Power Play (24 page)

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Cool,” said Chesty, bouncing on her heels.

She walked away, wiggling her tight little tush. Chesty and Eric . . . Monica could see it. Chesty was just his type. If she threw herself at him, Eric would go for it, of that Monica was certain. Monica felt herself beginning to slide down the surface of her pride. If Eric hooked up with Chesty right away, then people would think Monica had been as disposable as every other airhead he'd bedded. It would put her on the same level as Chesty. Sure, their “relationship” lasted longer than any in Eric's previous history, but who cared? Once he hooked up with someone else, no one would remember about him and Monica; no one would care. Oh, she might get a passing mention in the beginning (“Eric Mitchell, whose relationship with soap star Monica Geary recently ended, has been seen out and about with a bubbly blonde”), but then she'd be wiped from the slate.

The current forecast: rain in her heart, humiliation on its way. She'd pour all of it into Roxie, every last ounce. Chesty usurping her on
W and F
was no longer a concern. Monica was about to show them what acting was all about.

 

“There's some actress in the Green Room who wants to see you,” Lou Capesi growled as Eric and his brother trudged out of the Blades locker room following a miserable loss to New Jersey. Eric was a step slow all night. Twice he was beat wide and had to pull down Jersey skaters both times. Jersey scored on both power plays. To add insult to injury, Eric misplayed a couple of scoring chances on Blades power plays. The only saving grace was the rest of the team played almost as poorly. He refused to chalk it up to the absence of Monica at the game, even though that was what he feared. A couple of the Blades half jokingly asked him to get back together with Monica so she would return to Met Gar and bring back the magic.

Jason peered at him curiously. “What actresses do you know besides Monica?”

“None, unless Brandi decided to pay a visit.” Brandi, his ex with the mackerel-sized brain, considered herself an actress, though for the life of him, Eric didn't know why; the only acting she ever did was a few years back on a tacky mattress commercial, where she rolled around on a king-sized bed, dressed as an angel, cooing, “Oooh, this mattress is heavenly.” He really hoped it wasn't Brandi.

He and Jason paused outside the Green Room. “Want me to wait?” Jason asked.

“No. I need you to come with me. That way if it's Brandi, we can make our excuses and get the hell out of here fast.”

“Hey, maybe Brandi's got a little bundle of joy to present you with,” Jason teased.

Eric scowled at him. “Don't even joke about things like that, okay?”

He followed Jason into the Green Room, which was abuzz with friends, family, and Met Gar “guests,” as they were known, those in the public eye who had gotten clearance to meet one or more of the players. The mood was slightly subdued because of the Blades loss, but people seemed to be enjoying themselves, helping themselves to the food and drinks, some waiting for the local sports news to come on the huge, high-def TV at the end of the room.

Eric's eyes scoured the crowd, eventually lighting on a small, lithe blonde waving to him.

Jason jerked his head in her direction. “Isn't that what's her name—Paige from Monica's show? Maybe she's bringing you a message from Monica,” said Jason hopefully.

“Her name's Chessy. And she and Monica hate each other,” Eric informed him. “Come with me.”

Jason shrugged. “If you insist.”

Eric made his way across the room, his brother in tow. “Chessy,” he said, sounding as surprised as he felt. Her tight, white angora sweater was so low-cut, Eric half expected to see her navel. Form-fitting jeans hugged her hips and thighs so tightly they looked painted on. She hesitated a moment, then hugged him as if they were old friends. Eric stiffened. When Chest—Chessy—pulled away, she was looking at him with concern.

“I've been worried about you.”

“Uh . . .” said Eric, unsure how to react. Deflection time. “Chessy, this is my brother, Jason.”

“Great to meet you,” Chessy bubbled, her eyes momentarily brushing Jason's wedding ring before refocusing on Eric's face.

“You, too,” said Jason, glancing at his brother perplexedly.

“So,” said Chessy, inhaling so deeply her breasts rose a good three inches. “Like I said, I've been worried about you.”

“Because—?”

“Well, you know, the split with Monica.”

“What about it?”

“You must be devastated.”

“I'm doing okay,” Eric said cautiously. This whole thing was too weird. Why should Chessy care? A second later, his question was answered.

“I thought it might cheer you up if you and I went out for a drink.”

Jason coughed into his hand, looking away. Eric knew just what he was thinking.

“Not tonight,” Eric said politely. “I'm kind of tired.”

“You sure?” Chessy cajoled. “I'm a good listener.”

“I appreciate the offer, Chessy. But I really need to get some rest tonight.”

He watched as the sweetness turned to coldness on Chessy's face. “Your loss.”

I don't think so,
thought Eric. “You need me to call you a cab or anything?”

“I'm a big girl,” she snapped. “I can take care of myself.” She looked at Jason. “Nice to meet you,” she said again.

“You, too,” said Jason.

She tossed Eric one final nasty look, then sauntered away.

Jason's expression was serious as he regarded Eric. “We need to talk. Let's go grab a brew.”

Eric wanted to say no. His body ached, and after tonight's pummeling, he really wasn't in the mood to chat. All he wanted was to go home and go to bed. But he knew his brother; he'd hound him until he said his piece. Jace was a total pain in the ass that way.

“Fine,” Eric acquiesced, motioning toward the door. “Lead on.”

 

They agreed on a bar called Fuzzy's three blocks from Met Gar. Neither of them had ever been there before, which intrigued them; checking out new watering holes, the tackier the better, was one of those twin traits they shared. And Fuzzy's was tacky, all right: not only was the decor somewhat schizophrenic (there was a nautical/Hawaiian theme, with etchings of old whaling ships on the walls juxtaposed with strategically placed tiki torches, all of which were lit), but it also sold tourist merchandise: I Love NY T-shirts, Statue of Liberty snow globes, Empire State Building pencil sharpeners, the whole shebang. Following Jason to a small, round table, Eric noticed the only other patrons in the place were old men with rheumy eyes who'd probably been coming here for years, pickling their livers. It was a great place; he and Jace would be back, teammates in tow.

“I wonder who Fuzzy is,” said Eric, resting an elbow on the table. It was sticky. He pulled his arm away. Maybe they wouldn't be coming back.

“He's probably dead.”

Eric looked around, noticing the anchor behind the bar and the shelfful of hula girl bobble-head dolls right above it. “Well, whoever he is—or was—I think he might have suffered a head injury.”

“Maybe he was a sailor,” Jason speculated.

“Or a schizophrenic.”

“Or both.”

They laughed, clinking their glasses together. “So what's on your mind, Baby Bro?” Eric began. “How much I sucked on the ice? Selling the farm?”

“Monica.”

Monica. Jesus Christ, when is Jason going to let this go?
“What about her?” Eric asked, frowning.

“You
do
care about her.”

“We're back to this?” Eric tilted his head back, pouring beer down his throat.

“Do you realize what happened tonight?”

Eric swallowed quickly, looking at his brother. “No.”

“A gorgeous babe came on to you, and you said no.”

Eric could feel his hackles rise. “So?”

“The old Eric never would have said no to an opportunity like that in a million years. Never.”

“I only did it out of consideration for Monica. I didn't want to hurt her by going out with her costar so soon after the split.”

Jason snorted. “Since when did you ever care about hurting people? Brandi was Delilah's father's
fiancée
, for chrissakes.”

“Yeah, but he didn't know I was fooling around with her,” Eric pointed out. His heartbeat was beginning to pick up pace. “Monica would know if I started seeing Chessy.”

He glanced over at the old men at the bar, wondering if they had brothers who liked to call them out. Their lives were probably simple: collect their pension or Social Security check, slip out of the house a few nights a week to escape the wife. Or maybe they weren't married. Maybe they were retired merchant seamen, and all they had left was Fuzzy's. Maybe—

Jason shook his shoulder.
“Eric.”

“Why can't you just admit that you love Monica? Why is it so horrible? You and I both know your ‘I don't want to humiliate her' excuse is total bullshit. You turned that bimbo down because you have no interest in chasing tail anymore, and the reason you have no interest is Monica.”

Eric closed his eyes a moment. He was feeling intense pressure. His head was pounding so hard he thought the top of his skull might blow off. He knew the only way to get rid of it would be to say the truth out loud—admit it not only to himself but to Jace, too.

“Okay, yeah, you're right,” Eric confessed heatedly. “I do love her.”

Jason flashed the briefest of smirks but then turned concerned. “Then why—”

“Because I can't handle it, okay? It scares me.”

“It scares everyone, you dickwad. Don't you remember what I was like when I was falling for Delilah? I was a mess.”

“Yeah, but you didn't have a reputation to uphold with your teammates. I was at the Ronald McDonald House charity dinner the other night with Ulf and Thad, right? And both of them said I was pussy whipped and boring since I'd hooked up with Monica.”

“Who the fuck cares what they think?”

“I do. I need the guys on the team to accept me, to trust me, to back me up on the ice.”

“No offense, but you sound like you're fifteen years old. Listen to me.” He drew his chair closer to Eric's. “In the beginning, it did help grease the wheels with the other guys that you were seeing Monica. But since then, it's your playing that's made you an accepted member of the team, not Monica. Don't you remember Gary Albertson?”

“The Ice Queen,” Eric said, citing Albertson's nickname in the league.

“Yeah, the Ice Queen. Only after he scored four in the conference finals in '98, and six more in the Cup finals in 2001, did everyone on his team start calling him the Ice King. The guys can be rude and crude, but if you come through when it counts, they don't give a damn about anything else.”

“Maybe,” Eric muttered.

“You're a total fucking idiot to have let her go, Eric.”

Eric looked down at the sticky table miserably. “I know.”

There, he'd said it out loud to the person who knew him best, and the world hadn't burst into flames. Instead, a kind of relief started winding through him. He missed her, the horrible emptiness of waking up every morning and not seeing her face smiling at him from the other side of the bed. He missed her voice, her laugh, everything about her. The way she gave as good as she got, at least with him. Her talent. Her gentleness. Her kindness to that batty old costar of hers, Gloria. Coming to his home games. He'd had it all, and he'd let it go. And why? Because he was a fucking jerk, that's why.

“I'm a fucking jerk,” he said to Jason.

Jason sighed. “I know. But you've always been a fucking jerk.”

Eric put his head in his hands. “Shit,” he whispered.

“Eric—”

“Just shut it a minute, okay? I need to think.”

“Think away. I'll go get us a couple more brews.”

I'm a fucking jerk,
Eric thought to himself again.
Now, how do jerks redeem themselves?
He'd never felt the need to redeem himself before.
How about this: The jerk goes to the woman he's hurt, and he tells her that he loves her. Next, he says that he knows he's been a jerk, but that he'll do anything,
including crawl over broken glass, if she'll just give him a chance to prove he's worthy of her love and is, in fact, no longer a jerk.

Jason returned, handing him his beer. “How's the thinking going?”

“Tell me if I've got this right.” Eric related his plan to his brother.

Jason nodded sagely. “That about sums it up.”

“What if I beg her for another chance, and she tells me to take a hike?” Eric lamented.

“Why would she?”

“Because I'm a fucking jerk!” Eric reiterated with annoyance.

“You said she cared about you. That means she knew you were a fucking jerk but didn't care. I'm sure she'll tear into you at first—and you have to take it; don't even try to protest if you know what's good for you—but then once she gets it out of her system, she'll give you a tepid, ‘Let's see how it goes,' which really means ‘Yes, I'll take you back, but I'm the one in control now, got it, buster?' and everything will be fine.”

“You know what's scary?”

“What?”

“This sounds like something I would have said to you a while back.”