Power Play (34 page)

“Come to the Blades home game Tuesday night.”

Monica thought about it. What the hell else did she have to do? It wasn't like she needed to learn her lines for the next day. And they were friends now, weren't they? “I'll come on one condition,” she said.

“What's that?”

“Your teammates don't think they can cop a feel of my real boobs for luck.”

Eric laughed. “They won't need to, with the real thing in the house. Your usual seat will be waiting for you, Miss Geary. No locker room detours. I promise.”

“Okay, then.”

Feeling almost shy, she walked him to the door. “Again, I can't thank—”

Eric put his index finger to her lips. “Ssh. No thanks needed.” He tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead; it felt more like a benediction than anything romantic. “You know where to reach me if you need to, right?”

Monica nodded.

“So . . . see you.” He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, heading down the hall toward the elevator.

“See you, too,” she called after him. “Tuesday night? After the game?”

Eric's shrug was noncommittal. “Sure. We'll grab a beer or something.”

“Sounds good,” Monica said, watching him walk away. He'd flown cross-country for her. And for what? A twenty-minute conversation with a selfish, needy bitch. She might have her head up her butt right now, but there was one thing she knew for certain: she didn't deserve him.

TWENTY-NINE

“Dude. Mitcho. You telling me the real thing is in the house?”

Thad did nothing to contain his excitement as Eric casually mentioned to his teammates there'd be no need to touch cardboard Monica's boobs for good luck: the lady herself was at the game. He hated that goddamn ritual. It made him uneasy; he could just imagine what his teammates fantasized about as they touched her. Plus it showed a total lack of sensitivity toward him. Hockey players and sensitivity: what an oxymoron. At least Jason had the decency not to feel his ex—his cardboard ex—up. The two of them were always the last to the leave the locker room these days. Jason's ritual was to touch cardboard Monica's hand as he walked by; Eric's was to look into her eyes and silently profess, “I will always love you.” He'd blow his brains out if any of his teammates found out. Even Jace didn't know.

“Yup, she's really here,” Eric said, affixing his shoulder pads.

“This is gonna bring us super good luck,” said Ulf.

“That's the idea.”

“I just called Capesi,” Michael put in casually. “And Theresa.”

I don't need the PR anymore,
Eric almost said but held his tongue.

“She's been awesome on
W and F
lately,” said Tully. The rest of the team murmured their assent. Eric was dying to tell them what was going to happen when they tuned in next Friday, but he knew Monica would never forgive him. He actually hated that he knew; it was going to detract from his own pleasure when watching it.

Ulf came over to him, grabbing him in a brotherly head-lock. “So, you guys are obviously back together. You back to nailing her nightly, you lucky bastard?”

“Bite me.”

Ulf released him. “My, my. Someone's panties are in a twist tonight.”

“Just fuck off, Ulf, okay? Seriously.”

Ulf shoved his shoulder, walking away with an insulted sniff. Eric wasn't pissed at his teammate; he was pissed at himself. He'd come damn close to reflexively answering Ulf's question the way the old Eric would have:
Oh, man, she is better in the sack than ever.
But he'd stopped himself; he had to give himself credit for that. Even so, it alarmed him that the old Eric still lurked just beneath the surface.

Dressed and ready to hit the ice, he hung back with his brother as, one by one, his teammates touched cardboard Monica's breasts. When it was Ulf's turn, he mimed an orgasmic moan, his index finger rhythmically flicking cardboard Monica's crotch.

“What a dick,” Eric whispered to his brother.

“
Are
you guys back together?” Jason murmured.

“No. Not really,” said Eric, sounding as miserable as he felt. “I don't think so. I mean, I know she cares about me. Who the hell knows?”

 

“See? You are a good luck charm.”

Monica smiled, walking out of Met Gar with her “friend,” Eric. The Blades had won 4-2 over the Tampa Bay Turks. She was happy for Eric, as well as happy that the crowd went nuts when her face was shown on the scoreboard, with the Blades banging their sticks for her on the ice not once, but twice. Despite this affectionate gesture, she and Eric had agreed not to meet in the Green Room, because Monica had no desire to see Eric's teammates. The thought of them touching her cardboard breasts still disturbed her.

Eric held the door open for her, and they walked smack into a solid wall of photographers and reporters. While the photographers snapped away, the reporters yelled out questions. Were they back together? Was it serious? Who called whom?

“No comment,” Eric said with a smile as he ushered her into the back of a waiting cab.

Nothing was secret in this town,
Monica thought. It also explained why Theresa had left an excited message on Monica's cell, asking her to stop by FM PR's office tomorrow morning.
Why not? What else do I have to do?

Monica glanced out the window of the cab as it sped uptown. “How do you want to handle things with the press?”

“How do
you
want to handle it?”

“I don't know,” Monica admitted. “Let me think about it.”

“Fine.” Eric sounded tired. “Would it be too ballsy of me to ask you to keep coming to games?”

“I don't mind, as long as I don't have anything else going on.”

“What else would you have going on?” Eric asked tersely.

Monica turned back to him, wounded. “I'm not a total loser, you know. I might have been written off the show, but I do have other things going on.”

Eric held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I meant no offense.”

“No offense taken,” said Monica, pushing her back against the opposite door of the cab, mildly embarrassed about how happy it made her feel that he might be jealous. “How are your parents?” she asked suddenly. The claustrophobic New York night was making her think of the wide-open spaces of Eric's childhood home.

“They're doing okay. They're selling the farm to Jason, Delilah, and me. We want to keep the house in the family.”

Monica tried to picture Eric's father without his cows, his mother not talking to the “chickadees.” “Are your folks sad?”

“Yeah.” Eric looked depressed. “But my folks will finally be able to travel. My brother and I will just use it in the summer.”

Monica felt sad she might never see Eric's folks again. “Tell them I wish them all the best.”

“I will.”

Eric gazed at her curiously as the cab jolted them over a pothole, making both of them wince.

“What's up with
your
parents? You never talk about them.”

“There isn't anything to say, though I
am
going up there this weekend so they can insult me and tell me how I've wasted my life. They'll probably be happy I've been written off the show. That will give them an opening to tell me I should go to business school and get my MBA.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, it's a barrel of laughs.”

“Is that why you never brought me there?”

“Yes,” Monica said stiffly. “The only thing lower than acting on their totem pole would be a professional athlete. They'd assume you were an idiot.”

“The way you did when you met me,” Eric pointed out.

“You
were
an idiot when I met you.” Monica became wistful. “Remember how you tried to pick me up the day you did your cameo on the show?”

Eric smiled. “That was my evil twin putting the moves on you, not me.”

Monica lifted an eyebrow. “How's the evil twin doing?” she murmured.

Eric smiled wryly. “He's pretty much vanished since . . .” He trailed off.

. . . We broke up, Monica finished for him in her head. She was longing to reach out and take his hand, but again, she didn't want to send the wrong signal. She really needed to get her head screwed on straight before she approached the subject of reconciliation.

“I'm really beat,” Eric said, yawning. “Would you mind if we canned going out for a beer?”

“I thought you were just being polite when you suggested it,” Monica confessed.

“No, it was genuine. I told you: I miss talking to you.”

“Me, too. Another time, then.”

“Yup.”

The cab pulled up in front of Eric's apartment first. He leaned forward, paying the driver the fare plus enough to cover the trip to Monica's and a tip.

“You didn't have to do that,” she called after him as he slid out of the cab.

“Wanted to,” he said, heading into his building.

“Thanks,” she said, but she wasn't sure he heard her.

She settled back against the patched and torn leather seat of the cab as it pulled away from the curb smoothly.

“Nice guy,” the cabdriver noted in a thick West Indian accent.

“Very nice,” Monica agreed, confusion enveloping her. No job, no boyfriend . . . one not her choice, the other very much her choice. She shook her head as if to jar her muddled mind back into a state of clarity.
Go home, go to bed, wake up tomorrow, face the day, and take your time to figure it all out.
For now, that's all she could do.

 

“Have you seen these?”

There was no mistaking the jubilation in Theresa's voice as she directed Monica's attention to the pile of newspapers atop her desk, where she'd laid out issues of the
New York Post,
the
New York Sentinel,
the
Daily News
, and
Newsday
. All four featured photos of Eric and Monica leaving Met Gar after last night's game, the accompanying copy rife with speculation. Monica studied the pictures. It was weird to see herself and Eric together and think back to those months when their “relationship” was a calculated ruse.

“
Great
coverage.” Theresa shut the papers, beaming at Monica, who had taken a seat across the desk. “I'm so glad you guys are back together.”

“We're not.”

Theresa's face fell. “What do you mean, you're not?”

“I went to a game last night. That's all.”

Theresa sat down, beating out a slow rhythm on her desk with a pencil. “So what were you two doing together after the game?”

“Catching a cab back uptown together. We're friends.”

“Friends. Interesting.” Theresa paused, furrowing her brows. “Don't let anyone know that.”

“Keep the speculation going. It will keep people interested.”

“Oh, I will, believe me. I need the attention more than ever.”

Theresa's ears pricked up. “Why is that?”

Monica hesitated.

“Spill it,” Theresa commanded. “I'm your publicist.”

“You have to swear you won't tell anyone, especially Michael.”

“I swear on the heads of my three beloved children. Now start talking.”

“I've been let go from the show,” said Monica, surprised to find herself tearing up. “Roxie is being killed by a zombie next Friday. My departure will be officially announced the following Monday.”

Theresa's mouth fell open so wide you could have fit a baseball inside. “You're
kidding
me.”

Monica gave her a withering look. “Do I look like I'm joking?”

“But you're the main reason people watch that show.”

“You worked for the soaps. You know how it goes.”

“They're jumping the shark,” Theresa declared knowingly. “Ratings must be slipping.”

“They are, but I don't think that's why I was let go,” said Monica, trying not to sound as bitter as she was feeling. “The show's new little ingénue is sleeping with the show's new executive producer. She put the bug in his ear to get rid of me so she could be front and center, and voilà! It's bye-bye, Monica Geary.”

“Who's the new executive producer?”

“Christian Larkin.”

A gurgle of disgust came from the back of Theresa's throat. “He's a world-renowned asshole.” She sat back, tenting her slim fingers thoughtfully. “You need to be in the public eye more than ever. I'd suggest you keep seeing Eric and accept any interview request about your departure.”

“No problem.”
What else do I have to do?
It was becoming the sad refrain of her life.

Theresa looked pleased. “Good girl. As for you and Eric, you know the drill: smile and ‘no comment' your head off.” Theresa paused. “Actually, you might want to hold hands every once in a while. Above all, keep going to the team's home games.”

Monica narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because everyone thinks you're their good luck charm. Go to the games, and we've got a chance for coverage from the sports reporters as well as the entertainment writers and gossip columnists.”

“Did Michael tell you about the cutout?”

“Yes.” Theresa chortled. “That was really brilliant, Monica, I have to say. I was so tempted to plant a piece about it, but I knew you'd kill me.”

“
Kill
doesn't even begin to describe it.” She wondered if Theresa knew about the boob-touching pregame ritual. Probably not, and Monica wasn't about to tell her, either. She didn't want to get Michael into trouble.