Power Play (38 page)

 

“Cut!”

Jimmy waddled down from the control booth, scowling. “Royce! That sucked! We'll have to do another take—as if I have goddamn time!” He turned to Monica, his scowl quickly transforming itself into a smile. “Great job.”

Monica took a small bow. “Thank you.”

“Everyone, take five.”

Monica moved off set, where Gloria stood waiting, a proud smile on her face. “That was exquisite, darling. And that glow on your cheeks that you've been sporting all week—I assume it has nothing to do with being back in Roxie's fuck-me pumps and everything to do with Eric?”

“Yes,” Monica said, on the verge of gushing like a love-sick adolescent. The two weeks that she and Eric had been back together were the way she'd always hoped her life would be: a man she loved, a job she adored—things were finally coming together.

Eric life's, however, had hit a major glitch: The Blades weren't playing well. The hot streak they'd attributed to cardboard Monica had run its course, and they were playing mediocre, inconsistent hockey, stuck at around the .500 mark. She tried to make him feel better about it, but soon learned there was no talking to a hockey player about his game unless you were a hockey player yourself. She was still front and center at every home game she could attend, but it seemed the magic had worn off.

Gloria continued to look elated. “I'm so happy for the two of you, darling.” She shook her head, sighing contentedly. “What a change of atmosphere since you returned. Everyone is back to his or her old self. Jimmy's screaming. Royce is sucking. It's pure heaven.” She leaned in close to Monica. “I've heard some rumors about the upcoming story line,” she said under her breath.

Monica's ears pricked up. “From?”

Gloria shrugged. “Just around. Do you want to hear?”

“Of course.”

“Apparently,” Gloria said authoritatively, “Roxie's baby isn't Grayson's.”

Monica drew back. “What?”

“It's going to turn out that Grayson has a twin brother he never knew about. He had Grayson kidnapped and put in prison in the Seychelles, and he's tricked everyone into thinking
he's
the real Grayson, including Monica, who slept with him.”

“Wow.” An evil twin story line. Monica had never done one of those. It was a daytime convention she wasn't fond of, but she supposed it could be fun.

“Then the brother gets killed fighting in Bovinistan—”

“That's not a real country!”

“Of course it isn't, darling. Anyway,” Gloria continued breathlessly, “Roxie, thinking he's dead, finds love with the new hot attorney in town; except the real Grayson escapes from prison and returns, and Roxie must decide between the two men.”

Monica's toes curled happily in her shoes. “Oooh, that sounds good.”

“My role is being expanded, too. Antonia's old love, Thane Wintergreen, will be returning to town, and the two will rekindle their love from years ago.”

“That's great, Gloria. It sounds like bringing the old writing team back will really make a difference.”

“Indeed. Have you decided what you're going to wear to the Daytime Drama Awards?”

“Not yet. You?”

“I'm going to wear a dress Diane von Fürstenberg designed for me back in the seventies. The neckline plunges so far you can see my toes,” she said with a delighted laugh.

“Mmm.” Monica suppressed a wince, not sure she wanted to picture it. Gloria . . . plunging neckline . . . her boobs so thin and droopy she could toss them over her shoulders like scarves if she wanted to . . . it could get ugly. Monica didn't want her friend to humiliate herself. Maybe she'd try to gently nudge her into choosing something else.

“I take it Eric will be escorting you?” Gloria asked suggestively.

Monica sighed. “God, you're the most lecherous woman in the Western Hemisphere. Of course Eric will be with me.”

Discussing the Awards reminded Monica that she needed to speak to Eric about it. She was excited by the prospect of him being there if she won; just imagining the pride she'd see on his face made her dizzy with love for him.

“I'd better get back on set,” said Monica.

“And I'm off to tighten my face.” Gloria clucked her tongue. “Honestly, I don't understand women spending all that money on plastic surgery when Preparation H works just as well.” She gave Monica a quick peck on the cheek. “Au revoir for now. And thank Thor you're back.”

 

“Which method of suicide do you think would be less painful?” Tully asked his teammates glumly. “Blowing my brains out, or mixing sleeping pills in my Wheaties?”

“Gun,” Thad replied just as miserably. “Definitely gun.”

Despondency dominated the Blades locker room as the team slowly, sadly undressed following their loss to Jersey. Despite winning a brutal game against Philly two nights before, they'd missed making the playoffs by a single point, with Jersey beating them out tonight for the last spot.

“We could all kill ourselves together,” Ulf suggested. “Like a cult.”

Eric frowned. “You're an idiot.” Still, he couldn't help picturing their motionless bodies in a heap on the ice. That'd sure get press coverage.

“I think we lost because Coach got rid of the Monica cutout,” said Burke, grimacing as he removed his shoulder pads, the result of suffering a serious hit in the second period. “I'm not kidding.”

“You lost because you weren't at your best. Period.”

All eyes swiveled simultaneously to Ty Gallagher standing in the locker room doorway, his trademark scowl firmly fixed in place. The displeasure on his face sent a small bolt of humiliation through Eric. At least he knew he wasn't alone: his teammates looked just as degraded as he did.

“Listen up,” said Ty, unsmiling, as he closed the locker room door behind him.

Rank with sweat and in various stages of undress, the Blades did as their coach asked. He tortured them in his usual way, making prolonged eye contact with each and every one of them. He who flinched was a pussy. When it was Eric's turn, he held Ty's gaze despite the strong impulse to drop his eyes to the floor.

“I'll make this brief,” Ty began tersely. “We didn't make the playoffs because we didn't come together as quickly as we needed. A lack of chemistry on and off the ice led us to dig a hole too deep for ourselves to climb out of. We've gelled now, but unfortunately, it's too little, too late.”

He sighed heavily. “We have the nucleus for a good run at the Cup next year. We've got the players we need. It's just a matter of you guys hitting the ice running the minute next season starts. You feel like shit right now, right?”

The team nodded.

“I've been there,” Ty told them. “My advice is to savor your disappointment. Remember this feeling. Hold on to it. Keep it with you so that you'll do anything to make sure you're never in this position again.”

He dismissed them with a curt nod of the head. Eric was turning to his locker when Ty gripped his forearm. “Come to my office when you get out of the shower.”

Eric nodded. Singled out again. Shit. He hoped Ty didn't rip him too badly. He asked Jason to tell Monica to wait for him, since he'd be slightly delayed, and headed for the showers.

 

Ty didn't motion for Eric to sit, so Eric assumed his coach was going to be brief, which was fine with him. He squared his shoulders and waited for the verbal onslaught.

“You started the year off slow,” said Ty.

Eric's shoulders slumped slightly. “Yeah, I know.”

“But I've been happy with the caliber of your performances toward the end of this season. The trade for you didn't work out for us this year. But you showed glimmers of what we were looking for. Make sure you play that way all next season.”

Eric tried to contain his elation. For Ty, that was a glowing endorsement. “I will.” He couldn't wait to tell Monica, and Jace—especially Jace.

“Don't get fat in the off-season,” said Ty. “I need you at your peak from the moment the puck drops on opening night.”

“That won't be a problem, Coach.”

He'd work out every day. Rent ice time with Jace so they could keep their skills sharp. He'd make sure he came into training camp in game shape. The idea of rising to the challenge pumped him up.

Ty looked down at his notes, signaling the conversation was over.

Eric turned to go.

“By the way,” Ty called after him, “tell your girlfriend I'm glad she's back on
W and F
. It sucked without her.”

Eric turned back to him, grinning. “Will do. Have a good summer, Coach.”

 

“Really? He said that? That the show sucked without me?”

Monica couldn't hide her delight as Eric related to her the details of his postgame conversation with Ty.

“Yup.”

“I must be doing something right.” She snuggled against Eric in the back of the cab taking them back uptown to her place. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah?”

“The Daytime Drama Awards are in two weeks. I take it you're going to be my dream date?” she said kittenishly, rubbing her nose against his.

“Uh . . . I meant to talk to you about that.”

The undertone of apprehension Monica heard in his voice made her sit up.

“Yes?” she said, trying to keep her voice from sounding clipped.

Eric looked apologetic. “I'm not going to be able to go with you to the Awards.” He rubbed his neck; Monica imagined a knot of tension forming there, fast. She assumed this, because a knot was also forming in her neck right now, too, matched by one coalescing in her stomach.

This time she couldn't hide her upset. “Why can't you come?”

“I probably should have talked to you about this a couple of weeks ago, but I've been so preoccupied with the hockey . . .”

Monica waited.

“I have a charity event I have to go to for the team.”

Monica's heart sank. “Can't you get out of it?” she wheedled.

“No. I committed to it before we got back together.”

Shit. She couldn't fault him for that.

“Please don't be pissed.”

“I'm not. Just disappointed,” she admitted sadly. “I would love to have you with me if I win. I would have loved to have you with me, anyway.”

“Don't worry. I'll be watching you.”

Monica brightened. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Eric replied with a wounded look. “I'll TiVo it. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“I love you so much,” said Monica, pressing her lips to his. She wondered if kissing him would ever stop being an exhilarating experience; if, years from now, it would feel mundane. She couldn't imagine that ever happening.

“I love you, too.” Eric's arm snaked back around her shoulder, drawing her to him. “This is the best,” he murmured. “And you know what? It's only going to get better.”

 

“I've a mind never to speak to you again.”

Monica ignored Gloria's fuming as she sat down at one of the
W and F
tables at the Daytime Drama Awards with Monty. At first, she'd intended to come alone, since Eric couldn't be with her. But then she thought: Why not bring Monty? It would force him and Gloria to talk. Monica steered Monty to sit down next to his old friend and supposed nemesis.

“Hello, Gloria,” Monty said quietly.

Gloria turned her head dramatically so she was looking in the other direction. “Don't talk to me, you desiccated old lizard. You look a hundred years old.”

“And you already look like you've been moldering in the grave for years,” Monty retorted.

Monica knew the remark was meant to get Gloria's goat, and it did: Gloria jerked her head back to glare at him, though Monica caught an almost imperceptible look of sentimentality quickly pass over her friend's face before she forced her features back into a sour mask. “You're a son of a bitch,” Gloria said to Monty.

Monty sighed, debonairly straightening his bow tie. “Yes, I am. But I
have
missed you.”

Gloria snorted.

“C'mon, Gloria,” Monica intervened. “You're being silly. You know you've missed him, too. You always ask about him. It's time to forgive and forget.”

Gloria's eyes flashed daggers, but Monica could see, in the nearly undetectable relaxation of Gloria's features, that she knew Monica was right. Gloria frowned, looked Monty up and down sniffily, and took a swig of champagne. “Beg me for forgiveness, old man. I'm all ears.”

Monica, not wanting to eavesdrop, excused herself to go to the ladies' room. Men and women watched her as she sailed by, the women somewhat enviously, the men longingly. As she did every year, she'd taken great care to choose her dress: full length, black, strapless, the back plunging low. A string of pearls around her neck. Diamond teardrop earrings. Completely elegant. Completely classy.

She wished Eric were here to talk to, get nervous with, look at. She loved when he got dressed up; he looked stunning. His absence was a sad ache inside her, but she understood why he couldn't be there.

She didn't go as far as the ladies' room, standing instead in the back of the banquet room where she could watch Gloria and Monty from a distance. Focusing on them helped keep her mind off the butterflies bombarding her stomach every time she thought about the Award. It would be especially satisfying to go home with the statue this year, after Christian Larkin's short-lived reign of terror. She tried not to dwell on her three previous nominations. If she lost, she was in danger of becoming the next Susan Lucci.