After the match I lay on my bed, dead tired. Lin had beat me, 77-75. I’d played my heart out, but now my body screamed with exhaustion.
Mama Rizzo and Cara (the girl I tripped over that morning, she seems to like me) insisted on covering me with warm lasagna noodles.
And quite frankly I couldn’t care less what they were doing. The hot pasta felt good to my aching muscles.
“Poveri bellezza,” Mama Rizzo crooned sympathetically, “you play very well, but you must rest. La mia parola! Cricket’s, how you say?”
“Running you ragged?” little Cara suggested.
“Si, grazie, Cara.”
“He sure is!” Cricket’s voice boomed.
“Speak of the devil,” I mumbled.
“Hey, I just came to say you have the day off tomorrow. You’re really gonna need the rest. Especially for what I have in mind for you two.”
Uh-oh, I thought, suppressing a moan. Cricket’s got that smirk again. That can’t mean anything good.