Playing for Pizza Read Online Free PDF Page B

coffee shop, a gathering place.”
    “I’ll pass.”
    “Anyway, the center of the city is where the action is. Your apartment is just a few streets over.”
    “Can’t wait. Mind if I make a call?”
    “Prego.”
    “What?”
    “Prego . It means go right ahead.”
    Rick punched the numbers while Sam worked his car through the late-afternoon traffic. When Rick glanced out his window, Sam quickly pushed a button on the radio and low-volume opera rose in the background. Whoever Rick needed to chat with was unavailable; no voice mail was left by the quarterback; phone slapped shut; returned to pocket.
    Probably his agent, thought Sam. Maybe a girlfriend.
    “You got a girl?” Sam asked.
    “No one in particular. Lots of NFL groupies, but they’re dumb as rocks. You?”
    “Married for eleven years, no kids.”
    They crossed a bridge called the Ponte Verdi. “This is the Parma River. It divides the city.”
    “Lovely.”
    “Ahead of us is the Parco Ducale, the largest park in the city. It’s quite beautiful. Italians are big on parks and landscaping and such.”
    “It’s pretty.”
    “Glad you approve. It’s a great place to walk, take a girl, read a book, lie in the sun.”
    “Never spent much time in parks.”
    What a surprise.
    They looped around, recrossed the river, and weresoon darting through narrow one-way streets. “You’ve now seen most of downtown Parma,” Sam said.
    “Nice.”
    A few blocks south of the park they turned onto a winding street, Via Linati. “There,” Sam said, pointing to a long row of four-story buildings, each painted a different color. “The second one, sort of a gold color, apartment’s on the third floor. It’s a nice part of town. Signor Bruncardo, the gent who owns the team, also owns a few buildings. That’s why you get to live downtown. It’s more expensive here.”
    “And these guys really play for free?” Rick said, mulling something that had stuck from a prior conversation.
    “The Americans get paid—you and two others—only three this year. No one makes as much as you. Yes, the Italians play for the sport of it. And the postgame pizza.” A pause, then he added, “You’re gonna love these guys.” It was his first effort at bolstering team spirit. If the quarterback wasn’t happy, then there would be many problems.
    He somehow wedged his Honda into a space half its size, and they loaded up the luggage and golf clubs. There was no elevator, but the stairwell was wider than normal. The apartment was furnished and had three rooms—a bedroom, a den, a small kitchen. Because his new quarterback was coming from the NFL, Signor Bruncardo had sprung for new paint, rugs, curtains, and den furniture. There was even some splashy contemporary art on the walls.
    “Not bad,” Rick said, and Russo was relieved. Heknew the realities of urban real estate in Italy—most of the apartments were small and old and expensive. If the quarterback was disappointed, then Signor Bruncardo would be, too. Things would get complicated.
    “On the market, it would be two thousand euros a month,” Sam said, trying to impress.
    Rick was carefully placing his golf clubs on the sofa. “Nice place,” he said. He couldn’t count the number of apartments he’d passed through in the last six years. The constant moving, often in a hurry, had deadened any appreciation of square footage, decor, and furnishings.
    “Why don’t you change clothes and I’ll meet you downstairs,” Sam said.
    Rick glanced down at his white slacks and brown ankles and almost said, “Oh, I’m fine.” But then he took the hint and said, “Sure, give me five minutes.”
    “There’s a café two blocks down on the right,” Sam said. “I’ll be at a table outside having a coffee.”
    “Sure, Coach.”
    Sam ordered coffee and opened his newspaper. It was damp and the sun had dipped behind the buildings. The Americans always went through a brief period of culture shock. The language, cars, narrow streets,