Trey was on the sofa with his leg propped up on pillows. The small den resembled a landfill—dirty dishes, empty pizza cartons, a few beer and soda cans. The TV was running old
Wheel of Fortune
shows, and a stereo in the bedroom was playing old Motown.
“Brought you a sandwich,” Rick said, placing a bag on the cluttered coffee table. Trey waved the remote and the TV went mute.
“Thanks.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Great,” he said with a hard frown. A nurse stopped by three times a day to tend to his needs and bring the painkillers. He had been very uncomfortable and complained about the pain. “How’d we do?”
“Easy game, beat ’em by fifty points.”
Rick settled himself into a chair and tried to ignore the debris.
“So you didn’t miss me.”
“Lazio is not very good.”
The easy smile and carefree attitude were gone, replaced by a sour mood and truckload of self-pity. That’s what a compound fracture will do to a young athlete. The career, however Trey defined it, was over, and the next phase of life was beginning. Like most young athletes, Trey had given little thought to the next step. When you’re twenty-six years old, you’ll play forever.
“Is the nurse taking care of you?” Rick asked.
“She’s good. I get a new cast Wednesday, and leave Thursday. I need to get home. I’m going crazy here.”
They watched the silent TV screen for a long time. Rick had stopped by daily since Trey left the hospital, and the tiny apartment was growing smaller. Maybe it was the trash piling up, or the unwashed laundry, or the windows closed tight and covered. Maybe it was just Trey sinking further into his gloominess. Rick was happy to hear he would be leaving so soon.
“I never got hurt on defense,” Trey said, staring at the TV. “I’m a defensive back, never got hurt. Then you put me on offense, and here I am.” He tapped the cast hard for dramatic effect.
“You’re blaming me for your injury?”
“I never got hurt on defense.”
“That’s a bunch of crap. You saying only offensive players get hurt?”
“I’m just talking about me.”
Rick was bristling and ready to bark, but he took a breath, swallowed hard, looked at the cast, then let it pass. After a few minutes, he said, “Let’s go to Polipo’s for pizza tonight?”
“No.”
“Would you like for me to bring you a pizza?”
“No.”
“A sandwich, a steak, anything?”
“No.” And with that, Trey lifted the remote, punched a button, and a happy little housewife purchased a vowel.
Rick eased from the chair and quietly left the apartment.
He sat in the late-afternoon sunshine at an outdoor table and drank a Peroni from a frosty mug. He puffed on a Cuban cigar and watched the ladies walk by. He felt very alone and wondered what on earth he might do for an entire week to keep himself occupied.
Arnie called again, this time with some excitement in his voice. “The Rat is back,” he announced triumphantly. “Got hired yesterday by Saskatchewan, head coach. First call he made was to me. He wants you, Rick, right now.”
“Saskatchewan?”
“You got it. Eighty grand.”
“I thought Rat hung it up years ago.”
“He did, moved to a farm in Kentucky, shoveled horse shit for a few years, got bored. Saskatchewan fired everybody last week, and they’ve coaxed Rat out of retirement.”
Rat Mullins had been hired by more pro teams than Rick. Twenty years earlier he had created a wacky machine-gun offense that passed on every play and sent waves of receivers racing in all directions. He became notorious, for a spell, but over the years fell out of favor when his teams couldn’t win. He had been the offensive coordinator for Toronto when Rick played there, and the two had been close. If Rat had been the head coach, Rick would’ve started every game and thrown fifty times.
“Saskatchewan,” Rick mumbled as he flashed back to the city of Regina and the vast wheat plains around it. “How far is that from Cleveland?”
“A million miles. I’ll buy you an atlas. Look, they draw fifty thousand a game, Rick. It’s great football, and they’re offering eighty grand. Right now.”
“I don’t know,” Rick said.
“Don’t be silly, kid. I’ll have it up to a hundred by the time you get here.”
“I can’t just walk away, Arnie, come on.”
“Of course you can.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s a no-brainer. This is your comeback. It starts right now.”
“I have a contract here, Arnie.”
“Listen to me, kid. Think about your career. You’re twenty-eight years old, and this opportunity won’t come again. Rat wants you in the pocket with that great arm of yours firing bullets all over Canada. It’s beautiful.”
Rick chugged his beer and wiped his mouth.
Arnie was on a roll. “Pack your bags, drive to the train station, park the car, leave the keys on the seat, and say adios. What’re they gonna do, sue you?”
“It’s not right.”
“Think about yourself, Rick.”
“I am.”
“I’ll call you in two hours.”
Rick was watching television when Arnie called again. “They’re at ninety grand, kid, and they need an answer.”
“Has it stopped snowing in Saskatchewan?”
“Sure, it’s beautiful. First game’s in six weeks. The mighty Roughriders, played for the Grey Cup last year, remember? Great organization and they’re ready to roll, pal. Rat’s standing on his head to get you there.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
“You’re thinking too much, kid. This ain’t complicated.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
Chapter
20
Sleep, though, was impossible. He rambled through the night, watched television, tried to read, and tried to shake the numbing guilt that consumed any thought of running away. It would be so easy, and could be done in such a way that he would never be forced to face Sam and Franco and Nino and all the rest. He could flee at dawn and never look back. At least that’s what he told himself.
At 8:00 a.m. he drove to the train station, parked the Fiat, and walked inside. He waited an hour for his train.
· · ·
Three hours later he arrived in Florence. A cab took him to the Hotel Savoy, overlooking the Piazza della Repubblica. He checked in, left his bag in the room, and found a table outside at one of the many cafés around the bustling piazza. He punched the number for Gabriella’s cell, got a recording in Italian, but decided not to leave a message.
Halfway through lunch, he called her again. She seemed reasonably pleased to hear his voice, a little surprised maybe. A few stutters here and there but she
warmed up considerably as they chatted. She was at work, though she didn’t explain what she was doing. He suggested they meet for a drink at Gilli’s, a popular café across from his hotel and, according to his guidebook, a great place for a late-afternoon drink. Sure, she eventually said, at 5:00 p.m.
He drifted along the streets around the piazza, flowing with the crowd, admiring the ancient buildings. At the duomo, he was almost crushed by a mob of Japanese tourists. He heard English, and lots of it, all coming from packs of what appeared to be American college students, almost all of whom were female. He browsed the shops on the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient bridge over the Arno River. More English. More college girls.
When Arnie called, he was having an espresso and studying his guidebook at a café at the Piazza della Signoria, near the Uffizi, where mobs of tourists waited to see the world’s greatest collection of paintings. He had decided he would not tell Arnie where he was.
“Sleep well?” Arnie began.
“Like a baby. It’s not going to work, Arnie. I’m not walking out in the middle of the season. Maybe next year.”
“There won’t be a next year, kid. It’s now or never.”
“There’s always next year.”
“Not for you. Rat’ll find another quarterback, don’t you understand?”
“I understand better than you, Arnie. I’ve made the circuit.”
“Don’t be stupid, Rick. Trust me on this.”
“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?”