Out of her League: The Beautiful Game, #1

By Jane Godman

A big game needs big players.

Vidal Seguera, the fiery superstar turned coach of the Limehouse Legends, is the most famous name—and, through his multi-million-dollar modelling and sponsorship deals, face and body—in soccer, described as bigger than Beckham. Now the scandal-hit club is falling apart and, having failed in his bid to buy the Legends, Vidal faces the prospect of working with a new President.

Mel Brennan is young, and it's widely accepted in the press that she slept her way to the top at Man's World, the on-line pornography business where she was CEO, and that she knows nothing about running a soccer club. The newly appointed President of the Legends has her work cut out getting anyone, especially Vidal, to take her seriously. It's a case of distrust at first sight.

As Mel struggles to turn around the club's fortunes and fight the unseen forces working against her, she is also battling the intense attraction she feels toward Vidal. She has too many secrets to let a man she doesn't trust get close. As for Vidal, the emotional damage he suffered in the past means he'll never let anyone into his heart, especially not a gold-digger like Mel Brennan. By the time he begins to suspect Mel may not be all she seems, it may already be too late for both his heart and the club to recover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Godman
• Release date: Dec 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393301950

Jane Godman

Jane Godman is a Romantic Novelists’ Award winner and Daphne du Maurier Award finalist. She enjoys traveling and spending time with her family, including her dogs, Gravy and Vera.    

Book preview

Chapter One

A big game needs big players.

It was a phrase Vidal Seguera had heard a long time ago from his first professional coach. Amid all the recent scandal, back-stabbing, and media speculation, it reminded him that everyone in the club, at every level, needed to step up. Today, as he looked around the boardroom at the depleted leadership team, those words stayed with him. He knew everyone here was looking to him to somehow wave a magic wand and make the corruption, lies and mismanagement go away. They were waiting for Vidal, the man who, for as long as most of them could remember, had been the Legends, to make it all okay again.

But he couldn’t offer them the assurances they craved. He’d been five days away from being the big player they sought. Five lousy days. It might as well have been five years. He was still the Legends’ head coach, but Vidal had failed in his bid to buy the club. Someone else had beaten him to it and signed on the dotted line. Now they would all have to suck it up. The Limehouse Legends had a new owner, and the reason they had gathered here was because they were about to meet him. 

So what do we know about Ronnie Hawking? Vidal’s words, coming after such a lengthy silence, seemed to hang in the highly polished air of the boardroom.

Tom Duncan, Vice President of Financial Operations, cleared his throat and tapped a finger on the file in front of him. Forty-four. Divorced three times. As head of Man’s World, he’s the owner of six of the top ten on-line sex sites and a chain of affiliated clubs across the globe. On the less seedy side, he also runs a string of luxury hotels. There was talk of dodgy dealings in the early days, but he is totally legitimate now—

"Claro. Vidal cut across the other man, impatience ringing in each syllable. We’ve all read his resume. He was trending on social media minutes after the sale of the club was announced. But does our new owner actually know anything about soccer?"

He claims to be a lifelong Legends’ supporter, Jack Rush, Vice President of Communications, held up his electronic tablet to display a newspaper article. It was dominated by a photograph of a smiling Ronnie Hawking wearing the team’s blue and green colors and holding a Legends’ pennant triumphantly above his head. But he’s never been one of our community partners, and I can’t find any record of him making a donation. Nor has he attended any of our corporate functions. He’s from New York, not Maine, so I can’t see what his connection to Limehouse is. We’ll know soon enough, won’t we? Particularly as he’s bringing our newly appointed President with him.

And there are still no clues about who he’s chosen for the top job? Vidal asked.

It was infuriating that, even with their combined resources, they hadn’t been able to find out any information. This was one of the hottest stories in Major League Soccer, yet Ronnie Hawking had managed to keep the security surrounding his movements over the last few days completely watertight. If he’d been having meetings with his newly appointed President, not one whiff of when, where and—most important of all—who, had been leaked. 

Jack shook his head. The appointment of a new President is the key to getting us back on our feet. There were rumors he was going to poach a name from one of the top clubs, maybe make an approach to Chicago Fire or LA Galaxy, even go to Europe. My hunch is he’ll go for someone with a solid gold background outside of soccer. He’ll pay megabucks for a guy who’s run a big corporation—a newspaper, T.V. company, bank or airline. There were a few names being bandied about, but everything has gone quiet over the last twenty-four hours.

As if on cue, the phone at Vidal’s elbow rang. Picking up the receiver, he listened to the brief message before replacing it. It’s time to find out. Ronnie Hawking is on his way up.

The three men, together with the ticket sales, human resources and administration managers, had ranged themselves on one side of the smoked glass table that ran the length of the boardroom. Behind them, the floor length window overlooked the pitch and the wall at right angles was filled with pictures and trophies of the Legends’ triumphs. It was a vain attempt to recapture the glory days, Vidal thought, as he rose to his feet. There hadn’t been much that was glorious about the Legends’ recent history.

Ronnie Hawking was short and stocky and his bull-dog face broke into a delighted grin as he entered the room. The man at his side was so tall everyone else was instantly dwarfed. Vidal didn’t recognize him, but soccer club Presidents were not necessarily familiar faces in the same way that the players and coaches were. In addition to his height Hawking’s companion was solidly muscular. He managed to look both athletic and intelligent. It was a good combination in someone who was about to take charge of a soccer club.

Then a woman entered the room in the wake of the two men and every other thought was instantly driven out of Vidal’s head. Despite the gravity of the situation, once he looked her way, he found he couldn’t drag his eyes away again. From the top of her glossy, piled-up auburn hair to the tips of her skyscraper heels, she was perfection. Although she was dressed in a severely plain, black shift dress that just skimmed the curves of her body, there was something so sensuous in the way she moved across the room that Vidal’s breath caught slightly in his throat. For a man who had believed, until this precise moment, that he had trained himself not to react to feminine charm, it was an annoying lapse.

I reckon she must have worked her way up through the ranks from stripper to secretary, don’t you? Jack murmured.

Luckily the words broke Vidal’s trance and he stepped forward to greet the new owner of the Legends. Ronnie Hawking had a handshake like a death-grip. It was unnerving to think that this was the palm in which the king of internet pornography held all their fates.

So you’re the main man, Ronnie said, studying Vidal’s face with interest. I’ve heard the stories about how this club sells more posters and calendars of its coach than all the players put together. Now I can see why.

It was an unexpected approach, but it broke the ice. Vidal introduced Jack and Tom, both of whom were trying to contain their laughter. He knew the two Vice Presidents would take great delight in repeating the story to the players in the bar later. Vidal’s pin-up status was already a source of much hilarity in the locker room. He threw a warning glance in their direction as everyone sat down around the table.

Nicky here will make some notes of our conversation. Mel—who, of course, will be your new President—will probably want to throw a few ideas around and ask some questions. Both the big guy and the woman had already set their laptops on the table and had begun to make notes. Neither of them looked up. So, let’s get down to business. No messing around. We all know that the Limehouse Legends needs Hawking Enterprises a hell of a lot more than I need you.

The Legends is one of the oldest and biggest names in Major League Soccer, Mr. Hawking. There was a touch of boastfulness about Tom’s manner, and Vidal resisted the impulse to close his eyes. They had nothing to swagger about. 

That’s bullshit and you know it. Last season you finished in bottom place. If this was Europe, you’d have been relegated. We’re nearly halfway through this season and you haven’t won a game. You’ve got one of the best coaches in the business— Ronnie jabbed a finger in Vidal’s direction, —but his hands have been tied by lack of funds. Let’s not get into why that is. We all know the inquiry is still ongoing. I’m here to reverse the losing streak, but I’m not going to throw money at you just because you ask me to. Vidal will make the soccer decisions, but Mel is the one you’ll answer to for everything else.

Ronnie looked around the table, making sure he had the attention of all three members of the Legends’ leadership team. All of you. There will be no question on that score. Understood? It seemed a strange question. Since when did anyone in a soccer club question the power of its President? Jack and Tom nodded their agreement. Ronnie beamed at them and sat back in his chair. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a coffee.

No-one moved. Vidal glanced impatiently across the table at the woman Ronnie had brought with him. Her glossy head was still bent over her laptop as she typed a few notes. Maybe Jack was right, and she really was here just for decorative purposes. She didn’t seem to be much use as a secretary.

He leaned forward to get her attention. If you step outside and ask my personal assistant, she’ll help you organize the drinks. She looked up at that. Her eyes were a clear, jade green and he was caught in their full-on beam for an instant.

The big guy rose from his seat before she could speak. I’m right on it, he said. Sorry, Mel, I wanted to get that last sentence of Ronnie’s—the one about you being in charge—down in full. 

No problem. She slid her chair back from the table slightly and crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Her smile encompassed them all. She seemed completely relaxed. "Nicky here is my personal assistant. He’ll organize the coffee, Señor Seguera. While he does that, I have one or two changes I’d like to outline to you."

Melanie Róisín Brennan, tell me again what you do whenever someone says, ‘you can’t’? Her father’s broad Irish accent came back to her as clearly as if Seamus Brennan had been sitting next to her in the expensively glossy boardroom.

Kick ’em in the balls and show them you can. The memory of Mel’s own eleven-year-old response always strengthened her resolve. She needed to draw on it now as never before.

Can’t be done. Jack Rush—Mel glanced down at her notes to check his title. Vice President of Communications? Seriously? The only communicating he’d done so far had been in negatives—glanced in Vidal Seguera’s direction, seeking support. He got no response. The Legends’ Head Coach had been silent since his gaffe over the coffee. Nevertheless, Mel was acutely conscious that Vidal’s brilliant, sherry colored eyes hadn’t left her face once since she’d started speaking.

Reaching into her bag and drawing out a slim file, she slid it into the center of the table. None of the three men facing her so much as glanced at it.

That’s my feasibility study. If you have a report that contradicts my findings, Mr. Rush, have it on my desk by Friday. Ronnie is right when he says we can’t underestimate the scale of the challenge facing us. It was like talking to a row of waxworks. The way I see it, we have two jobs to do here. In the short term, we have to make the best of this season. We’re unlikely to emerge with any major prizes, but there’s still time to come out with our heads held high.

She could read their minds. Just who was this slip of a girl who, having invaded their territory, was daring to talk their talk? Where did she get the audacity to tell them how to win at their own game? She sensed a combination of pride and amusement emanating from Ronnie as he sat back and watched her, and it gave her the strength to plow on. Then there’s the long game. How do we get the club profitable again? As well as winning big, of course. My five-year plan is all in there.

I sweated blood over that report, you arrogant bastards. The least you can do is flip it open and pretend to read it before you tell me it can’t be done. Instead of speaking the words aloud, she maintained her professional facade.

We need to talk. Vidal broke the impasse, turning to address himself directly to Ronnie. In private.

Good idea. Tell you what, why don’t you show Mel where her office will be? You can be as private as you like that way. Ronnie’s grin informed Mel that he was enjoying himself as he deliberately misunderstood Vidal’s meaning. He liked to spring her on the opposition, calling her his ‘secret weapon’. Me and the boys— he nodded at Tom and Jack, —can chat about tomorrow’s press conference while we wait.

Vidal rose to his feet. He had been known as the Panther throughout his soccer career and even the expensive gray suit and crisp white shirt he wore couldn’t conceal the lithe, muscular strength of his body as he moved towards the door, motioning for Mel to precede him. There was no doubt about it, the man knew how to fill his clothes. Passing with inches of him as she stepped out into the corridor, Mel got a whiff of expensive cologne and restrained fury. 

Mel had done an internet search on the triumvirate of power holders at the Legends. Not that she’d needed her laptop to tell her anything about the man at its apex. Vidal Seguera was the most famous man in soccer. Given that Mel had been a fan since the day her father had taken her to see an under 21s match between the US and Spain when she was twelve, she already knew more about him than most.

She couldn’t remember the score or any details of that first match. All she could recall was the speed, skill and utter physical radiance of the eighteen-year-old Spanish striker. Even then he had been tipped for glory. And Vidal had fulfilled all that pent-up promise, becoming Spain’s most prolific goal scorer and playing for Real Madrid. His much-publicized move to the Limehouse Legends had signaled a successful career in the US before injury had brought his soccer playing days to an abrupt end. 

Mel hadn’t expected this to be easy, but when the man whose poster had been on her bedroom wall throughout her teenage years looked at her as if he’d just scraped her off the sole of his hand stitched Italian shoe... well, that was a special kind of insult. She adopted her standard response to any attempt to offend her, tilting her chin and squaring her shoulders.

The room she followed Vidal into resembled a large storeroom more than an office. Every surface, including the entire