License to Dill by Mary Ellen Hughes Page B

Piper held her breath as the black-and-white-uniformed player ran toward the ball. He kicked hard, the Cloverdale goalie dove toward it, and . . . missed!
    â€œThey scored!” Scott said.
    â€œWe lost,” Will muttered, and Piper heard the groans and felt the deflation of an entire stadium of spectators.
    Raffaele Conti, however, was jubilant, as was his entire team. A glance toward the injured Bianconeri player showed even him to be celebrating, having miraculously risen from his stretcher to bounce on one foot. Was the leg he held up, his left one, the one he’d injured? Piper asked herself. She seemed to remember it was his right. Or was she mistaken?
    That, however, was the same question a lot of others around Piper were asking.
    â€œThat guy took a dive!” she heard someone say in disgust.
    â€œThe ref must be blind,” another cried. “Our guys never touched him!”
    â€œIt’s actually fairly common in Italian football to fake fouls,” Scott said, leaning toward Piper.
    â€œThey’re not in Italy now,” Will said over his shoulder. “It’s a crummy way to win.”
    â€œIt happens everywhere,” Scott insisted. “All kinds of fouls. The saying is ‘if the ref didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.’ Or in this case, I suppose it’d be ‘if I scream loud enough, the ref has to believe it.’”
    Piper didn’t comment, but she was surprised to see Bianconeri resort to such tactics, assuming it was true. They were a good team, and the matches were exhibition. Apparently Raffaele Conti hated to lose, no matter what. The Cloverdale coach, she saw, was walking over to shake hands. Gerald Standley, however, could be seen rapidly striding the other way.

    T he group headed to Carlo’s for pizza, as planned. Scott managed to tag along once again, counting, Piper was sure, on everyone’s good manners, especially in front of Aunt Judy. It worked this time, but Piper resolved it would be the last time. She would definitely have a private talk with her relatives and friends on the subject and, if needed, a second serious talk with Scott.
    The mood, when the group arrived, was much less lively than it had been the night before, though the owner, Carlo, or rather Carl, was definitely pleased to see them.
    â€œWelcome!” The middle-aged, fair-haired but balding, clearly non-Italian “Carlo” greeted them, his smile just a bit strained and overeager. Piper could understand why. The place, unlike the last time she’d been there, was more than half empty. She didn’t know if that was due to Conti’s remarks on the radio or just a general disinclination of disgruntled spectators to celebrate after the questionable ending to the game. Either way, Carlo’s business was obviously affected, and as a fellow Cloverdale businessperson, she empathized.
    Once they were seated, she and her group did their best to be as upbeat as possible over their pizza and beers, but it was an effort as the conversation kept returning to the probably faked foul that clinched the game for Bianconeri.
    Eventually Uncle Frank gave up, though he’d given it a decent amount of time. “Got a few things to do tomorrow,” he claimed, rising and pulling bills from his wallet to leave behind. Aunt Judy gave quick hugs and pats as she eased her way out.
    Erin, disappointed that Ben hadn’t been able to join them, was next, and Megan soon followed. That left Scott sitting with Piper and Will, a situation that Will tolerated for about thirty seconds before downing the last of his beer. “Ready?” he asked Piper, who nodded.
    â€œWell,” Scott said with a downturned mouth as they rose, “I guess I’ll just go back to my lonely hotel room.”
    â€œMaybe there’ll be a few Bianconeri players in the hotel bar to talk to,” Will said, pulling out his car keys.
    Piper, who would have felt