Power Play (31 page)

“Thanks a lot,” Monica muttered under her breath to Gloria's back.

She could hear Eric draw a deep breath as she remained standing by the door. “Have you been watching any of our games?” he asked.

“No,” she lied.

She felt stupid just standing there, so she moved farther into the living room, sitting opposite Eric in one of Gloria's vintage leather club chairs.

“Well, if you'd been watching,” said Eric, looking somewhat dejected, “you'd have seen the crowd chanting for you to take me back. And all the guys on the team sewed
M
s on their jerseys that stood for Monica.”

“I did read something about that in the paper.”

“So will you . . .” Eric ran his hands over his face, whether in dejection or in an effort to wake himself up, Monica couldn't tell. He looked awful.

“Hypothetical question,” he said. “If you were having trouble at work, and you knew there was someone who might be able to help you out, would you ask for their help?”

“Yes,” Monica said cautiously.

“Okay, then. I'm asking for your help. I need you to come to the next Blades game.” Monica opened her mouth to protest, but Eric swiftly held up a hand to silence her. “Hear me out. You were my good luck charm, Monica. I'm not kidding. If you come, maybe I can reverse the slump I'm in.”

Monica stood up. “You selfish bastard!”

Eric looked alarmed. “What? What did I do?”

“I
knew
you were only trying to win me back because of your stupid superstitions! I
knew
it!”

“No, no, no,” Eric insisted frantically. “That's not it at all.”

“Bullshit.”

Eric was edging his way off the couch. “Can't you just come to one game? Please? For old time's sake?”

“We don't have an old time's sake, remember?” Her voice was bitter. “Our whole relationship was fake for you.”

“Not true. I'm begging you here, Monica.
One game.
”

“Fine,” she harrumphed, thinking about all his inept wooing and the fondness it produced in her against her will. “You'll see me at the next game.”

Eric's face lit up with gratitude as he rose from the couch. “I can't thank you enough for this.”

“No, you can't. Now please leave.”

“Fine. I mean totally. Right this minute,” said Eric, bowing and scraping. “It worked,” he called out to Gloria in the kitchen. “Thanks for helping me out.”

Gloria tottered back into the living room, cocktail glass in hand. “Anytime.” She looked back and forth between Eric and Monica triumphantly. “Should I lift my glass high to toast the newly reunited couple?”

“Bite your traitorous tongue,” Monica snarled.

Eric gave Gloria a quick peck on the cheek. “The game is tomorrow night,” he reminded Monica as he headed toward the door.

Monica looked at him coolly. “I told you: you'll see me there.”

“
Adieu
, sweet prince,” Gloria called after Eric. She turned to Monica. “How is it that you're not back together?”

“I'm helping him out professionally. That's all.”

“Deep tissue massage?” Gloria teased.

“Not funny.”

Gloria took a huge gulp of her mai tai. “Want one of these? Brando taught me how to make them perfectly when I visited him in Tahiti many years ago.”

“No thank you.”

“It might help loosen you up. You seem a bit fraught to me.”

“Of course I'm fraught; you tricked me, Gloria,” Monica repeated in a hurt voice. “That wasn't very nice.”

“It was for a noble cause,” Gloria insisted.

Yeah, so Eric could save his own ass,
Monica thought.

“How would you feel if I tricked you into seeing Monty?”

Gloria clutched at her throat. “You wouldn't.”

“Behave, and I won't.”

Gloria relaxed, lowering her hand. “May I at least ask
how
you're helping him out professionally?”

“That's for me to know and for you to find out,” Monica replied. “Now finish up your Brando mai tai so we can do some serious damage at Bergdorf's.”

 

Eric couldn't remember the last time he was this excited to play as he cruised toward the Blades locker room, a spring in his step. He'd told his teammates at practice that morning that they'd see Monica at tonight's game, and to a man they were elated. Not surprisingly, he'd had a great practice. Whether Monica wanted to admit it or not, her defenses were slowly crumbling; it was only a matter of time before she took him back.
Damn, you're good,
he said to himself.
Perseverance: that's the key in sports, in life, and in romance.

He opened the door of the locker room, jerking to a stop at the threshold. There, planted in front of his locker, was a life-sized cardboard cutout of Monica.

“Mitcho!” said Thad. “Check out what Lou just brought down.”

Ulf grinned. “Awesome, is it not?”

Oh, it was awesome, all right. Cardboard Monica was wearing a low-cut, beaded red gown, her long blonde hair falling in soft waves down her shoulders. The expression on her face was sexy, but not overwhelmingly so; it was more kittenish than come-hither. Eric felt his face flame.

“Why's it in front of my locker?”

Thad shrugged. “Lou said that's where it's supposed to go.”

“You mean, that's where Monica told him to put it,” said Eric, feeling like an idiot.

Jason came up to him. “What's going on here, Bro?”

Eric frowned. “Monica's exact words to me yesterday were, ‘You'll see me there.' Not ‘I'm coming to the game.' ” Eric was seething as he gestured at the cutout. “Well, there she is, guys. She's at Met Gar.”

Low laughter rumbled through the room. “Oh, man, did she ever stick it to you,” Barry Fontaine chortled.

“She got you, Mitcho,” Ulf added. The Blades began clapping and whistling.

“You can all fuck off, thank you very much,” Eric growled. He dropped his gym bag and started moving toward his locker. “Let's get it the hell out of here.”

“Dude, no!” Thad stepped in front of him. “I think we should keep it.”

“What the hell for?” Eric scowled.

“Maybe it'll bring good luck,” said Ulf. “At any rate, she sure is fun to look at.” He moved his hips suggestively as he slithered toward the cutout, putting his mouth on cardboard Monica's for a long, long time. “Mmm-mmm good.”

Eric fought the urge to punch him in the face, even though he had no right to; she wasn't his girlfriend anymore. Besides, this was a cardboard cutout. “I don't want to see it,” he declared emphatically, sizing up the locker room. “There's no room in here for it, anyway.”

“We can put it out in the hall, right outside the locker room,” Thad suggested. “A good luck charm for all of us. All those in favor say aye.”

“Aye,” said everyone but Eric and Jason. Eric shot his brother a grateful look for siding with him. Jason nodded curtly and began lacing up his skates.

“It's decided, then,” said Barry. “Monica Geary will assume an honorary position—”

“You mean a missionary position?” Ulf interrupted with a smirk as the other Blades catcalled.

“—outside the locker room door.” Barry picked up the cutout by its neck. “May I?” he said to Eric.

“Knock yourself out, asshole,” Eric muttered. Any excitement he'd felt about playing had evaporated in a puff of mortification. It was time to get out of his head and start channeling all his frustration and disappointment over failing to win Monica back into playing his guts out. He avoided looking at cardboard Monica as he trooped out of the locker room with his teammates.

That night, the Blades won 4-2 against Philly. Eric was all over the ice, scoring once on a slapper from the point and assisting on two power play goals. His teammates were ecstatic. Ty slapped him on the back when the game ended, and Michael Dante gave him a hug when they got back to the locker room.

“Cardboard Monica brought your mojo back,” Ulf proclaimed. “We definitely have to keep her around.”

How could Eric argue? He reluctantly nodded his assent as he headed for the shower. But he couldn't help thinking his play would have been even better had flesh-and-blood Monica been there. Talk about sending him a clear message. He showered, but rather than joining his buddies for a postgame, celebratory drink at Fuzzy's, he headed straight home to lick his wounds. The day after tomorrow the Blades were leaving for a road trip, and he was glad, since everything he saw reminded him of Monica. He flicked on the TV, surfed, nodded off. Some bachelor life.

TWENTY-SIX

“I'm just going to say this straight out,” Christian declared solemnly. “Next Friday is going to be your last day on
W and F
.”

Monica kept her expression neutral as she sat down on the giant couch in Christian's office, the one he probably screwed Chesty on daily. She thought she was going to be called on the carpet about her attitude and for challenging him in front of the cast and crew. She never thought she'd be fired. Monica blinked hard as a gash opened up in her chest out of which stunned incredulity poured.

She held her head high. “May I ask why?”

“We're taking the show in a younger, hipper direction. The character of Roxie simply doesn't fit into that.”

“I see.” Monica pressed her lips together hard, a dam against the torrent of expletives threatening to gush from her mouth. “And may I ask how Roxie is going to be written off?”

“She's going to be killed by a zombie on next Friday's show.”

“I see,” Monica repeated.

“I know this must come as a shock to you,” said Christian, who was a worse actor than Chesty. The sympathy on his face was about as real as Chesty's boobs.

“It is.”

“We will, of course, buy you out of your contract and pay you accordingly.”

“And of course we'll throw you a huge going-away party after we finish shooting for the day.”

“That's so sweet of you,” Monica replied with just the slightest tinge of sarcasm coloring her voice.

“Well, you are beloved by some of the cast and crew.”

Christian stood. “That's it. Thank you for all the hard work and dedication you've demonstrated over the years.”

“It was my pleasure.”

He came out from behind the desk to open the door for her. “I know you'll flourish wherever it is you wind up.”

“That goes without saying,” Monica said with a false smile as she breezed past him. Her pace quickened as she headed for her dressing room. Chesty passed her in the hall, her pouty pink mouth sporting a tiny smirk. She knew. The little bitch already knew.

Monica fought the urge to follow her, burst into Christian's office, and yell, “How dare you tell this stupid little tart before me?!” Oh, she could picture the genesis of her fate: Chesty breathlessly urging the king of the Munchkins on as she gave him head, encouraging him to tell the writers to write Monica off the show; Chesty covering his lumpy little face in kisses when he brought her the news that he'd fulfilled her wish. It was disgusting. Disgusting, corrupt, and unfair.

Monica steamed toward her dressing room, struggling not to slam the door. She closed it with quiet dignity before locking it. And then she sat down on the couch and cried her eyes out.

“He's been gunning for you ever since you turned down his offer for nooky,” Gloria said as she bit into a piece of rare rib eye steak, following it with a sip of her Johnny Walker. At Gloria's urging, Monica had joined her soon-to-be ex-costar for a meal at the Old Homestead Steakhouse, the oldest in New York. Gloria claimed that apart from mindless sex, nothing assuaged devastation better than a good hunk of meat washed down with strong booze. Monica wasn't sure she agreed, but she wasn't complaining. She was getting a nice buzz off her martini.

“But isn't it stupid to do something like this out of vengeance?” Monica asked plaintively. “Doesn't he care about how it affects the show?”

“It's not his brain that's doing his thinking. I'm going to enjoy watching him go down in flames.”

“I guess.” Monica took a sip of her drink, trying to ignore the thin swirl of watery blood on Gloria's plate from her near-raw dinner.

“Darling, do you know how many times I've been written off that show?”

Monica thought. “Three.”

“That's right. Three. Once when I was dragged down to hell by Santo the Demon King to suffer the fires of eternity for stabbing Grayson; once when an iceberg cracked beneath me and I fell into the Arctic Ocean and drowned; and once when I fled town after starting the warehouse fire. It's not the most horrible thing in the world. You've been working like a dog for years. Now you can take a nice break; maybe pursue being a ‘real' actress.”

Monica peered across the table at Gloria in the dim light of the restaurant. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Of course I am. I've never understood this fixation you've had about not being a ‘legitimate' actress because you work in daytime. It's nonsense. No one can make you feel inferior without your own consent, you know.” She gulped down the rest of her drink before waving her empty glass dramatically at their buff waiter to call him over. “Fill 'er up, laddie.” After ogling the waiter as he walked away, Gloria turned back to Monica. “Why don't you think of this as an opportunity to try to spread your wings? You've been saying you wanted to do that for years.”