“What about loyalty?”
“Loyalty? When was the last time a team was loyal to you, kid? You’ve been cut so many times …”
“Careful, Arnie.”
A pause, then, “Rick, if you don’t take this deal, then you can find another agent.”
“I was expecting that.”
“Come on, kid. Listen to me.”
Rick was napping in his room when his agent called again. An answer of no was only a temporary setback for Arnie. “Got ’em up to a hundred grand, okay? I’m working my ass off here, Rick, and I’m getting nothing from your end. Nothing.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Here’s the deal. The team will buy you a ticket to fly over and meet with Rat. Today, tomorrow, soon, okay? Real soon. Will you please do this just for me?”
“I don’t know …”
“You got a week off. Please, Rick, as a favor for me. God knows I deserve it.”
“Let me think about it.”
He slowly closed the phone while Arnie was still talking.
· · ·
A few minutes before five he found a table outside of Gilli’s, ordered Campari on the rocks, and tried not to look at every female who crossed the piazza. Yes, he admitted to himself, he was quite nervous but also excited. He had not seen Gabriella in two weeks, nor had he spoken with her on the phone. No e-mails. No contact whatsoever. This little rendezvous would determine the future of the relationship, if indeed there was a future. It could be a warm reunion with one drink leading to another, or it could be stiff and awkward and the final dose of reality.
A small pack of college girls descended on a table close by. They all talked at once—half on cell phones, the others rattling on at full volume. Americans. Accents from the South. Eight of them, six blondes. Jeans mainly, but a couple of very short skirts. Tanned legs. Not a single textbook or notebook among them. They slid two tables together, pulled chairs, arranged bags, hung jackets, and in the flurry of properly settling in, all eight managed to keep talking.
Rick thought about moving, but then changed his mind. Most of the girls were cute, and the English was comforting, even if it came in torrents. From somewhere inside Gilli’s, a waiter pulled the short straw and ventured forth to take their orders, primarily wine, with none of the requests in Italian.
One spotted Rick, then three more glanced over. Two lit cigarettes. For the moment, no cell phones were in use. It was now ten minutes after five.
Ten minutes later, he called Gabriella’s cell and listened to the recording. The southern belles were discussing, among other things, Rick and whether he was Italian or American. Could he even understand them? They really didn’t care.
He ordered another Campari, and this, according to one of the brunettes, was clear evidence that he was not an American. They suddenly dropped him when someone mentioned a shoe sale at Ferragamo.
Five thirty came and went, and Rick was beginning to worry. Surely she would call if there was a delay, but maybe she wouldn’t if she decided not to meet him.
One of the brunettes in one of the miniskirts appeared at his table and quickly fell into the chair across from him. “Hello,” she said with a dimpled smile. “Can you settle a bet?” She glanced at her friends, and so did Rick. They were watching with curiosity. Before he could say anything, she continued: “Are you waiting on a man or a woman? It’s half-and-half at our table. The losers buy the drinks.”
“And your name is?”
“Livvy. Yours?”
“Rick.” And for a millisecond he was terrified of using his last name. These were Americans here. Would they recognize the name of the Greatest Goat in the history of the NFL?
“What makes you think I’m waiting on anyone?” Rick asked.
“It’s pretty obvious. You glance at your watch, dial a number, don’t say anything, watch the crowd, check the time again. You’re definitely waiting on someone. It’s just a silly bet. Pick one—male or female.”
“Texas?”
“Close, Georgia.”
She was really cute—soft blue eyes, high cheekbones, silky dark hair that fell almost to her shoulders. He wanted to talk. “A tourist?”
“Exchange student. And you?”
Interesting question with a complicated answer. “Just business,” he said.
Quickly bored, most of her friends were talking again, something about a new disco where the French boys hung out.
“What do you think, man or woman?” he asked.
“Maybe your wife?” Her elbows were on the table and she was leaning closer, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
“Never had one.”
“Didn’t think so. I’d say you’re waiting on a woman. It’s after business hours. You don’t look like the corporate type. You’re definitely not gay.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, definitely.”
If he admitted he was waiting on a woman, then he might look like a loser who was being stiffed. If he said he was waiting on a man, then he would look stupid when (and if) Gabriella arrived. “I’m not waiting on anyone,” he said.
She smiled because she knew the truth. “I doubt that.”
“So where do the American college girls hang out in Florence?”
“We have our places.”
“I might be bored later.”
“Care to join us?”
“Certainly.”
“There’s a club called …” She paused and looked at her friends, who had moved on to the urgent matter of another round of drinks. Instinctively, Livvy decided not to share. “Give me your cell number and I’ll call you later, after we make some plans.”
They swapped numbers. She said, “Ciao,” and returned to her table, where she announced to the pack that there were no winners, no losers. Rick over there was waiting on no one.
After waiting for forty-five minutes, he paid for his drinks, winked at Livvy, and got lost in the crowd. One more phone call to Gabriella, one final effort, and when he heard the recording, he cursed and slapped the phone shut.
An hour later he was watching TV in his room when his phone rang. It wasn’t Arnie. It wasn’t Gabriella. “The girl didn’t show, did she?” Livvy began cheerily.
“No, she didn’t.”
“So you’re all alone.”
“Very much.”
“Such a waste. I’m thinking about dinner. You need a date?”
“Indeed I do.”
They met at Paoli’s, a short walk from his hotel. It’s an ancient place, with one long dining hall under a vaulted ceiling covered with medieval frescoes. It was packed, and Livvy happily confessed that she had pulled strings to get a table. It was a small one, and they sat very close together.
They sipped white wine and worked through the preliminaries. She was a junior at the University of Georgia, finishing her last semester abroad, majoring in art history, not studying too hard, and not missing home.
There was a boy at Georgia, but he was a temp. Disposable.
Rick swore he had no wife, no fiancée, no steady relationship. The girl who didn’t show was an opera singer, which of course changed the direction of the conversation considerably. They ordered salads, pappardelle with rabbit, and a bottle of Chianti.
After a hearty pull of wine, he gritted his teeth and addressed the issue of football head-on. The good (college), the bad (the nomadic pro career), and the ugly (his brief appearance last January for the Cleveland Browns).
“I haven’t missed football,” she said, and Rick wanted to hug her. She explained that she had been in Florence since September. She did not know who won the SEC or national title, and really didn’t care. Nor did she have any interest in pro football. She had been a cheerleader in high school and had endured enough football to last a lifetime.
Finally, a cheerleader in Italy.
He briefly described Parma, its Panthers, the Italian league, then moved the topics back to her side of the table. “There seem to be a
lot of Americans here in Florence,” he said.
She rolled her eyes as if she was fed up with Americans. “I couldn’t wait to study abroad, dreamed about it for years, and now I’m living with three of my sorority sisters from Georgia, none of whom has any interest in learning the language or absorbing the culture. It’s all shopping and discos. There are thousands of Americans here, and they stick together like geese.” She might as well be in Atlanta. She often traveled alone to see the countryside and to get away from her friends.
Her father was a noted surgeon who was having an affair that was causing a protracted divorce. Things were messy back home, and she was not excited about leaving Florence when the semester ended in three weeks. “Sorry,” she said, when she wrapped up the family summary.
“No problem.”
“I’d like to spend the summer traveling in Italy, away, finally, from my sorority, away from the frat boys who get drunk every night, and very far away from my family.”
“Why not?”
“Daddy’s paying the bills and Daddy says to come home.”
He had no plans beyond the season, which might stretch into July. For some reason, he mentioned Canada, maybe to impress her. If he played there, the season would go into November. This did not make an impression.
The waiter delivered heaping plates of pappardelle and rabbit, with a rich meat sauce that looked and smelled divine. They talked about Italian food and wine, about Italians in general, about the places she had already visited and the ones on her wish list.
They ate slowly, like everyone else at Paoli’s, and when they finished with the cheese and port, it was after eleven.
“I don’t really want to go to a club,” she admitted. “I’ll be happy to show you a couple, but I’m not in the mood. We go out so often.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Gelato.”
They walked across the Ponte Vecchio and found an ice cream shop that offered fifty flavors. Then he walked her to her apartment and kissed her good night.
Chapter
21
“It’s five o’clock in the morning here,” Rat began pleasantly. “Why the hell am I wide awake and calling you at five in the morning? Why? Answer me that, blockhead.”
“Hello, Rat,” Rick said as he visually choked Arnie for giving away his phone number.
“You’re a moron, you know that. A first-class idiot, but then we knew that five years ago, didn’t we? How are you, Ricky?”
“I’m fine, Rat, and you?”
“Super, off the charts, kicking ass already and the season hasn’t started.” Rat Mullins talked in a high pitch at full throttle and seldom waited for a response before he launched into his next verbal assault. Rick had to smile. He had not heard the voice in years, and it brought back fond memories of one of the few coaches who had believed in him. “We’re gonna win, baby, we’re gonna score fifty points a game, other team scores forty I don’t care, because they’ll never catch us. Told the boss yesterday that we need a new scoreboard, old one can’t count fast enough for me and my offense and my great quarterback, Blockhead Dockery. Are you there, boy?”
“I’m listening, Rat, as always.”
“So here’s the deal. The boss has already bought a round-trip ticket, first-class, you ass, didn’t spring one for me, rode back in coach, leaving Rome in the morning at eight, nonstop to Toronto, then to Regina, first-class again, Air Canada, a great airline, by the way. We’ll have a car at the airport when you touch down and tomorrow night we’ll be having dinner and creating brand-new, never-before-heard-of pass routes.”
“Not so fast, Rat.”
“I know, I know. You can be very slow. How well I remember, but—”
“Look, Rat, I can’t walk away from my team right now.”
“Team? Did you say team? I’ve been reading about your team. The guy in Cleveland, what’s his name, Cray, he’s all over your ass. A thousand fans for a home game. What is it, touch football?”
“I signed a contract, Rat.”
“And I got another one for you to sign. A much bigger one, with a real team in a real league with real stadiums that hold real fans. Television. Endorsements. Shoe contracts. Marching bands and cheerleaders.”
“I’m happy here, Rat.”
There was a pause as Rat caught his breath. Rick could see him in the locker room, at halftime, pacing frantically and talking wildly as both hands thrashed the air, then a sudden stop for air as he sucked in mightily before launching into the next tirade.
An octave lower and trying to sound wounded, he began, “Look, Ricky, don’t do this to me. I’m sticking my neck out. After what happened in Cleveland, well—”
“Drop it, Rat.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. But will you just come see me? Come visit and let me talk to you face-to-face? Can’t you do that for your old coach? No strings attached. The ticket’s bought, no refund, please, Ricky.”
Rick closed his eyes, massaged his forehead, and reluctantly said, “Okay, Coach. Just a visit. No strings.”
“You’re not as dumb as I thought. I love you, Ricky. You won’t be sorry.”
“Who picked the airport at Rome?”
“You’re in Italy, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s where Rome is, last I checked. Now find the damned airport and come see me.”
· · ·
He knocked back two quick Bloody Marys before takeoff and managed to sleep for most of the eight-hour flight to Toronto. Landing anywhere in North America made him anxious, regardless of how ridiculous such thoughts were. Killing time as he waited for the flight to Regina, he called Arnie and reported his whereabouts. Arnie was very proud. Rick e-mailed his mother, but did not say where he was. He e-mailed Livvy with a quick hello. He checked the Cleveland Post just to make sure Charley Cray had moved on to other targets. There was a note from Gabriella: “Rick, I am so sorry, but it would not be wise to see you. Please forgive me.”
He stared at the floor and decided not to reply to it. He called Trey’s cell, but there was no answer.
His two years in Toronto had not been unpleasant. It seemed so long ago, and he seemed so much younger back then. Fresh from college with big dreams and a long career ahead of him, he thought he was invincible. He was a work in progress, a greenhorn with all the tools, he just needed a little polish here and there, and before long he would start in the NFL.
Rick wasn’t sure if he still dreamed of playing in the big league.
An announcement mentioned Regina. He walked to a monitor and realized his flight had been delayed. He inquired at the gate and was told the delay was weather related. “It’s snowing in Regina,” the clerk said.
He found a coffee bar and ordered a diet soda. He checked out Regina and, yes, there was snow, and lots of it. “A rare Spring blizzard” was one description.
Killing time, he browsed through the Regina daily, the Leader-Post. There was football news. Rat was making noise, hiring a defensive coordinator, evidently one with very little experience. He’d cut a tailback, leading to speculation that a running game would not be necessary. Season tickets sales had topped thirty-five thousand, a record. A columnist, the type who drags himself to the typewriter and manages to write six hundred words four times a week, for thirty years now, regardless of how absolutely dead the sports world happens to be in Saskatchewan or wherever, mailed in a gossipy potpourri of things “heard on the street.” A hockey player had said no to surgery until the season was over. Another had separated from his wife, who had a suspicious broken nose.
Last paragraph: Rat Mullins confirmed that the Roughriders were talking to Marcus Moon, a scrambling-style quarterback with a quick