Power Play (9 page)

Eric's jaw set. “I don't like complications.”

Fascinated, Monica put an elbow on the table, cradling her chin in the palm of her hand. “So what happens when you get bored with your eye candy? Do you dump them? Pull the old ‘Love 'em and leave' em' ? Or is ‘Leave 'em before they want a commitment' more accurate?”

“What do you care?” Eric retorted.

“I don't, really,” Monica replied, feeling mildly rebuked. “Like I said, I was just curious.”

“What about you?” Eric challenged. “You only go for deep, artistic types? You're so sophisticated you're un-pickup-able?”

“I never said that, though I'm not big on relationships that are all about status—until now. Not that this is a relationship,” she was quick to add.

“Just two people helping each other out. Though I wouldn't mind knowing, just because I'm ‘just curious,' what kind of guys you usually date.”

Monica sighed, swirling her dessert spoon through the melted peach sorbet in her bowl. She supposed she owed him an answer. “The wrong kind. I've dated a couple of my costars, which is colossally stupid. ‘Showmances' rarely work out. At least not for me.”

“They probably can't handle how popular you are.”

Perceptive,
Monica thought. “That can be part of it. The other part is I've picked jerks.”

“My sympathies,” said Eric, sounding sincere.

Monica shrugged dispassionately. “You live, you learn.”

The waiter left the bill, and Eric snatched it up. “I've got it.”

“We should split it.”

Eric made a face. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘We're a couple' like splitting the bill.”

“Fine.” Monica raised her palms in surrender. “You get this one, I'll get the next one.”

“When
is
the next one?”

“I don't know. Let me talk to Theresa.”

“Oh, hey, I know,” said Eric, his face lighting up. “How 'bout you come down to Met Gar and meet the guys? You wanna talk about doing me a solid? Plus they'll be so thrilled to meet you, you'll get the ego fix of a lifetime.”

Monica smiled. “Sure. Call me, and we'll figure it out.”

“Great.”

Bill paid, they left the restaurant. The paparazzi had long since dispersed, leaving the two of them standing alone on the sidewalk in the quiet Upper East Side neighborhood.

Eric looked uncomfortable, rocking on his heels with his hands in his back pockets. “You gonna call for your car?”

“Actually, I think I'm going to walk.”

“Oh.” He paused. “I'll walk you, if you want.”

“That's okay. I like to walk alone sometimes. Helps me clear my head.”

“Right.” He stopped rocking. “Well, bye, then.” It looked as though he was going to plant a friendly kiss on her cheek. Instead, he touched his lips softly to hers. “Just in case there's someone from the press staked out somewhere we can't see, watching us,” he explained.

Monica nodded briskly, still feeling the heat from his mouth. “Yes. Of course.”

She turned from him and started walking home. For a split second, she was tempted to look back over her shoulder to see if he was watching her, but she didn't. They were just “helping each other out,” playing their respective parts. Nothing more.

 

Monica double-checked her appearance in the mirror in the ladies' room deep in the bowels of Met Gar before heading to the locker room to meet Eric's teammates. Maybe it was a sign of her not being as well-rounded as she should be, but she'd never set foot in a sports arena before, nor had she ever been to a professional sporting event. She supposed she'd have to attend a hockey game soon, just to keep the relationship thing looking realistic.

She'd been careful not to dress too provocatively, showing just enough cleavage to entice but not so much she'd be surrounded by drooling men who thought her body began below the neck. She was surprised to find herself battling a mild case of nerves. Meeting and mingling with fans from all walks of life was one thing; but this was the first time she was meeting exclusively with a group of men, and not just any group of men, either: these guys were all jocks. Classic alpha males. The testosterone level awaiting her had to be staggering.

She'd brought a stack of photographs to autograph and fully anticipated posing for a picture with each of them. She could lie to herself and say it was a burden, but the truth was, she liked posing for pictures. She hated that Eric could tell it irked her when the woman in Dijon wanted her photo taken with him and not her, but she supposed she shouldn't. Actors were supposed to be egotistical, after all. She just wished she were getting the ego boost from performing in a more respected branch of entertainment.

She pushed open the ladies' room door, heading down the hall toward the locker room. She could hear a hum of excited voices coming from inside, which was flattering. She knocked once; the humming abruptly stopped. “Is that you, baby?” Eric called out.

“It's me,” Monica trilled, chafing at the sexy tone with which Eric said
baby
. But a ruse was a ruse, right? She opened the door, finding herself confronted with nineteen goggle-eyed hulks. “Hi, honey.”

Now in character, she walked straight over to Eric, giving him a more-than-friendly kiss on the mouth, just so there was no doubt among his teammates that they were truly a couple. Eric embraced her hard, his hands going a little lower on her back than she would have liked. In fact, one inch lower, and he would have been cupping her ass. Such provocative realism, enough to make her want to pop him one. There was a definite feeling of testosterone swirling around the room, a uniquely condensed male energy that Monica had never experienced. “So, guys, here's my girl,” Eric said proudly as they broke their embrace. “Try not to drool all over her, or you'll have me to answer to.”

Monica chuckled, quickly observing the hockey players. Most of them were in jeans and T-shirts, Eric included. He had just come from the shower; his thick, blond hair was wet, his scent lemon fresh. Something rippled through Monica that she didn't care to address.

Holding her hand (at least this time he wasn't cutting off her circulation), Eric led her around the packed locker room, introducing her to each of his teammates. Their names and faces all blended into one, as did their eyes, which always flicked down to her chest before returning to her face to stare worshipfully at her. The only one who seemed not to be awe-struck by her presence was Eric's dark-haired brother, Jason.

Jason held out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Monica could see a slight resemblance between him and Eric around the eyes, but that was it.

“I need you to explain something to me, Ms. Geary,” said Jason.

“Please, call me Monica.”

“Monica. I'm a little mystified as to why you'd want to go out with my brother here. He's got the emotional depth of a paramecium.” The other players laughed.

“Perhaps there's a side of him you don't know,” Monica murmured mischievously. Eric smirked at Jason, who made a disgusted face.

Eric and Monica dropped hands, and Monica sat down on the nearest bench. “Eric said you guys have tons of questions,” she said affably. “Fire away.”

“Why didn't you get a priest in to perform an exorcism when Grayson was possessed by Satan's right-hand man, Rodrigo?” Thad Meyers asked.

“You mean, why didn't
Roxie
get a priest,” Monica corrected gently. This happened all the time: Viewers confused her with her character. She got mail addressed to Roxie, and a woman had once tried to slap her on the street after Roxie had stolen another character's husband on the show.

Thad just blinked.

“Everything is up to the writers,” Monica continued.

“I gotta say, that was really low of you, that time you buried your cousin Willow alive in that glass coffin,” said Ulf, nostrils flaring with disapproval. “How could you
do
that?”

Monica's teeth gritted slightly. “
Roxie
did it. I'm not Roxie. She's just the character I play.”

But Ulf wasn't done. “But don't you think it was a rotten thing for Roxie to do?”

“She went to jail for it,” Monica pointed out.

“Yeah, but then you got off on a technicality, which was soooo wrong,” Tully Webster chimed in, shaking his head.

Monica closed her eyes a moment. Clearly, the “I'm not my character” distinction was a lost cause among these guys.

More questions came fast and furious.

“Remember that time you and Grayson discovered Dr. Clifford's secret dungeon?”

“Remember when your ex-pimp, Benny, tracked you down?”

“Are you going to be turned into a zombie?”

“Are you really trying to get hold of a secret potion that might help Grayson walk?”

Monica answered each question as best she could, but after fifteen minutes of verbal bombardment, she held up her hand. “Guys, I really hate to do this, but I'm on a supertight schedule, and I want to make sure I have enough time to pose for pictures with you and sign autographs. So, one final question.”

“What do you like about my brother?” Jason Mitchell asked.

Monica flashed a charming smile and looked at Eric, who shot her a quick, almost imperceptible look of mild alarm. She reached out and took his hand, hoping he could read the message in her eyes:
Relax, buddy, I'm an actress. I can sing your praises in my sleep.

“There are so many things about Eric, I'm not sure where to start,” Monica murmured, staring into Eric's eyes as if she were Juliet and he her Romeo. “He's smart. He's funny. He's passionate about what he does.”

Actually, she was beginning to discover that all those things were true. Mildly unnerved, she shifted her gaze to Jason, who looked unconvinced. Monica would have to ask Eric about him later.

She posed for photographs with each of the players, as well as a group photo with the whole team. The autograph signing went smoothly, though none of these guys wanted the standard, “To So-and-So, Love, Monica Geary,” scribbled on the picture. No, she found herself writing things like, “To Thad, The Most Talented Player in the NHL”; or “To Tully, You're Truly Irresistible, Love, Monica Geary.” To a man, they hung her picture up in their locker. It was very, very weird.

She said her good-byes, and Eric escorted her out into the hall.

“That was great,” he raved.

Monica took a small bow. “Thank you. Though it was a little scary, them addressing me as my character.”

“They were just a little nervous, that's all. And not all of them did it.”

“True.” Monica put a hand on his arm. “Look, that picture that was taken of me with the team? Could you get it to Theresa? I'm sure some publication would love to print it.”

Eric looked baffled. “How will that help
you
?”

“You can never have enough publicity,” said Monica. “Even bad publicity is better than none at all, and so far, that's not something we've had to worry about.”

Eric shrugged. “Okay. I'll run it up to our in-house PR guy, Lou, too. Maybe we can put it in the program for the next game.”

“That would be great.”

After comfortably playacting with one another for over an hour, awkwardness suddenly descended. “So . . . what's next?” Eric asked.

“Why don't you visit the set next Monday, if you can? There's going to be some journalist from
Soap World
prowling around. Seeing us all lovey-dovey will definitely get me some ink.”

“Why do you need ink?” Eric asked. “I mean, you're
Monica freakin' Geary
.”

Monica fought a blush. “And I've got a freakin' ingénue trying to unseat me.”

“No one can unseat you,” Eric declared. “Deep down, you have to know that.”

Monica glanced away, uncomfortable with the naked praise.
He's saying that because he's a fan,
she thought. But other thoughts were trying to kick their way front and center: why should she care if Chesty began gaining in popularity, if Monica really thought that acting in daytime somehow didn't count?

She checked her watch. “Gotta run. I'll firm up the details about Monday and call you.”

“Sounds good.”

More awkwardness; was he deciding whether to give her a small kiss the way he did when they'd parted ways outside the restaurant? There was no one in the hall to perform for.

She made the decision for him. “See you Monday,” she said, starting down the hall.

“Thanks again,” he said softly, his voice trailing after her.

Just as she did the night after their dinner, she resisted turning around.

High fives and whistles awaited Eric when he returned to the locker room.

“You are totally my hero,” said Tully Webster with a hearty slap on the back.

“And one fuckin' lucky bastard to boot,” said Ulf.

“I know,” Eric agreed, looking at the pictures of Monica tacked to each guy's locker. Man, she
was
gorgeous. Somehow, in the midst of their playacting, he sometimes forgot that. It was hard to believe she didn't have a
real
boyfriend in her life, or that someone as smart as her habitually hooked up with jerks, or so she claimed. For a split second when she'd come into the locker room and kissed him, he'd forgotten this whole relationship thing was a bunch of bull, because the kiss was so realistic. Well, she was good at what she did, right? He wondered if that was how she kissed Royce in all those love scenes between Roxie and Grayson. Had to be. It was part of their job. But did she enjoy it? The thought pricked him.