Playing for Pizza Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the team. Arnie had made the same point when arguing with Tiffany’s lawyers.
    “Is it possible that you might be the daddy?”
    “Absolutely not. I was careful. You had to be.”
    “Well, she can’t go public until she serves you with the papers, and if she can’t find you, then she can’t serve you.”
    Rick knew all this. He’d been served before. “I’ll hide in Florida for a while. They can’t find me down there.”
    “Don’t bet on it. These lawyers are pretty aggressive. They want some publicity. There are ways to track people.” A pause, then the clincher. “But, pal, they can’t serve you in Italy.”
    “I’ve never been to Italy.”
    “Then it’s time to go.”
    “Let me sleep on it.”
    “Sure.”
    Rick dozed off quickly and slept hard for ten minutes when a nightmare jolted him from his nap. Credit cards leave a trail. Gas stations, motels, truck stops—every place was connected to a vast web of electronic information that zipped around the world in a split second, and surely some geek with a high-powered computer could tap in here and there and for a nice fee pick up the trail and send in the bloodhounds with a copy of Tiffany’s paternity suit. More headlines. More legal troubles.
    He grabbed his unpacked bag and fled the motel. He drove another hour, very much under the influence, and found a dump with cheap rooms for cash, by the hour or by the night. He fell onto the dusty bed and was soon sound asleep, snoring loudly and dreaming of leaning towers and Roman ruins.

Chapter
    4
    Coach Russo read the Gazzetta di Parma while he waited patiently on a hard plastic chair inside the Parma train station. He hated to admit that he was a little nervous. He and his new quarterback had chatted once by phone, while he, the quarterback, was on a golf course somewhere in Florida, and the conversation left something to be desired. Dockery was reluctant to play for Parma, though the idea of living abroad for a few months was certainly appealing. Dockery seemed reluctant to play anywhere. The “Greatest Goat” theme had spread, and he was still the butt of many jokes. He was a football player and needed to play, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to see another football.
    Dockery said he didn’t speak a word of Italian but had studied Spanish in the tenth grade. Great, thought Russo. No problem.
    Sam had never coached a pro quarterback. His last one had played sparingly at the University of Delaware. How would Dockery fit? The team was excited to have such a talent, but would they accept him? Would his attitude poison the locker room? Would he be coachable?
    The Eurostar from Milan coasted into the station, on time as always. Doors snapped open, passengers spilled out. It was mid-March and most were clad in dark heavy coats, still bundled from the winter and waiting for warmer weather. Then there was Dockery, fresh from south Florida with a ridiculous tan and dressed for summer drinks at the country club—cream-colored linen sports coat, lemon shirt with a tropical motif, white slacks that stopped at bronze sockless ankles, thin crocodile loafers more maroon than brown. He was wrestling with two perfectly matched and monstrous pieces of luggage on wheels, and his task was made almost impossible because he had slung over his back a bulky set of golf clubs.
    The quarterback had arrived.
    Sam watched the struggle and knew instantly that Dockery had never been on a train before. He finally walked over and said, “Rick. I’m Sam Russo.”
    A half smile as he jolted things upward and managed to slide the golf clubs up his back. “Hey, Coach,” he said.
    “Welcome to Parma. Let me give you a hand.” Sam grabbed one suitcase, and they began rolling through the station.
    “Thanks. It’s pretty cold here.”
    “Colder than Florida. How was your flight?”
    “Fine.”
    “Play a lot of golf, do you?”
    “Sure. When does it get warm?”
    “A month or so.”
    “Lot of golf courses around