Power Play (33 page)

“Kiss
my
bony white ass, Monty!” she yelled back to him, slamming his front door. Slamming doors was very satisfying, she found. She loved when she got to do it on the show, and it was even better in real life. It was drama without words.

Out in the hallway she realized her chest was heaving.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Panic-driven insecurity invaded her body, seeping through her skin, twining itself around her bones, burrowing itself into her heart. The only person she wanted to talk to right now was Eric. It was irrational, perhaps even cruel, to call him. She didn't care. She dialed his cell.

TWENTY-EIGHT

“What the hell are you doing?”

Eric turned to look at Jason, standing in the doorway of his hotel room. The Blades had played two of their four games scheduled for the West Coast, winning both. They were on a streak. All the players were convinced it was because of cardboard Monica, whom they'd managed to transport intact across the country. Her presence was beginning to disturb and depress Eric, even though he, too, was now convinced it really did exert some kind of mystical pull that was causing them to win.

Eric turned back to his suitcase. “I'm packing to go back to New York.”

Jason came to stand beside him. “Eric, we have a game tonight.”

“I know that. And I'm flying out right after it. Red-eye. Don't worry. I got the okay from Ty. I'll be back in time for Friday night's game.”

Jason sat down on the bed, watching his brother carefully. “Did someone break into your apartment or something?”

“No.” Eric zipped up his suitcase, pinning a note to it to remind himself to bring it to the arena tonight so he could leave from there after the game against Anaheim. He'd already booked a car to take him directly to the airport.

“Time to share with your brother,” Jason cajoled.

“Monica.”

She'd left a message on his cell phone so choked with tears he could barely make out what she was saying. When he'd called her back, she picked up the phone on the first ring and burst into tears, telling him the show had let her go. He calmed her as best he could, instinctively offering to fly back so they could talk about it face-to-face. Monica hesitated, then said, “Please, yes, come. I can't believe you'd do this for me,” she managed to choke out over the phone.

“Yes, you can,” Eric replied softly before telling her to sit tight, that he'd be there as soon as he could.

There was no question in his mind he was doing the right thing. She needed him; he'd be there; it was that simple. If it made him a chump, so be it. He'd deal with that later. For now, all he knew was that the woman he loved was in pain, and it was him she wanted to pour her guts out to. Nothing else mattered.

Jason looked leery at the mention of Monica's name. “What's up with her?”

Eric started to talk, then stopped, realizing Monica had sworn him to secrecy about Roxie being killed off.

“I promised her I'd keep it private,” said Eric.

“You knock her up?”

Eric looked bored. “Do you know how many times you've said that to me throughout our lives? Get a new line. It's getting kind of stale.”

“Ouch. Someone's testy.” Jason eyed his brother's suitcase. “What time is your flight?”

“Midnight.”

Eric swung the suitcase to the floor so he could lie down on his bed. “Would you mind leaving? I really need to take a nap before tonight's game. I'm totally keyed up.”

“I'm going, I'm going.” Jason made it to the door, then turned. “Whatever is up, I hope it turns out the way you want it to.”

“Thanks,” said Eric with genuine appreciation.

For an asshole, his brother wasn't a bad guy.

 

Opening her door to find a bleary-eyed Eric standing there, Monica fought the urge to throw herself into his arms and burst into tears. Ever since she'd phoned him, she'd alternated between stunned lethargy and intense agitation, one minute mindlessly channel surfing so she didn't have to think, the other pacing endlessly, trying not to look at the clock every ten minutes. She'd experienced the torture of waiting before, but not like this. Time seemed to be taunting her.

Eric came into the apartment and dropped his bag. “You look like you need a hug.”

Monica squeezed her eyes shut tight, still trying to hold back tears. “I do.”

“Then come here.”

She let him wrap his arms around her tight, those strong arms that had held her through so many nights. She'd agonized after accepting his offer to fly back across the country as to whether it might be sending him the wrong signal. He would think it meant they were getting back together. But Eric was one of the few people who really knew
her
: how she thought, how she felt, how she needed. He'd seen the real Monica, and that's who she needed to be. She burst into tears.

The harder she cried, the tighter his embrace became. His chin was resting atop her head, one hand gently stroking her hair.
Let me hide here,
thought Monica.
Let us just stand here and sway and not speak any words.
But it didn't work that way.

Gently, almost gingerly, Eric broke their embrace. “Want to talk?”

“Yes.” Monica swiped the back of her hand across her wet, swollen eyes. “I must look great.”

Eric smiled. “I've seen you cry before. On TV, remember?”

“Oh,” Monica sniffled, blushing. “Right.” She wrung her hands nervously. “Can I get you anything?”

Eric glanced longingly at the kitchen. “Coffee. Strong.”

“Of course. How was your flight?”

“I managed to sleep a bit.”

“That's good.” She motioned toward the couch. “Sit down. Please.”

Feeling unsteady on her feet, she went to refresh the coffee she herself had been drinking all night in order to wait up for him. She wondered if she'd go back into the living room to find him dozing on the couch.

Fumbling for a mug, she swore she could still feel the protective warmth of his arms around her. She rubbed her right temple, closing her eyes. Her feelings were a jumble. He loved her. And yes, she did love him, the real him, the one who'd been so relentlessly pursuing her. But she couldn't go there right now. She could only handle one emotional crisis at a time.

She prepared his coffee the disgusting way he liked it (three sugars, a touch of milk) and brought it out to him.

He smiled wearily. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

He took a sip of coffee. “Oh, man. I can't tell you how great that tastes.” He noticed her empty hands. “None for you?”

“I've been guzzling it all night,” she confessed. “Waiting for you.”

His eyes searched her face. “So, you were fired?”

“Not fired. Let go. They wrote Roxie off the show.” She pointed a finger at him. “Remember, you cannot tell
anyone
.”

“I told you, you have my word. Jason asked what was wrong, and I told him I couldn't go into details. But you have to let me know what's going to happen,” he insisted. “I mean, it's the least you can do for a fan who flew cross-country for you.”

“She's killed by Father Chessler. He's a zombie now.”

“Oh my God. The guys are going to go
mental
.” Eric looked horrified. “How come Chessler didn't just turn Roxie into a zombie, too?”

“Because she has to pay for killing Tucker Lamont in the hospital, remember? And because the executive producer is screwing Chesty, and she wanted me out of the way.”

Eric looked surprised. “Really? Stuff like that can happen?”

“It happens all the time. But it's just . . .” Monica's eyes began watering again. “It's never happened to me. And to be let go so that talentless little ho can be in the spotlight—it hurts, Eric. It really hurts. And it makes me doubt myself. Maybe I've lost my touch. Maybe I suck at what I do.”

“I hear you there,” said Eric ruefully.

“That's one of the reasons you were the one I wanted to talk to. You're out there performing in front of the public, too. You know what it's like to doubt yourself. Which brings me to something I need to say.”

“What's that?”

She looked at him, shamefaced. “I'm so sorry I sent that cardboard cutout. It was a mean thing to do.”

“Actually, it's our new good luck charm. Before every game the guys—” he stopped.

Monica narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Before games the guys what?”

Eric's eyes were glued to his coffee cup. “I can't tell you.”

“You better,” she threatened.

“You don't want to know. Seriously.”

“Well, now you've
got
to tell me.”

Eric still wouldn't look at her. “There's this ritual. Before every game, each of the guys puts his hands on your boobs as we walk out of the locker room.”

Monica was too shocked to speak for a moment. “Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You guys
feel up
the cardboard cutout of me?”

Eric jerked his head up. “I don't!”

Monica snorted in disbelief. “Oh, no, of course not! You're way above that!”

Monica knew she shouldn't ask the next question, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. “Do you have any pregame ritual that involves the cardboard me?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Maybe. ”

“Tell me.”

“Nope.”

She was dying to know but refused to beg. Maybe he kissed her cutout's lips. Or said something sweet. She liked the idea of that, then chastised herself for liking the idea of it.

“Anyway,” Eric resumed. “You said
one
of the reasons you wanted to talk to me was because you knew I'd understand what it was like to doubt your abilities.”

“Yes, but your career is going well now, and mine is over, so I guess it's a moot point.”

“Your career isn't over. Something else will come along.”

“You don't know that,” Monica insisted gloomily.

“No, I don't. But you're not thinking clearly right now. Give yourself some time to work through this, and you'll see that
W and F
was stupid to let you go.” He took another sip of coffee, his penetrating gaze pinning her to the couch. “What's the other reason I'm the one you wanted to spill your guts to?”

Monica felt her cheeks begin to burn. “Because you know the real me. I know that sounds stupid,” she said hastily, afraid he might laugh or scoff. “But when we were together, there were things I told you that I never told anyone else. You understood me. The way I thought. All of it.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to say something. He was quiet for a long time.

“You're really fucking my head up here, Monica. You realize that, don't you?”

“I don't mean to.”

“I know you don't. But it's all so confusing. What was real and what wasn't. What's real now and what isn't.”

“I know,” Monica whispered. She went to cup his cheek and then stopped, knowing it would only add to the list of confusing signals she was sending him. Eric was right; she wasn't thinking straight, not on any front.

“I shouldn't have asked you to come,” she said.

His expression was intense. “I'm glad you did.” He pulled his eyes away from hers. “I've missed talking to you,” he said quietly.

“Me, too.”

“We did have some good times, right?”

The pain in his voice tugged at her heartstrings. “Of course we did. Do you think we could try to be friends for now? At least still talk occasionally?”

“Friends. That would be great,” Eric answered unenthusiastically.

“Friends,” Monica agreed, holding out a trembling hand for him to shake.

Eric clasped her hand tightly, the heat and familiarity almost too much for her to bear. She thought about the first time she met him, what an unbearable jerk he'd been. He'd been an unbearable jerk when she'd broken up with him, too. The two Eric's: jerk Eric and real Eric. This was real Eric, holding her hand. Handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed Eric who'd hopped a cross-country flight to comfort her. The Eric she'd let go.

She knew she need only say she wanted him back, and they'd be in each other's arms. But ironically, she was now the one with suspect motives. She would hate to reconcile with him, only to realize a few months down the line that she was taking advantage of him because she needed the safety blanket of a relationship when it felt like the rest of her life was going to hell. It wouldn't be fair. And yet the woman deep inside her who yearned, and who knew what it was to be with this man, was somewhat disappointed that he hadn't, well, burst into the apartment and tried to seduce her. Didn't he find her attractive anymore? Was that possible? Oh, Jesus, what a mess she was. Confused didn't even begin to cover it; she had crossed over into the realm of well and truly fucked-up. There was no way she was going to inflict herself on him right now.

Their lingering handshake finally ended. “Are you going to be okay?” Eric asked, standing up. “I could sleep on the couch if you wanted. Purely G-rated.”

“I'm okay now,” Monica assured him, trying not to think of all the times they'd made love on the couch. “I don't know how to thank you.”

Eric paused. “I do.”

Monica felt her heart begin to race. He was going to ask for no-strings-attached sex. The attraction between them was still so strong. It wouldn't be inflicting herself on him if the connection were purely carnal, right?