“All that air kissing and ‘Darling, you look stunning,’ and ‘Isn’t so-and-so wonderful,’ and ‘Yes, we must to get together. ’And then the minute someone turns their back, you’re all whispering about how their ass looks enormous and did he have work done and whom did she blow to get that movie part. It’s kind of sickening.”
“As sickening as you crawling up the ass of everyone at the table, telling them how much you love their characters?” Monica snapped.
“I do!”
“You were being just as disingenuous as anyone else. I heard you tell Gloria she didn’t look a day over fifty.”
“I was trying to be nice! I was trying to be a good date!”
Monica gritted her teeth. “Escort.”
“You said date when you introduced me,” Eric maintained stubbornly.
The elevator doors slid open. “If I’d said escort, it would have sounded like I was paying you.”
Eric touched her cheek. “I can think of ways for you to pay me.”
Monica jerked away from him. “Jesus,” she hissed, storming to her apartment and throwing open the door. Bad idea, having him up here. Bad, bad idea. Christ, she wished she did have a drink trolley. She’d drink the brandy straight out of the decanter.
Eric followed, closing the door behind him. “I was just trying to be a good date,” he repeated. He regarded her coolly. “You’re not the only one who can act, you know.”
Monica whirled to face him. “Really? So which one is the real Eric Mitchell? The self-absorbed egomaniac who thinks women should fall at his feet, or the fluid, conversant charmer in the tuxedo who seemed oh so interested in everyone else?” His face fell, a trace of mortification in his eyes. A new wave of guilt washed over Monica. “I’m sorry,” she said with a sigh, tossing her bag onto the couch. “I’m tired and a little cranky.” Even so, the question she’d just posed was a valid one.
“Apology accepted,” said Eric, looking impressed as he gazed around the apartment. “This place is huge.”
“Ten years of W and F provides a very nice paycheck.” Visitors tended to be most impressed with the size, but it was how it was decorated that always made Monica proudest: English cottage style, with lots of dried flowers, stripped pine, baskets, and brass. Her home was her oasis, and she wanted it plain and homey, her own little piece of the Cotswolds on the Upper East Side. “What kind of coffee would you like?”
“I’m fine, actually. No coffee for me.”
“I don’t want any, either, to tell the truth.”
Eric’s gaze was unnervingly direct. “So why am I here?”
Now that the moment of truth had arrived, Monica wished she’d opted for the coward’s way out back in the limo. Telling the truth could easily undo the PR coup of the past evening. What was to stop him running to the paper and telling them that Monica Geary had used him? Nothing. But she was willing to take the risk. She didn’t want to be the type of person who used someone else that way.
She sat down on the couch. “Why don’t you sit—at that end,” she added hastily, pointing to the opposite end of the sofa. Eric complied. “I’m not really sure how to say this.”
Eric raised a hand. “Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He radiated self-confidence.
Monica steeled herself. “What, then?”
“That you’re totally into me.”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m totally not into you. In fact, I think you’re an egomaniacal jerk who may very well have a personality disorder. This whole evening was Theresa Dante’s idea. I need to up my profile in the public eye, and she told me you’d be the perfect escort for me, since you’re the hottest thing on skates or something. We even discussed my stringing you along to keep the public tantalized.” Her cheeks were burning. “But it’s a crappy thing to do, and I—I won’t do it. So I’m telling you the truth. I’m sorry for using you, Eric.”
She made herself continue to look at his expressionless face, waiting for the inevitable storm of curse words to come. “Wow,” he said, sounding awed. “You’re a total bitch.”
Ashamed, Monica looked down at her hands. “I know.”
“But this is a great idea.”
Monica slowly raised her head. “What?”
“Here’s the lowdown, okay? I’m new to the Blades. Yeah, I’m a great player—that’s universally agreed upon—and yeah, I’m totally hot, but I kind of got off on the wrong foot with my teammates.”
“Alienated them by being a jackass?” Monica murmured sweetly.
“Something like that,” Eric muttered. “Anyway, I have to prove myself on the ice, obviously. But I also need to do something to prove I’m not a dick off the ice, that I’m kinda cool. The guys all love you, Monica.”
Monica felt a warm glow inside.
“They were totally impressed I did a cameo on the show, and even though they all thought I was bullshitting them about being your date tonight, the proof will be in tomorrow’s paper.”
“What are you getting at?” Monica asked warily.
“We commence a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“You’re kidding, right?” This was the last thing Monica expected to hear.
“It’ll help each of us get what we want, right? This could even help me out with Blades fans, who are kind of gunning for me, too, since the team traded one of their most beloved players for me.”
Monica nodded her head, impressed. “You must be good at what you do.”
“Babe, I’m good at a lot of things.”
“Oh, God. Look.” Monica pointed a warning finger at him. “If we’re going to be spending time together, you cannot say icky things like that. Got it?”
Eric looked mildly wounded. “But what if it’s true?”
“Then keep it to yourself. I don’t care if you have the biggest package east of the Rockies; (A) I’m not interested, and (B) it makes me want to stick a fork in your eye. So save your breath.”
Eric frowned. “Fine,” he said, his expression reflective as he gave a stretch. “How do we do this?”
“By constantly being in the public eye, doing couple type things. Dinner, stuff like that.” Monica gave a small frown. “I suppose I could go to a hockey game sometime, meet your teammates. And you could visit the set.”
“Sounds great.” Eric stood, stifling a yawn. “So, we’ve got a deal?”
“Deal,” Monica said, rising.
“Can we at least seal it with a—”
“Handshake?” Monica cut in, glaring at him.
Eric rolled his eyes. “Fine.” Eric extended his hand, and Monica took it. His hands were big and strong, the grip firm. She pulled away as soon as politely possible. “I’d love to stay and talk, but believe it or not, I’ve got practice tomorrow. My coach is a bit of a fanatic.”
“Should we set up our next rendezvous?”
Eric shrugged. “Sure. What do you want to do?”
“There’s this new restaurant called Dijon that just opened up on East Seventy-ninth. I’ll make reservations for Thursday night and have Theresa alert the press. My car will pick you up.”
“Your car?”
“Is there a problem with that?”
“No. I’ve just never had a girlfriend—”
“Business partner—”
“—who had her own car service before.”
“I told you: daytime’s been very good to me.”
“Sounds like it’s going to be very good to me, too.” He paused. “Don’t you think I should kiss you sometimes, just so it looks realistic?”
“If we must.” An unwanted streak of heat shot through Monica as she remembered another detail of her dream: they’d had sex here on the couch. “You should go,” she said, hustling quickly to open the door.
Eric sauntered after her. He appeared to have only one speed: saunter. “Well, thank you for a very nice evening, Miss Geary.”
“You
, too, Mr. Mitchell.”
He smiled at her—a sincere smile, which was somewhat unnerving—and sauntered out into the hall. Monica quietly closed the door behind him. Their arrangement was nuts, she thought, but Eric was right: it could help the both of them immensely. Still, what did it say about two people willing to use one another for their own purposes? She worried about that, but then again, as long as there was no risk of anyone getting hurt . . .
She yawned, suddenly tired. She couldn’t wait to see the papers tomorrow.
FIVE
Eric sat on the bench behind the rink’s Plexiglas, watching as his brother and five of their teammates were put through a two-on-one headman drill. Maybe it was a testament to his desperation, but the minute he’d woken up that morning, he’d hustled to the deli around the corner to pick up the Sunday edition of the Sentinel. Coffee in one hand, he’d hurriedly flipped to the entertainment section of the paper as soon as he got home. There, among pictures of other luminaries, was a picture of Monica and him from the night before, posing on the steps on the way into the Metropolitan Museum. He stared, amazed and pleased at how goddamn great they looked together. Forget Brangelina: he and Monica resembled a jaw-dropping vision of blondness that had come down from the heavens to give mortals the pleasure of looking upon them. It was unbelievable.
He was on a bit of a roll, PR wise. Tomorrow, an interview he’d done with New York magazine would hit the stands. He’d made sure to talk about how thrilled he was to be traded to the Blades, since they were the best team in the NHL. He’d made a point of saying he hoped he could follow in Guy Le Temp’s footsteps and continually improve as a defenseman. In short, he’d said all the right things.
As if attention from print media wasn’t enough, his cameo on W and F would be airing this week, and he had every intention of watching it with his teammates. He knew he’d be able to deftly handle any ribbing that came his way, and in fact welcomed it. Eric liked a challenge, both on the ice and off.
The lines switched, and six more players hit the ice. Eric felt a bump to his right shoulder and turned to see Barry Fontaine sliding down on the bench to sit beside him, helmet in one hand as he raked the other through his tousled, sweaty hair.
“Mitchell.”
“Fontaine.”
“I saw that picture of you and Monica Geary in the paper this morning.”
Eric pretended to be concentrating hard on the ice, watching the drill. “Yeah?”
“How come you didn’t say anything about it to anyone?”
Eric turned to him. “Because none of you putzes believed me when I told you we hit it off on the W and F set. I thought, Why even bother?”
By now, he could tell everyone on the bench was tuning in to their exchange. All Barry had to say was “Monica Geary,” and the team was all ears.
“Where were you guys going, anyway?” Barry continued nonchalantly.
“A dinner honoring James Dempsey.”
“Oh, man,” said Thad Meyers, seated two players away. “Was Chim Chim there?”
“Yup.”
Ulf Torkelson, who up until now had been intermittently scowling at Eric as he sat on his left, turned to him, goggle-eyed. “You met Chim Chim?”
“Shook his hand and everything.”
“Lucky bastard.” He gave Eric a begrudging once-over. “I guess you can’t be all bad if Monica Geary likes you and you met Chim Chim.”
Score!
“So, what is she like?” Ulf murmured, back to looking at Eric dubiously.
“Who, Monica or Chim Chim?”
Barry looked stricken. “Chim Chim’s not a girl, is he? I mean, Dempsey’s character always called him ‘My dear Mr. C,’ remember?”
“So?” Ulf snorted. “A female chimp could play a male part.”
“Chim Chim’s a guy,” Eric assured them. “He had a tux on.”
“Cool,” said Barry.
“As for Monica, she’s great. Great sense of humor.”
There was a glint of envy in Ulf’s eye. “Are you guys seeing each other?”
Eric shrugged. “I guess so. We’re having dinner on Thursday.”
Admiration rippled up and down the bench. He was the man. He’d have to tell Monica that even though they’d only been out once, already his teammates were holding him in higher esteem. Their ploy was going to work like a charm, at least on his end.
“Yo, Mitcho.”
Eric frowned upon hearing Lonnie Campbell call him by his nickname. His brother’s nickname was Mitchy, so he’d been saddled with Mitcho, which he hated. It sounded like one of those cheap gizmos peddled on late-night TV that always sold for just $19.99. Prevent stove splatters and stains with the amazing Mitcho! And if you order now, we’ll throw in a free electric scalp massager!
“Yeah, Lonnie?”
Lonnie swallowed nervously. “Do you think you could—if it’s not too much trouble—get Monica’s autograph for me?”
“I can do better than that: I can have her come down here one day to meet you guys.”
“Oh, yeah!” Ulf high-fived Eric, with everyone on the bench following suit. It amazed Eric how you could never get tired of hearing the phrase “You rock” from your teammates. Just wait until they saw what he could do on the ice. He’d be a bona fide Blade in no time.
“Stanley!”
By now, Eric should have been used to Jason’s giant Newf drooling all over him the minute he walked through his brother’s front door, but it still got to him. Why Jason didn’t put one of those dog bibs on Stan was beyond him.
“Stan, lie down!”
At Jason’s command, Stanley lumbered back to his dog bed, grumbling. The bed was large enough for two small children to sleep on comfortably. Delilah’s three dogs had barely lifted their heads at Eric’s entry, and for that he was glad. One dog greeting him he could handle; a four-dog welcoming committee was a bit much.
“Hey, Delilah.” Eric ambled over to the couch, leaning over to kiss his sister-in-law on the cheek. For a long while, Eric wasn’t Delilah’s favorite person, having stolen her father’s fiancée out from under his nose. But it all worked out for the best: Delilah’s parents had reconciled, and the fiancée, mackerel-brained Brandi, was history. By the time Jason and Delilah tied the knot a few months back, Delilah had forgiven Eric and even seemed fond of him.
He momentarily diverted his attention to the TV. Delilah appeared to be watching some show on cougars; in fact, three of them were tearing apart an antelope with glee. Charming. Again Eric wondered where Jason’s head was at; Pardon the Interruption was on ESPN right now. What was wrong with his brother? Jason claimed Eric spent too much time glued to the tube. Easy for him to say; he didn’t live alone.
Delilah smiled at Eric. “Good to see you. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“That would be great.” Delilah was turning out to be a decent cook.
“Why don’t you just move in?” Jason grumbled.
“Hey, that’s not nice,” Delilah chided. “Eric’s not here that much.”
Which was true; Eric was making a concerted effort to give the newlyweds their space. But this visit had been Jason’s idea, not his.
“You’re the one who invited me over,” Eric pointed out. He grinned impishly at his brother. “You’re dying to hear all about Monica, aren’t you?”
Delilah’s ears pricked up. “Monica who?”
“Monica Geary,” said Jason. “Apparently she’s deranged and asked Eric to accompany to her some party last Friday night.”
Delilah sighed. “My mom once told me she’s gorgeous in person. They were at the same sample sale, and my mom almost took out one of her eyes with the hat she was wearing.”
“What was it, three-cornered?” Jason asked. He regarded his brother dubiously. “So? Are you really seeing her again?”
“Yup.”
“Wow.” Jason slowly shook his head. “That’s amazing. Though it is kind of cool we’ll all get to meet her—assuming your relationship lasts be
yond a week, which I doubt.”
“Oh ye of little faith and immense jealousy.”
“Yeah, right.” Jason perched on the corner of the couch, brushing aside his wife’s curly hair so he could press his lips tenderly to the nape of her neck. “I’ve got all the woman I need right here, Bro.”
Eric’s eyes darted away. He was glad his brother and Delilah were so affectionate, but sometimes it made him feel like a third wheel. Affectionate interlude over, Eric parked himself on the couch on the other side of Delilah, absently petting her white-haired, weird-eyed dog, the one who’d had multiple cataract surgery. “So,” he said to Jason, “you summoned me because—?”
Jason looked perturbed. “I spoke with Mom and Dad a little while ago. They wanted to talk about the farm.”
Eric and Jason had been raised on a small dairy farm in rural Flasher, North Dakota. It was a great place to grow up, but both of them knew from an early age that they wanted to play hockey, and they’d left the minute the minor leagues came calling.
Eric felt a nip of jealousy. “How come they always call you?”
“Maybe because I pick up the phone and check my messages more than once a month?”
“Anyway.”
“They’re thinking of selling,” Jason said with a pained look on his face.
“What?”
The Mitchell dairy farm went back generations to their mother’s great-grandfather. Both their parents were from farm stock and had often said they could never imagine doing anything else.
“It’s killing them financially,” Jason continued. “Dad said they can’t compete with those bigger, corporate farms.”
Eric blinked, trying to imagine no farm to come home to twice a year. He was overcome by memories: Jason and him playing pond hockey in the winter; the two of them racing their bikes down the winding country roads the minute the snow melted; their father teaching them how to milk cows; the first calving he’d ever witnessed; the bare, stark beauty of the landscape in winter; and the summer sky stretched tight as a blue canvas.
And yet, it was unfair of him to be sentimental and rhapsodize. He had no interest in returning to North Dakota and taking over once his hockey career was through. Their folks in trouble . . . it was inconceivable. And frightening.
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