Power Play (17 page)

“Thank you,” the woman said meekly, handing the mike back to Debbie so she could pass it on to the next fan.

Monica answered as many questions about the show and her character as she could. But she knew that eventually, the topic of Eric would come up.

“Monica,” boomed a woman with all the stentorian warmth of a high court judge. “How serious is your relationship with Eric Mitchell?”

The room sucked in its breath, every eager eye glued to Monica. She smiled warmly. “We're taking it one day at a time.”

Shoulders slumped. These people wanted dirt. They were her fans. They wanted to be on the inside track.

“Of course, who knows where it might go?” Monica added coyly. The room erupted in cheers and whistles. Monica knew she was deliberately tantalizing them, but that was the point, wasn't it? At the back of the room, Carolyn Shields and Delores Clarkson were scribbling furiously on their reporter's pads. Monica could already recite the headlines: “Wedding Bells for
W and F
's Monica?” She wondered if her answer would get back to Eric. Probably. Hadn't he said he and his teammates read soap mags in addition to being addicted to the show? She'd cross that bridge when and if she came to it.

Though only a week had passed, the whole weekend in North Dakota was beginning to feel like a figment of Monica's imagination. After their passionate kiss beneath the stars, they resumed playing their parts as if it had never happened. All Monica could think was: we're both cowards. But now, her impromptu addendum to her fan's question—“Who knows where it might go?”—made her wonder. Where
did
she want it to go? She was willing to admit to herself that she was physically attracted to him. But emotionally? Could it go to that level? And if it did?

She put these thoughts aside, concentrating on pleasing her fans. Which was easy—until the door at the back of the ballroom opened and Chesty stepped inside.

“Hi, everyone!” she chirped loudly, waving as if she were the queen of England greeting her beloved subjects. “Since I'm one of Monica's biggest fans myself,” she declared as she made her way to the dais, “this was one event I couldn't miss!”

Monica dug her nails into her thighs to keep herself from jumping up and coldcocking her.
Oh you bitch. Oh you bitchedy witchedy little bitch on wheels.

Monica's fans looked unsure of how to react. Some looked delighted: two soap stars for the price of one! Others looked confused: Was this a planned surprise? But most of them looked resentful. This was
their
event for Monica,
their
private audience with their idol. Monica wanted to circle the room and give every one of them a big kiss.

Meanwhile, Chessy had effortlessly commandeered the mike from a shell-shocked Debbie and joined Monica on the dais. She laid a hand over her heart—assuming she had one—in what was no doubt supposed to be a gesture of sincerity. “I just had to be here. I've been a fan of Monica's since I was a little girl”—she smiled at Monica with wide, adoring eyes—“and I just had to come and pay tribute. Isn't she the best?” The room erupted into applause. “I cannot tell you what it's like working with her. She's been acting
for so long
, enabling a fresh-faced newcomer like me to learn so much. Did any of you ever have an old, wise teacher in school whose every word you savored, hungry for that knowledge? That's how I feel about Monica. She's my mentor, my own version of a wise teacher. If any of you have anything you want to ask me about Monica and what it's like working with her, learning from her, please feel free.”

The room was silent as Monica's fans stared at Chessy coldly. These people were not stupid. They knew Chessy had come to steal Monica's moment, and Chessy was such a crappy actress that even someone on the level of, oh, say, Chim Chim could see through her words. The longer the silence dragged on, the harder it became for Monica to suppress a triumphant smile, especially when Chessy began to squirm.

“Nice try,” Monica whispered to her. “Very professional. There are two journalists in the room. Can't wait to see what they write about this.”

Monica deftly plucked the mike from Chessy's fingers. “Sorry about the interruption, folks. Now where were we?”

 

I
will not suck tonight,
Eric vowed to himself as he dressed for the game against Toronto. He kissed the cross from his mother five times before putting it around his neck. Usually he only did this for away games, but tonight he needed all the divine intervention he could get. He put on his left sock first, then his right. Shoulder pads, then kneepads. This had been his ritual since he was fifteen. Sometimes the mojo worked, and sometimes it didn't. It had better work tonight, or his confidence in himself, and perhaps his team's confidence in him, would be seriously damaged, especially since he'd once again
totally sucked
in a game two nights before. Starting out the season in a slump? Not good.

Theresa had called him yesterday, urging him to get Monica to come to a game, especially since the Blades' program was now running the picture of her with the team. Theresa advised Monica to sit on the arena's first level, rather than sit in a skybox, so that she didn't look aloof and could interact with Blades fans as well as whatever soap fans might be there. Thankfully, Monica had no problem with that, though she did ask him to reserve two seats for her, which was reasonable. Unless she was a rabid hockey fan, who would want to go to a game alone? He did wonder, though, who she was going to bring with her.

His brother sidled up to him. “Almost showtime.”

“Yeah.”

“I saw you kissing your cross,” Jason whispered. “You scared of fucking up again or what?”

“Fuck off,” Eric snarled. He'd already had to endure dirty looks from his teammates, cracks about how if his on-ice performance mirrored his performance in bed, Monica Geary would be dumping him any second. You'd think his own brother would cut him a little slack, but no. When it came to hockey, Jason could be as much of a jerk-off as anyone else.

“If you've got anything else unhelpful to say,” Eric muttered through gritted teeth, “say it now.”

Jason put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with a sincere expression on his face. “Good luck tonight.”

“Thanks.” Okay, so maybe his brother wasn't such a jerk. Saying another quick prayer, Eric followed his teammates out of the locker room.

 

“What on earth are they
doing
down there?”

Monica turned her attention from the Blades home ice to answer Gloria's question—or, more accurately, not to answer it, since she had no idea. Why she'd decided to bring Gloria with her to the hockey game, she didn't know. In typical Gloria style, she was wearing a leopard print catsuit and matching turban. The latter had to be removed the second they sat down and the fan behind Gloria growled, “Hey, Aladdin, I can't see a fuckin' thing here.”

“Charming,” Gloria sniffed, but she'd taken the turban off and was now holding it in her lap. “Why are we here again?”

“Because I want to see my boyfriend play,” Monica replied.
Because we need to keep the PR machine rolling along.
“Besides, if you didn't want to come, you could have said no.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Gloria insisted. “I believe in trying everything at least once, if you can.”

They were almost at the end of the first period, and Monica had already seen the camera pointed at her a few times, and waved. In fact, one of the newscasters wanted to talk to her between periods. Perhaps stupidly, she'd agreed to it. She hoped they didn't ask her any hockey questions, or if they did, she hoped she could bluff her way through them. She was pretty certain, though, that the questions would center on her and Eric.

“So, as I was asking . . .” Gloria began.

“I have no idea what they're doing,” Monica confessed quietly. She felt like a simpleton watching the action down on the ice.

She kept her eyes glued to Eric. At one point, there was something called a “power play,” and Eric seemed to have the puck on his stick a lot, which the crowd liked. When someone on the power play scored, the crowd went crazy, their roar of delight almost deafening. It reminded her of movies she'd seen set in ancient Rome, where the toga and sandal crowd roared every time a Christian was thrown to the lions. But Monica understood their joy. She remembered the first time she'd ever gone to a play on Broadway, how she wanted to stand up and cheer, it was so amazing. These sports fans were no different than any other sort of dedicated fan. They delighted in their idols' victories, felt disappointed in their defeats. It was a wonderful thing to behold.

Hearing their cheers, Gloria peered at Monica and in a dry voice said, “I suppose I should toss my turban up in the air.” Monica really wished she'd brought Jimmy instead. Jimmy knew about sports; he could explain to her what was going on. Plus, it probably would have helped cheer him. Wallace Mendelson's death was still affecting him.

“Which one is your boyfriend?” Gloria asked again, her gaze scouring the ice. “I can't keep track. There are so many of them down there, buzzing around like little bees.”

Monica pointed. “Right there, skating back to the bench, number sixty-five.”

Monica watched as Eric sat down on the end of the players' bench, grabbing a water bottle and squirting the contents into his mouth. His eyes were glued to the ice, but then, for a split second, they lifted, catching hers. He gave a quick smile. Monica smiled back. Pride ballooned inside her, the same way it did after Eric had tried to revive Wallace on the set. Again she thought,
I don't have any right to feel this. He's not really my boyfriend.

“I heard about that little harlot showing up at your fan lunch,” Gloria remarked casually. “How you didn't punch her in that retroussé little nose of hers is beyond me.”

“I wanted to, believe me. But I'll let my character do it for me in a couple of months.”

“I know I've told you this before, but
watch her
. She's got it in for you.”

“I know that, Gloria.”

“I've been in this business longer than you. You can't trust anyone. Someone will claim to be your friend one minute, then stab you in the back the next to further their own career.” Monica held her tongue, even though she thought Gloria was beginning to sound a little paranoid.

“Don't forget: that blonde little fluff ball can open her legs to someone who makes the decisions about whose contract gets renewed and whose doesn't,” Gloria continued. She held a declamatory finger up in the air. “Never underestimate the power of the muff.”

Monica cringed. The woman on the other side of Gloria leaned over to stare at them, appalled. “Alzheimer's,” Monica whispered to the woman with an apologetic smile. “She doesn't know what she's saying sometimes.”

Gloria's mouth fell open, but Monica silenced her with her best glare.

“Honestly,” Gloria huffed. She riffled through her purse for a cigarette.

“You can't smoke here,” said Monica.

“My God!” Gloria sputtered in exasperation. “What is this? The Soviet Union under Stalin?”

Monica laughed. Gloria's penchant for melodrama sometimes reminded her of Monty's. Her anger at the old man had abated, replaced by a niggling sense of responsibility. She should go over and see him soon.

The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the first period. Monica briefly caught Eric glance her way again before he followed his teammates into a tunnel. She wondered if he was glad she was here. Probably, if only to impress his teammates. The newscaster who wanted to speak with her was already rushing toward her. “You keep your lips zipped,” Monica instructed Gloria. “Understand?” She had an image of Gloria putting her turban back on, telling the newscaster what a hunk she thought Eric was and how if she were thirty years younger . . .

“Aren't we bossy tonight,” Gloria drawled. “Must be from all the time you're spending with that lovely, testosterone-filled athlete. You're getting very assertive. But very well, I'll hold my tongue.”

“Thank you.”

Two women in Blades jerseys approached Monica shyly, asking for her autograph. Monica happily complied. By the time the journalist reached her, her mood was downright cheery. This ruse was working like a charm.

THIRTEEN

“What did you think of the game?”

Eric could barely contain his excitement as he and Monica headed uptown toward their respective apartments in her hired car. To say he'd slaughtered out on the ice tonight was an understatement. He'd scored on the power play two minutes into the second period, and he'd orchestrated the team's other three power plays as if he had the puck on a string. They'd scored three out of four chances on the power play, in addition to their two even-strength goals. He'd excelled in his own end as well, skating the puck and making crisp breakout passes.

“I thought it was interesting,” Monica said carefully.

“I caught some of the interview you did between periods. You did well.”

“Thank God they didn't ask me anything in depth.”

He remembered the first time they'd shared this car, when he escorted her to the tribute dinner for Chim Chim's old partner. That night, Monica had sat as far away from him as she could, her body pressed up against the window. Tonight, they were sitting close enough that their shoulders were touching. It hadn't been planned, it just was, and it felt natural—not to mention completely terrifying.

Eric resisted the urge to brush away the blonde bangs that had fallen over her forehead, settling instead for a friendly squeeze to her knee. “Look, I need to ask you a favor.”