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 cafes 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 cafe 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 cafe 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.