”
Finley Roberts said with something like a smirk.

Out of the corner of her eye, Martha caught
her uncle’s nod toward Malone. It was a barely perceptible
movement, but she understood what she saw.

Squashing the flare of useless anger, she
kept her eyes fixed on the executioners in front of her. The
discussion with Geoffrey would come later.

“Martha, there’s one more thing we need to
discuss before we end the meeting,” Malone said.

Martha bared her teeth in a parody of a
smile. “Then lay it on me, boys. I’m all ears.”

Malone huffed as if she’d actually called him
by the uncharitable name that had shot to the tip of her tongue. “I
regret to tell you that you’ll be getting a letter tomorrow from
Steam Train Breweries containing formal notice of termination of
our sponsorship agreement.”

She blinked rapidly several times, trying to
absorb the final hammer blow.

Thirty days
. That was all she had. The
contract Will Winston had signed with Steam Train stipulated that
either party could terminate the agreement on thirty days’ notice.
But thirty days was two weeks before the season was even over. She
couldn’t understand why Malone would pull out with two weeks to go,
other than to be ridiculously punitive.

Losing Steam Train not only exacerbated the
current crisis, it left a huge hole to fill for the following
season.
If
there was even going to be a following season,
she thought bitterly, her stomach so sour she could have swallowed
a whole bottle of Maalox on the spot.

She reacted with pure instinct. “That’s a
game misconduct for unnecessary roughness,” she snapped, jabbing
her finger at the brewery boss. “Head to the penalty box,
Malone.”

Finley Roberts actually chuckled, drawing an
ice cold glare from the Steam Train CEO.

Martha was through playing nice. She’d come
to the meeting in good faith, as a humble supplicant in fact, and
had been prepared to endure skepticism and even condescension if it
would earn her team a reprieve from the executioner’s blade. But as
far as she was concerned, her professional approach and her
humility had been met with only rigidity and cool nastiness.

“Did you guys work out the details of this
little gang-up in advance, or does it just come naturally to
y’all?” She met the eyes of each of the five men individually, but
reserved a particularly venomous stare for Rance Malone. “Why do I
get the feeling there’s something going on here that your side of
the table is in on, but not ours? What’s the hidden agenda,
people?” She sneered at them. “I may be just a little slip of a
thing who inherited her daddy’s business, but my
woman’s
intuition
tells me you folks are up to no good at all.”

“Nonsense,” Cockburn said, looking a little
uncomfortable. “We’re simply protecting our shareholders, as is our
duty. You make it sound like our position is personal, Ms. Winston.
I can only imagine what your father would say if he could hear you
spouting such rubbish. Will was an honorable man, and his word was
his bond. If he’d been faced with the choices confronting you, I
have no doubt we could have worked together closely to solve this
problem.” He stood, followed immediately by his assistant and then
the others.

Shut up, little girl, and follow orders like
your daddy would have done.

That’s what the bastards were saying to her.
She glared after them, thoughts of murder and mayhem racing through
her brain.

“Let it go,” Kieran said gently when she
didn’t rise from her chair. “There’s nothing for us here
today.”

In despair, Martha watched the backs of the
five suits as they trooped out of the conference room. As bad as
she’d imagined the outcome of this meeting could be, she’d never
envisioned anything as devastating as what they’d just
suffered.

As both Kieran and Geoffrey got up, she
stayed glued to her chair, staring straight ahead with unseeing
eyes. In her mind, all she could see was Tony Branch’s ruggedly
handsome face. Tony Branch, the man she’d have taken to her bed in
a heartbeat last night had it not been for the team. Tony Branch,
the man who, ironically, might be the only one who could save the
Thunder.

One phone call to Tony could end the misery.
And get Geoffrey off her back at last.

Martha finally grasped Kieran’s outstretched
hand. Kieran was about the same age as her father would have been
now, and there was even a tiny bit of resemblance between them,
especially in the kindness of their gazes. As she stared at her GM,
she thought she could even see Will Winston. He was giving her a
puzzled smile, and she could imagine her daddy’s thoughts.

Wasn’t I crystal clear, sweetheart? I
didn’t just ask you to promise to save the team. I asked you to
make a solemn vow that you’d
keep the team in our family.
That the Jacksonville Thunder and the Winstons would remain
synonymous.

“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.”