Bigger Than Beckham (2 page)

Her uncle had been as nasty as a starving
gator ever since that day, despite the obvious logic that should
have told him Will Winston would leave his estate to his only
child. Martha had been forced to conclude that, against the odds,
her uncle must have expected to inherit the team. But that made no
sense, since his brother had known full well that Geoffrey lacked
both the business acumen and the self-discipline to be in charge of
anything other than picking up beer at the supermarket.

Hoping to ratchet down the tension, Martha
forced a small smile. “Not at all, Geoffrey. But, after all, I’m
the one with the most to lose here. Not you.”

She turned her eyes back toward the field.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, prompting her
to push the sunglasses down onto her nose. Most of the two thousand
or so fans were already filing out of the stadium. As hot, muggy
air shimmered up from the pitch, she watched the slick-passing
Dallas team play keep-away, their precise passes in mid-field
running out the mere seconds remaining in the match.

“Kieran, I can hardly blame the fans for
booing like that,” she said, glancing at her GM. “Not after seven
home losses in a row. Hell, I’m starting to think that if this
losing streak keeps going, we might need armed guards and Kevlar
vests to get out of the stadium alive,” she finished, trying to
make a joke out of the gloomy situation.

Sweating profusely despite the air
conditioning, Kieran wiped perspiration from his brow. Martha knew
he felt the heavy weight of responsibility for the team’s dreadful
record, and she knew how much it ate away at him.

“God, you may not be far wrong, lass. And I’m
getting too old to outrun them.” Kieran grimaced. “The lads play
well enough in spurts, but they can’t manage to keep it up for the
full ninety minutes. Too many mental lapses and not enough
leadership on the field. And not enough heart, either.”

Geoffrey shook his head in vigorous
agreement. “Damn right, McLeod. No heart. No bloody heart at
all.”

Compared to Kieran, Martha was a soccer
novice, but it didn’t take any kind of expert to know the truth of
his sober assessment. “It’s frustrating, for sure. As management,
we’ve been doing a decent job, what with all the new promo, the
upgraded entertainment, the fan giveaways.” One of Martha’s first
acts as the new CEO had been to almost double spending on promotion
in a desperate attempt to raise the team’s profile in a tough
market dominated by pro football, along with college football and
hoops. But an early small spike in attendance had been quickly
followed by another vicious slide as the latest losing streak took
hold like a deadly virus.

She studied her weary GM, squashing the
impulse to pull her punches. In the end, it was the general manager
who had to assume responsibility for the players he’d signed. “But
all the promo in the world isn’t going to get more butts into
seats, Kieran, unless the guys down there on the field start
scoring some damn goals.”

“You have such a talent for stating the
obvious,” Geoffrey scoffed, propping his beer on his round
belly.

Martha ignored him, determined to avoid a
scene in front of staff. “We’ve just about run out of time, Kieran.
The good old U.S.A. isn’t England or Scotland or Italy. Fans in
those countries are so loyal that they’ll spend their whole lives
supporting losing teams through thick and thin. But it’s not even
remotely like that over here. Not many people in this town or
anywhere else in the country will quietly suffer losers for long.”
She managed a half-hearted smile. “Other than the Chicago Cubs, of
course.”

“The Jaguars are rebuilding again,” McLeod
said weakly.

Martha exhaled a deep sigh. “We’re not the
Jags, and this isn’t football. Soccer is so far down the totem pole
of popular sports that I get vertigo just thinking about it. High
school football draws more fans—way more.”

“That’s the pity, isn’t it?” McLeod said,
sounding more gloomy Scots by the second. The man had never hidden
his dismay with the sometimes fickle nature of North American fans
and their seemingly endless resistance to embracing the game that
captivated nearly every other country on Earth.

“More like a catastrophe.” Martha sighed.
“We’re hemorrhaging both money and credibility.”

She looked back at the soccer pitch as the
referee blew his whistle to end the match. While most of the
Thunder players began to exchange desultory handshakes with their
Dallas foes, some simply turned and trudged toward their clubhouse.
Martha’s anger ignited when her highest-paid player, Derek
Kavanagh, ignored half a dozen fans thrusting programs toward him
in hopes for an autograph. He and his buddy, Diego Flores, strolled
side-by-side, locked in conversation, too arrogant or dense to
interact in the most basic way with the people that ultimately paid
their salaries. Kavanagh had been ticketed by her father to be the
talented and sexy star that could draw fans in droves—especially
female fans—to Thunder games in the way David Beckham had done in
Los Angeles. Instead, his lackadaisical play and obvious detachment
had become a continuing embarrassment.

“Look at Kavanagh and Flores,” she snapped.
“Have y’all ever seen bigger dimwits? Those two slackers could
teach a hell of a course in how to alienate fans.”

McLeod’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“The fans aren’t going to stand for it if we
don’t make some moves, Kieran,” Martha added into the uncomfortable
silence.

“I’ve been saying that for weeks,” Geoffrey
huffed. “Of course we have to take some action.” He gave an
exaggerated shrug that jiggled the beer still propped on his belly.
“But, realistically, it’s probably too late to save the team.”

Martha’s instinct was to snap back, but she
schooled her features into a calm, concerned expression—the one her
father would have adopted in this situation.

“You know how much I’d love to ship Kavanagh
and Flores out of here. But we can’t get anybody interested in
making us an offer for either of those guys unless we’re prepared
to eat most of their salaries.” She swallowed against the
tightening in her throat. “And we all know we can’t afford to do
that.”

McLeod nodded while Geoffrey simply gave her
a sarcastic eye roll.

She sighed. There was no point rehashing what
they
couldn’t
do. Her wonderful but sometimes overly
optimistic father had saddled the team with two over-priced
superstars who played as if coming to America was the equivalent of
the third circle of hell. “So, what
can
we do? We’d better
come up with some new ideas, and fast.”

Geoffrey swiped a hand across his wet lips.
“How many times do I have to tell you two? We should have fired
that idiot Brockton long ago. Everybody knows that if you can’t get
rid of the players, you sack the damn manager. You should know
that, Martha, what with all those years you spent
writing
about sports.”

This time, she did glare at her uncle.
Geoffrey would never let her forget that she came into ownership of
the team with not a whit of business experience. In her uncle’s
eyes, his elder brother had committed a travesty by entrusting the
Thunder to his daughter’s obviously incompetent female hands.

Martha savored the impulse to order Geoffrey
out of her suite right now, and even banish him permanently. The
idea tempted her now more than ever given the frazzled state of her
nerves. These past few months she’d been riding on the edge, hardly
recognizing herself. The good humor and
sang-froid
that came
naturally to her were fraying fast under the heavy weight of the
unwanted responsibility for her father’s beloved team.

“I have to disagree. Sam Brockton is a first
class manager and we’re lucky to have him,” Kieran interjected in a
brusque voice. “He’s got a lifetime winning record, and he turns
teams into winners. Sam’s doing a good job, but he can’t score
goals himself.”

“He can’t motivate his players to do it,
either.” Geoffrey directed a contemptuous glance at Martha. “As you
correctly pointed out, darling, the fans and the media want action.
They don’t want an owner who sits up here in her air-conditioned
suite wringing her hands while her team goes into meltdown.” He
slammed his beer bottle onto the counter. “It’s time you started
facing facts. If you can’t run this team, then maybe the time has
come to sell it to someone who can.”

Unfortunately, Geoffrey wasn’t saying
anything Martha hadn’t already thrashed around in her own head a
thousand times. Yes, she was totally green when it came to pro
soccer, and to business in general for that matter. And she might
even be in over her head with a team that was spiraling downward
faster than rainwater in a storm sewer. But Daddy had known her
limitations even better than she did herself, and still he’d
entrusted her with control of his beloved Thunder.

She worked her jaw, trying to get it to relax
as she glanced toward the bar at the back of the modestly appointed
suite. “Rosaria, you can go now. And thanks very much for all your
help today.”

Even though Martha was confident she could
rely on the attendant’s discretion, she didn’t want to take even
the slightest chance. The ongoing family warfare hadn’t yet become
fodder for the media and she was determined to keep it that way. So
far Geoffrey had kept his mouth shut in public, but that sure
wasn’t something Martha could take to the bank in future.

Rosaria gave her a grateful smile, then
quickly gathered her things and slipped out.

When the door clicked shut, Martha wheeled on
her uncle, bracing her hands on her hips as she stared at him.
“Geoffrey, do you really have the gall to tell me I should sell the
team when you know that’s exactly what my father made me promise
not
to do?”

She stopped, physically biting her tongue.
Her father, the kindest man on the planet, had loved and tried to
take care of Geoffrey, despite the jerk’s combative nature. She
knew the last thing he would want was a rupture between his only
daughter and his only sibling.

“Is that really what you want, Uncle?” Martha
softened her voice. “You want me to throw up my hands and slink
back to Philadelphia after only four months?”

Geoffrey hauled himself to his feet. His eyes
were two inches below Martha’s even though he puffed himself up.
“Darling, what I really wish for is an angel to descend from the
heavens and deliver us a couple of strikers who can score, and a
midfielder or two who can get the ball to them.” He shot her a
disdainful look as he buttoned his sports jacket. “But that’s more
your
modus operandi
, isn’t it? Wishing instead of
acting.”

Biting back the harsh words on the tip of her
tongue, Martha tried again. “Geoffrey, please. Enough with the
sarcasm. Just answer the question. Are you really saying you want
to give up and sell, and to hell with Daddy’s wishes?”

Geoffrey strolled to the door of the box
before deigning to answer. “Martha, my brother left us with a Jesus
mess, and you’ve only managed to make it even worse. I’m not sure
we’ve any other choice but to sell, especially as long as you
remain in charge.”

Giving her a nasty little smile, he
maneuvered his bulk through the door and thumped it shut behind
him.

McLeod let out a disdainful snort. “Good
riddance if you ask me.”

Casting him a weary smile, Martha flopped
down on one of the two leather sofas and grabbed her bag, giving it
a quick inspection for damage. Kieran grabbed his beer from the
counter that ran underneath the windows of the box and then sat
down heavily on the other sofa. They stared at each other across
the ninety-degree angle, each apparently reluctant to break the
fragile peace.

What had begun as a relatively civil evening
with her uncle had deteriorated into yet another disaster. The team
was at sea, the owners were floundering, and no one had a formula
for righting the ship. Not the field manager, not the general
manager, and not Martha, who saw it as a damn chicken and egg
situation. The team wouldn’t survive without making more money, and
making more money meant selling a lot more tickets. But selling
more tickets meant winning games, and winning games meant fielding
a better team. Bringing it full circle, fielding a better team
meant spending more money. Lots of it. Especially if she couldn’t
dump the high-paid underperformers.

But at least now she knew exactly where she
stood with her minority partner—with her back firmly against the
wall.

“No matter what we do, it all comes down to
money,” she finally said grumpily. “The rich teams get richer, and
the poor get screwed.” Martha had covered pro sports for years and
knew that was the way things worked in that world. But it still
made her crazy.

“Always, lass. Why do you think a handful of
wealthy clubs have totally dominated English football for twenty
years?”

Martha nodded. “My father had some money, but
he was sure no Roman Abramovitch,” she said, invoking the name of
the Russian billionaire who’d bankrolled Chelsea into a powerhouse
in the English Premier League. “Daddy sank what he had into the
team but it was never enough, especially not with horrid mistakes
like signing Kavanagh and Flores. And now it feels like the last
damn days of Pompeii around here.”

McLeod clucked his tongue in a soothing
noise. “We can’t let ourselves get too down, though. We’ve got to
look and act confident in that meeting with the money men this
week, even if we’re the modern version of Christians being fed to
the lions.”

Martha gave a ghost of a laugh. “Human
sacrifice just about captures the sense of the situation.”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall
back against the buttery fabric of the sofa. Kieran knew their
financial picture all too well, and the tough odds she would face
when she went cap-in-hand to her bankers and sponsors.