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.”
He could feel her tense slightly against him. “What’s that?”
“I need you to come to the next home game.”
“What for?” Monica asked suspiciously.
“It’s an experiment.”
She brushed her own fallen bangs from her eyes, the better to eye him. “What kind of experiment?”
Eric hesitated. “I need to see if your being there brought me good luck.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.” He looked at her earnestly. “How can I explain this without sounding nuts?” he mused aloud. “Hockey players have rituals, little things they do to protect themselves. For example: One guy on my team has to puke before a game or it’s bad luck for him. Another guy has to kiss a picture of Giselle Bunchen. My brother brought his dog to Met Gar when the Blades were in the running for the Cup two years ago, and it brought them luck. They won.”
“Because of a dog?”
“It helped,” Eric insisted.
“What about you?” Monica asked. “Do you have any personal rituals?”
“I have to, uh, put my socks on in a certain order. My pads, too. And I have this cross my mom gave me that I have to kiss.”
He waited for her to start mocking him, but she didn’t. “Actors have certain superstitions, too,” she shared with him. “Like, you never say ‘Good luck’ to someone before they perform; you always say ‘Break a leg.’ And you never say the title Macbeth aloud; you call it ‘The Scottish Play’ or it’s bad luck.”
Her admission made Eric feel much better. “What about rituals? Do you have any?”
Monica thought. “I always read the Daily News while I’m in makeup and hair. Does that count?”
“I’d say so.”
“You think you did well on the ice tonight because I was there?”
Eric thought he detected a note of pleasure in her voice.
“That’s what I need to find out.”
“You did do well, right?” Monica asked uncertainly.
Disappointment tackled him. “Yeah. I mean, you couldn’t tell?”
“I told you, Eric: I know as much about hockey as you know about acting.”
“I could explain it to you sometime, if you want.”
“That would be nice,” Monica murmured noncommitally. Eric wasn’t sure he agreed. He could imagine her eyes rolling up in her head from boredom, begging him to shut up.
“So, what if I come to another game, and you do great? Does that mean you’ll want me to come to every home game?”
“If you can,” Eric admitted. A thought occurred to him: if Monica was his good luck charm, it meant they’d have to keep their ruse going through the whole season. That was a long time, much longer than he imagined this thing going.
“I can’t,” Monica said without hesitation. “It’s after eleven right now. Do you know what time I have to be at work tomorrow? Five thirty in the morning. I can’t come to games two or three nights a week! I have lines to learn! I need to get some sleep!”
“Okay, one game a week,” Eric begged. “Just one. And it’s not like we’re home every week! We go on the road.”
Monica sighed. “Let me think about this. It’s asking a lot. Seriously.”
“Do you want this thing to look real or not?”
“Oh, please. This has nothing to do with faux us and everything to do with real you.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Monica’s hands flew to cover her ears. “Stop! You’re getting pitiful! I can’t stand it!”
Eric pulled one hand away with a force akin to that of when he’d grabbed her in his old bedroom. They both felt it: the shock of hard contact, the sparks. “You don’t understand, Monica. This is my first year as a Blade. They traded a beloved player for me, which means I was supposed to come out of the starting gate dazzling the shit out of everyone. But the exact opposite happened: I’ve sucked from the minute I hit the ice—until tonight. Tonight was the first time I could feel all my teammates and the coaches thinking, ‘Yeah, this guy was worth the trade.’ It was the first time since the season started that I felt worth the trade.” He hesitated. “Maybe your being there inspired me—just a little,” he added quickly. “But I really need you to help me out here. Please. One more game.” He slowly let go of her hand, the heat fading from where they’d been touching.
“Fine,” Monica said quietly. “One more game. But I need to leave as soon as the game is over so I get home at a decent hour. No waiting for you to shower and then hanging with the guys awhile or anything like that.”
“I promise you can rush right out of there as soon as the final buzzer sounds.” He took her hand. “I really appreciate you helping me out like this,” he murmured, lifting it to his mouth and kissing it tenderly. He saw the swoon in Monica’s eyes, quickly followed by a look of minor desolation. She was falling for him; it was obvious. He lowered her hand, regretting this kiss, because it made him look like he was playing her, the way he’d done with so many women before her in order to get what he wanted. He wanted to tell her that his gratitude was real, that h
e wasn’t just turning on the charm, but the words stuck in his throat. I don’t know how to do this, he thought miserably. I don’t know how to be the one made vulnerable by the truth.
“That’s what friends do for each other: they help out,” said Monica, looking out the window. “Which is why you’re coming to a party with me Saturday night.”
“What kind of party?” Eric loved parties, because—well, strike that. He usually loved them because they were filled with hot babes and he had his pick.
“An actor party,” said Monica, still looking out the window. “One of my old classmates from Julliard is holding a little reunion. I haven’t seen her in a while, so I thought it might be fun to go.”
“We’d be going as a couple, right?”
Monica turned back to him. “Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we?” There was a note of panic in her voice.
“The reason I asked,” Eric replied calmly, “is that when you invited me a few seconds back, you said, ‘Friends help each other out.’ So I just wanted to be sure of my role before going in. Whether I’m going as a friend or—a lover.”
“I need us to keep pretending,” said Monica, skirting the word lover entirely. “Most of my friends are married now, or at least have partners. The last time I went to a party solo, I could see the ‘Poor Monica, still alone’ in their eyes.”
“Don’t worry,” said Eric. “We’ll blow them away when they see how in love we are.”
Monica slowly broke into a confident smile. “We will, won’t we?”
FOURTEEN
Eric had been to a lot of upscale parties since he’d moved east, and this ranked with the best of them. It was held in a loft that seemed the size of the ground floor of Macy’s. The loft, owned by Monica’s old buddy from Juilliard, Desiree, and her husband, Raymond, was fashionably spare, with lots of original art hanging on the walls and a minimum of furniture, which explained why most of the guests stood rather than sat, talking in small groups. Three waiters circled the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. In one corner, a short woman in a glittering green dress tickled the keys of a white baby grand piano.
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