Instead of a nap, they attacked the churches of San Pietro Apostolo and San Rocco, then wandered through the Parco Ducale. She took photos and notes and absorbed the history and art, while Rick gamely trudged on in a sleepwalk. He collapsed in the sunshine and warm grass of the park, with his head in her lap, while she studied a map of the city. When he awoke, he finally coaxed her back to his apartment for a proper nap. At Polipo's Friday night after practice, Livvy was the star attraction. Their quarterback had found a lovely American girl, a former cheerleader at that, and the Italian boys were anxious to impress her. They sang bawdy songs and drained pitchers of beer. The story of Rick's mad dash to Cleveland to punch out Charley Cray had taken on legendary status. The spin, started by Sam and inadvertently aided by Rick and his refusal to talk about the episode, had stayed fairly close to the facts. The glaring omission was that Rick left Parma to explore another contract, one that would require him to abandon the Panthers in mid-season, but no one in Italy knew this, nor would they ever. The evil Charley Cray had traveled to their Italy to write nasty things about their team and their quarterback. He had insulted them, and Rick tracked him down, at what appeared to be considerable expense, decked him, then hustled back to Parma, where he was safe. Damned right he was safe. Anybody coming after Reek on their turf would get hurt.
The fact that Rick was now a fugitive added a level of daring and romance that the Italians found irresistible. In a country where laws are flaunted and those who flaunt them are often glamorized, the pursuit by the police was the dominant topic whenever two or more Panthers got together. In a crowded room they buzzed with the story, often adding their own details. In truth, Rick was not being pursued. There was a warrant for his arrest for simple assault, a misdemeanor, and, according to his new lawyer in Cleveland, no one was chasing him with handcuffs. The authorities knew where he was, and if he ever came to Cleveland again, he'd be prosecuted. Still, Rick was on the run, and the Panthers had to protect him, both on the field and off.
Saturday proved to be as educational as Friday. Livvy led him through the Teatro Regio, a place he was extremely proud to have already seen, then the Diocesan Museum, the church of San Marcellino, the chapel of San Tommaso Apostolo. For lunch they ate a pizza on the grounds of the Palazzo della Pilotta. "I will not set foot in another church," Rick announced in defeat. He was stretched out on the grass, soaking in the sunshine. "I'd like to see the National Gallery," she said as she curled next to him, tanned legs everywhere. "What's in it?"
"Lots of paintings, from all over Italy."
"No."
"Yes, then the archaeological museum."
"Then what?"
"I'll be tired then. We go to bed, take a nap, think about dinner."
"I have a game tomorrow. Are you trying to kill me?" Yes.
After two days of diligent tourism, Rick was ready for football, rain or not. He couldn't wait to drive past the old churches, go to the field, put on a uniform, then get it muddy and maybe even hit someone. "But it's raining," Livvy cooed from under the sheets. "Too bad, cheerleader. The show must go on." She rolled over and flung a leg across his stomach. "No," he said with conviction. "Not before a game. My knees are weak anyway."
"I thought you were the stud quarterback."
"Just the quarterback for now." She removed the leg and swung it off the bed. "So who are the Panthers playing today?" she asked, standing, turning, enticing. "The Gladiators of Rome."
"What a name. Can they play?"
"They're pretty good. We need to go." He parked her under the canopy on the home side, one of fewer than ten fans there an hour before the game. She was covered in a poncho and huddled under an umbrella, more or less waterproof in the driving rain. He almost felt sorry for her. Twenty minutes later he was on the field in full uniform, stretching, bantering with his teammates, and keeping an eye on Livvy. He was in college again, or maybe in high school, anxious to play for the love of the game, for the glory of winning, but also for a very cute girl up in the stands.
The game was a mudbowl; the rain never stopped. Franco fumbled twice in the first quarter, and Fabrizio dropped two slippery passes. The Gladiators got bogged down as well. With a minute to go before the half, Rick scrambled out of the pocket and sprinted thirty yards for the first score of the game. Fabrizio bobbled the snap and the score was 6--0 at the half. Sam, who had not had the chance to bitch and yell at them for two weeks, unloaded in the locker room and everyone felt better.
By the fourth quarter, water was standing in large puddles across the field, and the game became a slugfest at the line of scrimmage. On a second and two, Rick faked to Franco, faked to Giancarlo, the third- string tailback, and lofted a long soft pass to Fabrizio, flying downfield on a post. He bobbled it, then snatched it and ran twenty yards untouched. With a two-touchdown lead, Sam began blitzing on every play, and the Gladiators couldn't get a first down. They racked up five for the entire game.
Rick said good-bye to Livvy at the train station Sunday night, then watched the Eurostar pull away with both sadness and relief. He had not realized the extent of his loneliness. He had been reasonably certain that he greatly missed the companionship of a woman, but Livvy made him feel like a college boy again. At the same time, she was not exactly low maintenance. She demanded his attention and had a strong streak of hyperactivity. He needed some rest. Late Sunday e-mail from his mother:
Dear Ricky: Your father has decided that he will not make the trip to Italy after all. He is quite angry with you and that stunt in Cleveland-- the game was bad enough but now reporters are calling all the time asking about the assault and battery. I despise these people. I'm beginning to understand why you slugged that poor man in Cleveland. But you could've stopped by and said hello while you were here. We haven't seen you since Christmas. 1 would try to come alone but my diverticulosis might be flaring up. Best if I stay close. Please tell me you'll be home in a month or so. Are they really going to arrest you? Love, Mom
She treated her diverticulosis like an active volcano--always down there in the colon awaiting an eruption in the event she was expected to do something she really didn't want to do. She and Randall had made the mistake five years earlier of traveling to Spain with a group of retirees, and they were still bitching about the cost, the air travel, the rudeness of all Europeans, the shocking ignorance of people who cannot speak English.
Rick really didn't want them in Italy.
E-mail back to his mother:
Dear Mom: I'm so sorry you guys can't make it over, but the weather has been awful. I am not going to be arrested. I have lawyers working on things--it was just a misunderstanding. Tell Dad to relax--everything will be fine. Life is good here but I sure am homesick. Love, Rick
Late Sunday e-mail from Arnie:
Dear Turd: The lawyer in Cleveland has worked out a deal whereby you plead guilty, pay a fine, slap on the wrist. But if you plead guilty, then Cray can use that against you in a civil suit He's claiming he has a broken jaw and is making noise about a suit. I'm sure all of Cleveland is egging him on. How would you like to face a jury in Cleveland? They'd give you the death penalty just for the assault. And they'll give Cray a billion bucks in punitive in a civil suit. I'm working on it, not sure why.
Rat cursed me yesterday for the last time, 1 hope. Tiffany gave birth early and the child appears to be of mixed race; guess you're off the hook. 1 am now officially losing money as your agent, just thought you'd like to know that.