Bigger Than Beckham (37 page)

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?

As Malone sidled up, Martha thought she
noticed Geoffrey giving him a tiny smile. “What?” she snarled at
Malone.

“Could you and I talk for a moment please,
Martha? Let me buy you a cup of coffee.” Malone nodded to indicate
the coffee shop on the opposite corner of the street.

Her first thought was that she’d rather drink
motor oil than have coffee with the man who’d been instrumental in
pulling the financial rug out from under her feet. She so wanted to
blow him off with a thoroughly unladylike riposte. But she stopped
herself. Better to find out what the guy had rushed out to say, and
then have done with the whole sorry mess.

“Please excuse me, fellas,” she said quietly
to her group. “I’ll catch up with y’all back at the office
later.”

As Kieran led Bob and Geoffrey away, Martha
turned back to Malone. “Well, screw coffee. After what you reptiles
did in there, I could use a real drink.” She jerked her thumb
toward the Omni Hotel, one block over, and started to walk.

“You’re on.” Malone hurried to fall into
stride with her.

The two of them exchanged exactly zero words
as they trudged to the hotel and through the lobby to Juliette’s
Bistro. Martha refused to make eye contact with Malone until the
server had taken their orders. Though it wasn’t much past eleven
o’clock, she ordered Knob Creek. Malone showed his wimp colors by
ordering a white wine spritzer, of all things.

“So?” she said after tasting the premium
bourbon. “Go ahead and get it off your chest, Malone.”

In contrast to his behavior during the
meeting, Malone now seemed to have nothing for her but smiles.
“Look, Martha, I’m sure you must think we were pretty rough on you
back there. And I guess we kind of were, looking back on it now.
But please understand that Steam Train is a public company, just
like First Coast National Bank, and we have a Board of Directors
and some very demanding shareholders to answer to.” He drew in a
dramatic breath, as if it was all practically too much to bear.
“Honestly, if I could have found a reasonable and mutually
beneficial way to keep helping you out, I would have. But it’s
simply bad business for a company like mine to be joined at the hip
with a team that’s unfortunately become something of a joke. Of
course, it’s even worse to be associated with one that goes belly
up.”

Bile rose in Martha’s throat, chasing away
the fine taste of the liquor. She figured she might have heard more
condescending remarks in her life, but she couldn’t think of a
single one at the moment.

“It’s not exactly polite to call my team a
joke,
Rance
.” She almost said rancid, which is what she
always thought of when she heard his name. “In fact, it might even
be a little dangerous. I’m three inches taller than you are, and in
a damn sight better shape from what I can see.”

“No, no,” he said, holding his hands palms
up. “I didn’t mean to insult your team. Really, I was just trying
to explain that Steam Train didn’t have much of a choice, given the
facts. We’re in a box, just like you are.”

“Sorry, but that’s pure bullshit,” Martha
scoffed. “Your outfit is rolling in dough, even though your beer is
so bad it should be outlawed as a danger to public health. Now, are
there any more insults you’d like to dish out before I say sayonara
and get back to my joke of a team?” She finished the rest of her
bourbon in one swallow and set the glass down with finality.

“Well, yes, there is one more thing, and I’ll
get right to the point.” His eyes narrowed. “Martha, if you’re
interested in selling the team, Steam Train is interested in making
an offer.”

She gaped at him. She couldn’t help it, since
she wouldn’t have been more surprised if Malone had confessed to
having been a serial killer born to Martian parents. Buy the team?
Never before had the brewery expressed the slightest interest in
buying the Thunder.

Suddenly, though, things clicked into
place.

Steam Train, First Coast National Bank, and
SportsNet had obviously been working hand-in-glove. She’d
instinctively sensed some weird vibe going on with the three at
their last meeting, and they’d seemed glued at the hip whenever she
met them. It explained why the bank had suddenly found it
impossible to extend the line of credit even though her loans had
to be only a miniscule percentage of their total liabilities.