Bigger Than Beckham (7 page)

Mama had been as beautiful on the inside as
she had been on the outside, and not a day went by that Martha
didn’t think of her with both love and regret that she’d been taken
so soon.

She quickly shucked out of her crisp poplin
dress and stepped into a pair of jeans. After rummaging through the
stack of tee shirts in her bureau, she opted for a pink Ralph
Lauren that almost matched the color of the room, figuring the
bright color might help cheer her up. Then she shoved her feet into
a pair of flip-flops and headed out to the spacious balcony off her
room. She’d chill for maybe an hour, letting the beautiful view of
the river sink into her, then order some pad Thai from a nearby
hole-in-the wall restaurant she had on speed-dial.

Martha had one foot through the sliding door
when her cell phone began to play a little jazz riff reminiscent of
Herbie Hancock. If it had been any other sound, she’d have let it
keep ringing. But it was her editor’s ring tone. She’d never ducked
a call from him yet and wasn’t about to start now. For all he’d
done for her over the years, she owed Martin James a thousand
graces.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Papa Bear?”
she drawled. “I haven’t heard from the canniest and handsomest
editor in the United States of America in, well, practically
forever.”

Martin chuckled. “Sunshine, you’re the only
woman I’ve ever met who can lie with such perfect sincerity.”

Martin James was on the wrong side of sixty
and suffering from an expanding belly and gimpy knees, but he’d
once been killer handsome. And during her time at the
Post,
Martha had learned to play him like a perfectly-tuned cello.
“Nonsense, Martin. You know what I always say—if I’m lyin’, I’m
dyin’.”

“If that were true, they’d have buried you
long before puberty,” James said dryly. “So how’s it going,
sweetpea? I see your boys aren’t exactly burning up the league, are
they? I’m real sorry about that.”

Martha shook her head. Her editor wouldn’t
shed a single tear if her team tumbled into sports oblivion
tomorrow. He’d like nothing better than to get his favorite writer
back full-time, a fact he’d made plain long before she’d even
cleared out her desk at the paper. He’d been furious when she’d
left, labeling her takeover of the Thunder as not just quixotic but
downright insane.

“
Stinking
up the league, more like,”
she said with a sigh. “Actually, I’ve been giving some serious
thought to suiting up myself. I couldn’t be much worse than some of
those guys. And at least I’d be a novelty. I’d work for beer money,
too.”

“Jesus, I’d definitely pay to see that. You’d
be quite a picture in shorts and knee socks. But, hey, I’ve got
something for you that might take your mind off your troubles for a
while.”

Martha leaned casually against the doorframe
even though her brain automatically kicked up to full alert. She
knew that cagy tone of voice. Martin reserved it for times when he
was about to hand over a ripe, juicy plum, and she found herself
reacting like Pavlov’s dog.

But then she remembered her responsibilities,
and her excitement deflated. “Martin, you’ll understand that I’m a
little busy down here, hon.”

“I get that, but listen to this. The chief
has just given me the go-ahead for a major feature on Colton
Butler. Colton told me a couple of days ago that he’s ready to
spill.” He paused, wheezing a little with excitement. “But only to
you, Martha. Only to you.”

“What?” Martha jerked upright, grabbing the
doorframe with her other hand.

“You heard me. Colton says he’ll give you the
real story—the drugs, the women, the rehab, the road back. All of
it. And it’ll be the truth, not the crap the tabloids make up.
You’d have about a month, and whatever budget you need. Within
reason, of course.” She could practically hear the grin in his
voice. “We need you on this one, sunshine.”

Martha’s knees were buckling, forcing her to
stagger back to her bed and flop down.
Colton Butler
.
Superstar golfer and world class dickwad.

Would Butler really talk to her? The guy had
obviously had a thing for her at one point, and had even casually
propositioned her after the ESPY Awards awhile back. She’d had to
clench her fists at her sides to stop from slapping the
superficially charming but black-hearted golf star. Even after he
got married to a lovely British girl, Butler still couldn’t keep it
in his pants, and maintained his reputation as a hard-living stud.
Twice since the ESPYs, he’d even drunk-dialed Martha in the middle
of the night, offering to fly to Philadelphia instantly if only
she’d see him. She’d told him she’d rather run a cheese grater over
her face, but—given what Martin had just said—even that imagery
hadn’t been a deterrent.

She exhaled a tense breath. A feature where
Butler would lay it all out? A piece like that would sell big
around the world, and could be the kind of story that could drive
her career a level higher than she’d even dreamed about. Maybe she
could even talk Butler into letting her expand the article to
book-length later.

“Well?” James said when she didn’t respond.
“You didn’t faint, did you? I didn’t hear a thump as you hit the
floor.”

Martha flopped back horizontal on the bed,
with her feet still planted on the hardwood. The band of muscles
circling her head had tightened in a sudden spasm. She grabbed at
her forehead with her free hand, massaging it with stiff fingers.
She
so
wanted to do this story. Every cell in her body
screamed at her to say yes.

“I didn’t faint, but I may be having a
stroke. Martin, where on God’s green Earth did this wild idea come
from?”

He hacked his usual smoker’s cough, followed
by a gulp of something Martha hoped was coffee and not the Scotch
he kept in a flask in his desk drawer.

“Sorry about that,” he managed. “Well, Butler
says he’s had it with all the flak he’s taken since he left the
tour. He’s coming back next month, starting with a tournament in
Australia, and says he wants to set the record straight. One
feature article, no holds barred. And, like I said, he wants you.
Only
you. He’s adamant about that.”

She almost groaned. “Martin, that doesn’t
make any sense. He and I have a bit of history. Not very good
history.”

“Hell, I didn’t interrogate the guy,” Martin
rasped. “All I know is that he’s offered this paper the best sports
feature we’ve had in probably a decade.”

Martin wasn’t exaggerating. This was a huge,
stinking deal.

But how could she accept the insanely
tempting assignment when her team was teetering toward bankruptcy?
Even if she could manage some time away from her responsibilities,
the optics would be a nightmare.

Get thee behind me, Martin.

“Hon, it’s a fabulous opportunity, and under
normal circumstances I’d give at least one arm to be able to do it.
But, damn, it just couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m trying to
save my team here. How could I drop everything and run?”

“Martha,” he said sternly. “Don’t even think
about turning this one down. I don’t know what the hell you think
you’re accomplishing down there with that gang of misfits and
losers, but whatever it is it’s not worth missing out on this
story.”

Martha slowly pulled herself vertical. Her
brain told her Martin had it right. In a month or two, the
Jacksonville Thunder could very well be history, and she’d be back
at her desk in Philadelphia, bawling into a Starbucks skinny latté
that she’d passed on the biggest opportunity of her career.

“How much time can you give me to think it
over?” Her throat was so tight she could barely force out the
words.

Martin literally growled. An image of a fat
brown bear rearing up in front of her jumped into her head. “About
as long as it’ll take me to fly down there and shake some sense
into that thick skull of yours.”

She squeezed her throbbing forehead with her
thumb and index finger. “Seriously, darlin’. This is hard for
me.”

She could sense him deflating. He gave a
wheezing sigh, his signal of frustrated capitulation.

“Oh, hell, I guess I can give you up to four
days. But not a minute more. Butler’s comeback is late next month,
so we’re facing a clear and tight deadline. And I don’t know what
in God’s name I’m going to tell the guy now.”

She exhaled a relieved sigh. “Tell him the
truth. Say I’m interested, but explain the mess I’m in down here,
and that I need a bit of time to sort some things out. He’ll
understand that I’ve got commitments.”

Like hell he will.

“Maybe I should just give him your cell
number,” Martin groused. “Then he can yell at you instead of
me.”

“Help me out here, Martin. Please.”

He wheezed a sigh. “Anybody else but you,
Martha Winston—”

“And that’s one of the myriad of reasons why
I love you, Papa Bear,” she interrupted. “Thanks so much. I’ll call
you in four days.”

She hung up, cutting off another growl.

Four days. If the meeting with the bank and
sponsors went completely south, she could still grab Martin’s
offer. It would be a small, silvery lining inside a big, black
cloud. A shiver of excitement skated across her skin.

That excitement lasted maybe a minute before
reality swamped her again. Researching and writing a feature like
the Butler piece would take at least a couple of weeks of work.
Knowing Colton Butler, he’d dole out information in microscopic
chunks, playing her every step of the way. That was just the way he
rolled. It might take half a dozen interviews before she’d have
squeezed everything out of him—everything he was willing to give
her.

How could she be away from the team for that
long? Especially now, at such a critical time.

Four days to decide.

She picked up her beer and headed back
downstairs. Cutting through the cavernous living room, she slowed
her pace as she passed the twin portraits of her mother and father.
The artist had painted the forty-year-old version of Will Winston
with a penetrating gaze and an endearing, if somewhat sly,
half-smile. The expression had perfectly captured his essence of
both kindness and dogged determination.

And that gaze stopped her in her tracks.

I brought you up better than that
. Her
father’s voice rang clear in her mind as his eyes stripped away her
thoughts of running away. Daddy had never run away from anything,
even in that horrible time after Mama’s death. Together, they had
stood their ground and fought their way back to something
resembling a normal life.

Martha gave the portrait a grim nod. Daddy
had loved his team, and she’d made him a solemn promise to do her
best by it. And damn it all, she wasn’t about to let him down.

Kieran McLeod lowered his eyes as Martha gave
him a quick hug. The general manager had asked for an urgent
meeting in her office, but he seemed nervous, almost embarrassed.
The potential reasons for why he might be acting so oddly made
prickles of anxiety dance across the back of her neck.

She retreated behind her desk, trying for a
light tone even though her heart felt as heavy as a cruise ship
anchor. “What’s the matter, hon?”

The general manager swallowed audibly as he
pulled a chair closer to her desk and sat. “Martha, I got a call
from Tom Flint in Los Angeles.”

Martha opened her eyes wide. Had the L.A.
Surf`s general manager called with an offer for one of her players?
If so, it couldn`t have been much to write home about, judging from
Kieran`s long face. “Your expression tells me he was
bottom-feeding.”

Kieran nodded. “At another time, I would have
told him where to shove an offer like that, but—”

“But in our dire circumstances, you felt
compelled to bring it to me,” Martha said, finishing his sentence.
“And you were right. So, let’s hear it. I’ve got my big girl
panties on.”

When McLeod didn’t smile, her gut
clenched.

“I suppose it’s not ridiculous when you look
at it from their point of view, and from where things stand for
us,” he said. “They’re offering to take Diego Flores off our hands,
and they’ll give us one of their reserve midfielders, Jamie
Crawford, in return.”

“And?” Martha said. There had to be more than
that, because Crawford wasn’t worth much more than a can of creamed
corn.

“And they’ll assume half of what’s left on
Flores’s contract.”

“Half,” Martha repeated. Half was actually
more than she’d expected, but it would still leave the Thunder on
the hook for about two million dollars over the remainder of the
contract. And that was a very tough nut to swallow. She wanted to
dump Flores, all right, but not be stuck paying him to play for
somebody else. Still…

“You’re right, Kieran. It’s not a bad offer
to a team that’s in a desperate situation. And trading Flores would
certainly get rid of a rotten influence.”