Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Eric did a quick scan of the crowd, his old habit of assessing women hardwired into him. It was a mixed bag: some were drop-dead gorgeous; some he could never imagine trying to pick up in a million years. None held a candle to Monica.

  The partygoers were a mixed bag, too. There were lots of people whose simple but tasteful attire subtly signified wealth, and others who looked a little down-at-the-heel. Eric assumed they might be struggling actors, but this was New York, so you never knew. They could deliberately be cultivating that New York boho thing.

  A waiter approached him and Monica, and they each took a glass of champagne.

  “Which one is your friend?” Eric asked.

  Monica indicated an Amazonian redhead about thirty feet away dressed entirely in white, the biceps of her tan arms so cut they indicated hours spent at the gym. Her lips seemed to be moving—kind of—and her eyebrows were frozen in place. Botox. She had to be, what, thirty? Eric supposed he could understand it, being good-looking himself. But she still seemed a little young to be injecting her face with botulism, or whatever the hell it was.

  He pressed a hand to the small of Monica’s back. “Do you want to go over and say hi?”

  Monica hesitated, looking uneasy. “She looks a little busy right now. Let’s wait a few minutes.” Eric got the sense that Monica was somewhat wary of Desiree. He was glad to see her uneasiness fade when a scruffy-looking guy with John Lennon specs and a day’s worth of stubble on his face waved to her, motioning for her to come join him on one of the few couches in the room. Monica grinned. “There’s someone I’d like to talk to.”

  His hand still on her back, Eric helped maneuver her through the crowd toward him.

  “Monica!” The scruffy guy bounded off the couch, drawing Monica into a tight embrace. “It’s so great to see you!”

  “You, too, John.” Monica turned to Eric. “Eric, I want you to meet my old friend, John. John, this is my boyfriend, Eric.”

  John shook Eric’s hand warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “John blew everyone away when we were at Julliard. We all envied him.”

  John frowned. “Yeah, that’s why I’m still waiting tables.”

  Monica reached for his hand, squeezing it. “It’ll happen. It will. You just have to have faith.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” John didn’t look too sure about that.

  “Are you still auditioning? Doing showcases?”

  “All the time.” John seemed self-conscious as he gazed down at his feet. “You know what it’s like. For some people, it happens, and for some it doesn’t. After ten years, I’m starting to think it’s time to throw in the towel.” He smiled at her sadly. “At least it happened for you. God knows you deserved it.”

  John and Monica weren’t chatting very long before John turned to Eric and said, “I’m so sorry; I’m being totally rude. Tell me about you.”

  “I play defense for the New York Blades.”

  “No way,” said John, impressed. He nudged Monica in the ribs playfully. “About time you hooked up with someone manly. Monica here was renowned for hooking up with these skinny, pasty losers—”

  “He knows all about that, John, thank you very much.”

  John chuckled. “Sorry. Anyway,” he said to Eric, “a pro athlete? That’s totally cool.”

  “Hey, if you ever want me to hook you up with tickets, just tell Monica.”

  “Thanks, man,” John said, wide-eyed with unabashed gratitude. He gave Monica’s shoulder a little shake in an unmistakable sign of approval.

  Monica gave an uncomfortable little cough. She turned her faux adoring gaze on Eric. Which, he thought, might not be so faux anymore. But now wasn’t the time to think about that.

  John gestured toward Desiree. “I think she wants to talk to you.”

  Monica hugged her friend. “It was great seeing you, John. I’ve told you a million times; call me.”

  “I know, I know,” John muttered sheepishly. “I just worry about bothering you, big-time busy actress and all that.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Monica chided. “I’m still just me.”

  “Thank God.” John extended his hand to Eric again. “It was really great to meet you.”

  “You, too.” Eric slipped his free hand into Monica’s. “Nice guy,” he murmured to her as they walked across the loft to talk to Monica’s friend Desiree.

  He could feel something surge through Monica as she held his hand tightly: Happiness? Pleasure at making a connection with an old friend? Pleasure that they were holding hands? Whatever it was, he was glad she felt it.

  “Monnie, Monica, Monniemoo!”

  With over-the-top glee, Monica’s old friend Desiree, threw her tanned arms open wide and embraced Monica, kissing both her cheeks.

  “Good to see you, Desiree,” said Monica.

  “You, too, sweetie pie. I’m soo glad you could come.”

  Monica looked a little shell-shocked as Desiree released her from their embrace. Monica’s eyes gripped Eric’s apologetically.

  Finished with her effusive greeting, Desiree pursed her lips as best she could, turning her attention on Eric. “You must be the boyfriend.”

  “I must be,” Eric replied. Monica shot him a sharp look.

  “Hockey player, right?”

  “Yup. New York Blades.”

  “See,” Desiree said to Monica, “I keep up with all the star gossip.” The sarcastic way she said star irked Eric immediately. She flashed Eric a patronizing smile—at least he thought it was a smile; it was hard to tell with her frozen face. “You have to forgive me, but I’ve never understood the appeal of sports. It’s so—violent. And it just seems so silly.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Eric replied. “It’s not an important profession like acting.”

  Desiree inhaled sharply, looking mildly stunned before launching into a tinkling little laugh as she waved a palm in the air. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  Monica drew closer to Eric and gripped him tightly at his waist but not before digging her nails into his side. Eric ignored it as he put a protective arm around her shoulder. If Monica thought he was going to let this pretentious phony insult her, then she hadn’t learned a thing about him.

  “So, Mon,” said Desiree, absently twisting the giant diamond stud in her left ear, “you’re still on the soap?”

  Eric felt Monica stiffen. “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Are you doing any acting?” Monica asked.

  “Actually, I am. I just got a part in an off-off-Broadway play by a hot new Irish playwright. I’m playing a leprechaun sorceress.”

  Eric suppressed a snort.

  “That’s great,” said Monica.

  “It is,” Desiree agreed. “I’m so glad I can use my training and talent in a way that’s true.”

  “ True?” Eric repeated.

  “Eric,” Monica hissed under her breath.

  “Yeah,” said Desiree. “You know, not go—commercial,” she explained, her expression disparaging.

  “Can I ask you a question?” said Eric. Monica gave his side another dig.

  “Sure,” said Desiree.

  “What does your husband do?”

  “He manages a private hedge fund.”

  “So you don’t really have to worry about making a living as an actress. I mean, you can afford to play a leprechaun because, hell, you’ve got a rich husband.”

  “What’s your point?” Desiree snapped.

  “My point is that you’re really just playing at being an actress, whereas Monica makes her living using her talent.”

  “Eric,” Monica hissed.

  “It’s okay,” said Desiree coolly. “Your boyfriend obviously doesn’t know anything about artistic integrity.”

  “She’s right,” Monica murmured miserably under her breath to Eric.

  “No, she isn’t,” said Eric. Why the hell was she agreeing with this snobby bitch?

&nbs
p; “Can I ask you another question?” Eric said to Desiree.

  Desiree’s mouth cracked into a polite smile. “Of course.”

  “How many times have you been nominated for a Daytime Drama Award?”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “Just answer the question,” Eric demanded. “How many?”

  “None,” Desiree sniffed.

  “Well, Monica has been nominated three times.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Eric could feel Monica trembling, struggling to control it. He hoped it was because she was as angry as he was. He paused, waiting for Monica to counter her old friend’s elitism, but she didn’t.

  “Look,” said Desiree, “I know daytime has provided you with a good income, Monica, but you’re wasting your talent. You should be on the stage. Or doing brilliant little indie films. Not compromising yourself like this.”

  “I know,” Monica said bleakly.

  “Can you excuse us a moment?” said Eric as he plucked Monica’s champagne glass from her hand, depositing it with his own on the tray of a passing waiter. Firmly gripping Monica’s hand, he began pulling her toward the loft entrance.

  “What are you doing?” Monica sputtered.

  “I’m taking you outside so I can talk to you.” He practically punched the button of the elevator.

  “I can’t believe what you said to Desiree,” Monica spat the minute they stepped inside, and the doors slid shut.

  “I can’t believe what you didn’t say.”

  Eric’s incredulity continued to build as the elevator descended. Monica had pointedly pulled her hand from his. Fine, Eric thought. If she wants to be pissed, let her. But he was going to say what needed to be said. They seethed in mutual silence as they made their way outside, halting on the sidewalk in front of Desiree’s apartment building. For a minute Eric thought Monica was going to walk away from him. But she stood there facing him, her trembling evident now, her eyes fiery with anger.

  “What the hell was so pressing that you had to drag me out of my friend’s party as if I were some child who was misbehaving?”

  “I wasn’t going to stand there and let that bitch insult you anymore. I’m sorry.”

  Monica blinked. “What did you just call her?”

  “Bitch. You heard me. Your friend John? He was great. But Desiree? Total snob bitch. She can afford to talk about remaining ‘true to art’ or whatever the fuck it was she said, because she doesn’t have to worry about money.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish,” Eric said with a glare. “Why the hell did you let that bitch make a value judgment about what you do?” Eric took her by the shoulders, wishing he could shake some sense into her and make her see herself as others saw her: as a success, someone to admire. “You have fans, Monica. You’ve won awards, which means you have the respect of your peers. So what if you’re not starring in Hamlet? What’s wrong with acting on a show that gives people pleasure and an escape five days a week? Why is that less valid than playing a fucking leprechaun in a theater that probably seats twelve people?”

  “You don’t understand,” Monica gulped tearfully. “I was trained—”

  “To act. You were trained to act. And that’s what you do.”

  “No one respects daytime!”

  “That’s not true. I bet half the people who think it’s crap have never tuned in to a soap in their lives.”

  “You don’t understand,” Monica repeated stubbornly.

  Eric folded his arms across his chest. “Then explain it to me.”

  Monica huffed with frustration. “Imagine you trained your whole life to be in the NHL, but when push came to shove, you couldn’t get there, and you had to settle for playing in the minors. How would you feel?”

  “Grateful that I was at least making my living doing something I love. Maybe it wouldn’t be exactly what I dreamed, but it would be a pretty good gig—one I’d sure as hell appreciate for as long as it lasts.”

  Monica began shaking her head, but Eric took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “Listen to me. Your friend, John? Don’t you think he’d kill to have a regular acting gig the way you do?” Monica said nothing. “Oh, wait, I get it: waiting tables is noble. It means John is a ‘real artist’ while you’re a hack.” Monica looked down at her feet, so she missed Eric shaking his head. “I don’t get this. If you’re such a hack, if working in daytime is such an embarrassing compromise for you, then why are so intent on holding on to your popularity and position?”

  “Because it’s all I have!” Monica cried.

  “That’s not true,” Eric countered fiercely. “You have me!”

  The minute the words slipped from his mouth, Eric felt thunder in his head; he’d never said anything like that to any woman in his life. Meanwhile, Monica was looking at him warily.

  “What does that mean, Eric?”

  Eric struggled to put it into words. “It means I’m here. It means I’m your friend. It means . . . I don’t know.”

  “That’s great. Very helpful.”

  Eric looked away, feeling like an asshole. He could feel what she wanted from him and what she needed him to say. But he couldn’t get the words out, afraid it would come out all wrong. Who was he kidding? He was afraid, period.

  He glanced back to Monica. She looked upset. He was beginning to get the distinct feeling that she wished he wasn’t there.

  “You realize she’s jealous of you, right?” he said. “Your leprechaun friend?”

  “I can’t talk about this anymore,” Monica said wearily.

  Eric dropped it. “I’ll call us a cab.”

  “No. I’m going back to the party.”

  “For more self-abuse? Be my guest. I’m sorry; I can’t stand around and watch that.”

  “Fine. Call yourself a cab, then.” Monica started back into the building, then turned to look back at him. “When’s your next home game?”

  “Friday.”

  “Get me the same seats, and I’ll be there.”

  Eric felt his heart leap. “You’d do that, even though you’re pissed at me?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “It means a lot to me that you tried to defend me to Desiree, even though your behavior was out of line and you mortified me. But,” she added, “if you win the game, do not think I’m going to every home game you play.” She began walking away from him. “Call me,” she called over her shoulder as she ducked back inside.

  “I will.”

  Alone on the street now, Eric hailed a cab, sliding into the backseat. He didn’t know what to think. Or to feel. But he did feel something; something new, and it frightened him.

  “Yo, Mitcho. I’m hearing wedding bells.”

  Eric looked up from lacing up his skates to see Ulf Torkelson approaching him with a huge grin, waving a copy of Soap World magazine.

  “Huh?”

  Ulf waved the magazine in front of his face. “Your lovely lady seems to be planting seeds.”

  Eric snatched the magazine from him, his eyes immediately drawn to the picture of Monica sitting up on a dais. He skimmed the text. “Fan club luncheon . . . blah, blah, blah . . .” And then he found what Ulf was referring to. “When asked about her red-hot romance with hockey star Eric Mitchell, Monica told the crowd they were ‘taking it one day at a time,’ before adding coyly, ‘but who knows where it might go?’ ”

  Eric handed the magazine back to Ulf with a shrug.

  “C’mon, buddy, admit it,” Ulf goaded with a slap on the back. “She’s got you roped and tied.”

  “Eric Mitchell, the ultimate bachelor, totally whipped,” Tully Webster chimed in. “Who’d have ever thought?”

  “Man, to wake up beside that body every morning for the rest of my life,” Barry Fontaine said enviously. “You’re one lucky bastard, Mitcho.”

  She’s more than just a pair of tits and a pretty face, Eric wanted to retort, surprising himself, since that was precisely how he’d always thought of h
er until recently. “I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about,” Eric maintained gruffly.

  “Yeah, right,” said Ulf with a snort.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Then I guess you better talk to her, because it sure as hell sounds to me as if she’s hinting at matrimony.”

  Eric stood, avoiding his brother’s eyes. He knew Jason was listening closely to everything being said, which meant Eric would soon find himself on the hot seat. What the hell are you doing, Monica? He thought. It was beginning to feel like this thing was spiraling out of control, and if there was one thing Eric cherished, it was control.

  She was at Met Gar tonight. He’d gotten her the tickets she wanted, same seats, except this time, she didn’t have Gloria with her, but Jimmy the director. Eric assumed Jimmy was a fan, so he’d probably be able to explain to Monica what was happening on the ice, if she even cared. Even though she’d requested ice-level seats, he wondered if he shouldn’t have told her to go up in the skybox with Delilah instead. She and Monica liked each other, and now that Delilah was a fan, she’d be able to explain the game to Monica, probably in simpler terms than Jimmy would. Well, if she ever attended another game, that’s where he’d suggest she sit. It would be more comfortable, and she’d still get attention. The announcers frequently noted who filled the boxes; she could easily wave to any cameras trained on her from there.

  They’d talked once on the phone since the party, but their conversation was brief. That whole party experience had shocked him. The Monica she presented to the world was confident and no-nonsense; she could certainly dish it out to him when she felt it was called for. But the Monica he’d witnessed talking to Desiree was another person entirely, uncertain and willing to be bullied. Things were getting complicated. He didn’t do complicated.

  “This is a surprise.”

  Despite having told Eric she’d be leaving the minute the game ended, Monica had changed her mind. It was Friday night; she didn’t have to work tomorrow. And Jimmy had explained to her that Eric had played well. Besides, she was thrilled by the reception she’d gotten from the crowd. During a break in the second period, they showed her on the scoreboard screen, and she waved. Then, in a television time-out in the third period, the crowd started chanting. It started as a low, rhythmic hum she couldn’t make out. Then it got clearer and louder as more and more fans picked up the chant: Mo-ni-ca, Mo-ni-ca, Mo-ni-ca! And when they showed her face on the scoreboard again, and the crowd cheered, she laughed and waved. She was in heaven.