Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Jason looked leery at the mention of Monica’s name. “What’s up with her?”

  Eric started to talk, then stopped, realizing Monica had sworn him to secrecy about Roxie being killed off.

  “I promised her I’d keep it private,” said Eric.

  “You knock her up?”

  Eric looked bored. “Do you know how many times you’ve said that to me throughout our lives? Get a new line. It’s getting kind of stale.”

  “Ouch. Someone’s testy.” Jason eyed his brother’s suitcase. “What time is your flight?”

  “Midnight.”

  Eric swung the suitcase to the floor so he could lie down on his bed. “Would you mind leaving? I really need to take a nap before tonight’s game. I’m totally keyed up.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Jason made it to the door, then turned. “Whatever is up, I hope it turns out the way you want it to.”

  “Thanks,” said Eric with genuine appreciation.

  For an asshole, his brother wasn’t a bad guy.

  Opening her door to find a bleary-eyed Eric standing there, Monica fought the urge to throw herself into his arms and burst into tears. Ever since she’d phoned him, she’d alternated between stunned lethargy and intense agitation, one minute mindlessly channel surfing so she didn’t have to think, the other pacing endlessly, trying not to look at the clock every ten minutes. She’d experienced the torture of waiting before, but not like this. Time seemed to be taunting her.

  Eric came into the apartment and dropped his bag. “You look like you need a hug.”

  Monica squeezed her eyes shut tight, still trying to hold back tears. “I do.”

  “Then come here.”

  She let him wrap his arms around her tight, those strong arms that had held her through so many nights. She’d agonized after accepting his offer to fly back across the country as to whether it might be sending him the wrong signal. He would think it meant they were getting back together. But Eric was one of the few people who really knew her: how she thought, how she felt, how she needed. He’d seen the real Monica, and that’s who she needed to be. She burst into tears.

  The harder she cried, the tighter his embrace became. His chin was resting atop her head, one hand gently stroking her hair. Let me hide here, thought Monica. Let us just stand here and sway and not speak any words. But it didn’t work that way.

  Gently, almost gingerly, Eric broke their embrace. “Want to talk?”

  “Yes.” Monica swiped the back of her hand across her wet, swollen eyes. “I must look great.”

  Eric smiled. “I’ve seen you cry before. On TV, remember?”

  “Oh,” Monica sniffled, blushing. “Right.” She wrung her hands nervously. “Can I get you anything?”

  Eric glanced longingly at the kitchen. “Coffee. Strong.”

  “Of course. How was your flight?”

  “I managed to sleep a bit.”

  “That’s good.” She motioned toward the couch. “Sit down. Please.”

  Feeling unsteady on her feet, she went to refresh the coffee she herself had been drinking all night in order to wait up for him. She wondered if she’d go back into the living room to find him dozing on the couch.

  Fumbling for a mug, she swore she could still feel the protective warmth of his arms around her. She rubbed her right temple, closing her eyes. Her feelings were a jumble. He loved her. And yes, she did love him, the real him, the one who’d been so relentlessly pursuing her. But she couldn’t go there right now. She could only handle one emotional crisis at a time.

  She prepared his coffee the disgusting way he liked it (three sugars, a touch of milk) and brought it out to him.

  He smiled wearily. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Oh, man. I can’t tell you how great that tastes.” He noticed her empty hands. “None for you?”

  “I’ve been guzzling it all night,” she confessed. “Waiting for you.”

  His eyes searched her face. “So, you were fired?”

  “Not fired. Let go. They wrote Roxie off the show.” She pointed a finger at him. “Remember, you cannot tell anyone .”

  “I told you, you have my word. Jason asked what was wrong, and I told him I couldn’t go into details. But you have to let me know what’s going to happen,” he insisted. “I mean, it’s the least you can do for a fan who flew cross-country for you.”

  “She’s killed by Father Chessler. He’s a zombie now.”

  “Oh my God. The guys are going to go mental.” Eric looked horrified. “How come Chessler didn’t just turn Roxie into a zombie, too?”

  “Because she has to pay for killing Tucker Lamont in the hospital, remember? And because the executive producer is screwing Chesty, and she wanted me out of the way.”

  Eric looked surprised. “Really? Stuff like that can happen?”

  “It happens all the time. But it’s just . . .” Monica’s eyes began watering again. “It’s never happened to me. And to be let go so that talentless little ho can be in the spotlight—it hurts, Eric. It really hurts. And it makes me doubt myself. Maybe I’ve lost my touch. Maybe I suck at what I do.”

  “I hear you there,” said Eric ruefully.

  “That’s one of the reasons you were the one I wanted to talk to. You’re out there performing in front of the public, too. You know what it’s like to doubt yourself. Which brings me to something I need to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  She looked at him, shamefaced. “I’m so sorry I sent that cardboard cutout. It was a mean thing to do.”

  “Actually, it’s our new good luck charm. Before every game the guys—” he stopped.

  Monica narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Before games the guys what?”

  Eric’s eyes were glued to his coffee cup. “I can’t tell you.”

  “You better,” she threatened.

  “You don’t want to know. Seriously.”

  “Well, now you’ve got to tell me.”

  Eric still wouldn’t look at her. “There’s this ritual. Before every game, each of the guys puts his hands on your boobs as we walk out of the locker room.”

  Monica was too shocked to speak for a moment. “Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You guys feel up the cardboard cutout of me?”

  Eric jerked his head up. “I don’t!”

  Monica snorted in disbelief. “Oh, no, of course not! You’re way above that!”

  Monica knew she shouldn’t ask the next question, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. “Do you have any pregame ritual that involves the cardboard me?” she asked nonchalantly.

  “Maybe. ”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nope.”

  She was dying to know but refused to beg. Maybe he kissed her cutout’s lips. Or said something sweet. She liked the idea of that, then chastised herself for liking the idea of it.

  “Anyway,” Eric resumed. “You said one of the reasons you wanted to talk to me was because you knew I’d understand what it was like to doubt your abilities.”

  “Yes, but your career is going well now, and mine is over, so I guess it’s a moot point.”

  “Your career isn’t over. Something else will come along.”

  “You don’t know that,” Monica insisted gloomily.

  “No, I don’t. But you’re not thinking clearly right now. Give yourself some time to work through this, and you’ll see that W and F was stupid to let you go.” He took another sip of coffee, his penetrating gaze pinning her to the couch. “What’s the other reason I’m the one you wanted to spill your guts to?”

  Monica felt her cheeks begin to burn. “Because you know the real me. I know that sounds stupid,” she said hastily, afraid he might laugh or scoff. “But when we were together, there were things I told you that I never told anyone else. You understood me. The way I thought. All of it.”

  She held her breath, waiting for him to say something. He was quiet for a long time.r />
  “You’re really fucking my head up here, Monica. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t mean to.”

  “I know you don’t. But it’s all so confusing. What was real and what wasn’t. What’s real now and what isn’t.”

  “I know,” Monica whispered. She went to cup his cheek and then stopped, knowing it would only add to the list of confusing signals she was sending him. Eric was right; she wasn’t thinking straight, not on any front.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” she said.

  His expression was intense. “I’m glad you did.” He pulled his eyes away from hers. “I’ve missed talking to you,” he said quietly.

  “Me, too.”

  “We did have some good times, right?”

  The pain in his voice tugged at her heartstrings. “Of course we did. Do you think we could try to be friends for now? At least still talk occasionally?”

  “Friends. That would be great,” Eric answered unenthusiastically.

  “Friends,” Monica agreed, holding out a trembling hand for him to shake.

  Eric clasped her hand tightly, the heat and familiarity almost too much for her to bear. She thought about the first time she met him, what an unbearable jerk he’d been. He’d been an unbearable jerk when she’d broken up with him, too. The two Eric’s: jerk Eric and real Eric. This was real Eric, holding her hand. Handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed Eric who’d hopped a cross-country flight to comfort her. The Eric she’d let go.

  She knew she need only say she wanted him back, and they’d be in each other’s arms. But ironically, she was now the one with suspect motives. She would hate to reconcile with him, only to realize a few months down the line that she was taking advantage of him because she needed the safety blanket of a relationship when it felt like the rest of her life was going to hell. It wouldn’t be fair. And yet the woman deep inside her who yearned, and who knew what it was to be with this man, was somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t, well, burst into the apartment and tried to seduce her. Didn’t he find her attractive anymore? Was that possible? Oh, Jesus, what a mess she was. Confused didn’t even begin to cover it; she had crossed over into the realm of well and truly fucked-up. There was no way she was going to inflict herself on him right now.

  Their lingering handshake finally ended. “Are you going to be okay?” Eric asked, standing up. “I could sleep on the couch if you wanted. Purely G-rated.”

  “I’m okay now,” Monica assured him, trying not to think of all the times they’d made love on the couch. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Eric paused. “I do.”

  Monica felt her heart begin to race. He was going to ask for no-strings-attached sex. The attraction between them was still so strong. It wouldn’t be inflicting herself on him if the connection were purely carnal, right?

  “Come to the Blades home game Tuesday night.”

  Monica thought about it. What the hell else did she have to do? It wasn’t like she needed to learn her lines for the next day. And they were friends now, weren’t they? “I’ll come on one condition,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your teammates don’t think they can cop a feel of my real boobs for luck.”

  Eric laughed. “They won’t need to, with the real thing in the house. Your usual seat will be waiting for you, Miss Geary. No locker room detours. I promise.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Feeling almost shy, she walked him to the door. “Again, I can’t thank—”

  Eric put his index finger to her lips. “Ssh. No thanks needed.” He tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead; it felt more like a benediction than anything romantic. “You know where to reach me if you need to, right?”

  Monica nodded.

  “So . . . see you.” He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, heading down the hall toward the elevator.

  “See you, too,” she called after him. “Tuesday night? After the game?”

  Eric’s shrug was noncommittal. “Sure. We’ll grab a beer or something.”

  “Sounds good,” Monica said, watching him walk away. He’d flown cross-country for her. And for what? A twenty-minute conversation with a selfish, needy bitch. She might have her head up her butt right now, but there was one thing she knew for certain: she didn’t deserve him.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Dude. Mitcho. You telling me the real thing is in the house?”

  Thad did nothing to contain his excitement as Eric casually mentioned to his teammates there’d be no need to touch cardboard Monica’s boobs for good luck: the lady herself was at the game. He hated that goddamn ritual. It made him uneasy; he could just imagine what his teammates fantasized about as they touched her. Plus it showed a total lack of sensitivity toward him. Hockey players and sensitivity: what an oxymoron. At least Jason had the decency not to feel his ex—his cardboard ex—up. The two of them were always the last to the leave the locker room these days. Jason’s ritual was to touch cardboard Monica’s hand as he walked by; Eric’s was to look into her eyes and silently profess, “I will always love you.” He’d blow his brains out if any of his teammates found out. Even Jace didn’t know.

  “Yup, she’s really here,” Eric said, affixing his shoulder pads.

  “This is gonna bring us super good luck,” said Ulf.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I just called Capesi,” Michael put in casually. “And Theresa.”

  I don’t need the PR anymore, Eric almost said but held his tongue.

  “She’s been awesome on W and F lately,” said Tully. The rest of the team murmured their assent. Eric was dying to tell them what was going to happen when they tuned in next Friday, but he knew Monica would never forgive him. He actually hated that he knew; it was going to detract from his own pleasure when watching it.

  Ulf came over to him, grabbing him in a brotherly head-lock. “So, you guys are obviously back together. You back to nailing her nightly, you lucky bastard?”

  “Bite me.”

  Ulf released him. “My, my. Someone’s panties are in a twist tonight.”

  “Just fuck off, Ulf, okay? Seriously.”

  Ulf shoved his shoulder, walking away with an insulted sniff. Eric wasn’t pissed at his teammate; he was pissed at himself. He’d come damn close to reflexively answering Ulf’s question the way the old Eric would have: Oh, man, she is better in the sack than ever. But he’d stopped himself; he had to give himself credit for that. Even so, it alarmed him that the old Eric still lurked just beneath the surface.

  Dressed and ready to hit the ice, he hung back with his brother as, one by one, his teammates touched cardboard Monica’s breasts. When it was Ulf’s turn, he mimed an orgasmic moan, his index finger rhythmically flicking cardboard Monica’s crotch.

  “What a dick,” Eric whispered to his brother.

  “Are you guys back together?” Jason murmured.

  “No. Not really,” said Eric, sounding as miserable as he felt. “I don’t think so. I mean, I know she cares about me. Who the hell knows?”

  “See? You are a good luck charm.”

  Monica smiled, walking out of Met Gar with her “friend,” Eric. The Blades had won 4-2 over the Tampa Bay Turks. She was happy for Eric, as well as happy that the crowd went nuts when her face was shown on the scoreboard, with the Blades banging their sticks for her on the ice not once, but twice. Despite this affectionate gesture, she and Eric had agreed not to meet in the Green Room, because Monica had no desire to see Eric’s teammates. The thought of them touching her cardboard breasts still disturbed her.

  Eric held the door open for her, and they walked smack into a solid wall of photographers and reporters. While the photographers snapped away, the reporters yelled out questions. Were they back together? Was it serious? Who called whom?

  “No comment,” Eric said with a smile as he ushered her into the back of a waiting cab.

  Nothing was secret in this town, Monica thought. It also explained why
Theresa had left an excited message on Monica’s cell, asking her to stop by FM PR’s office tomorrow morning. Why not? What else do I have to do?

  Monica glanced out the window of the cab as it sped uptown. “How do you want to handle things with the press?”

  “How do you want to handle it?”

  “I don’t know,” Monica admitted. “Let me think about it.”

  “Fine.” Eric sounded tired. “Would it be too ballsy of me to ask you to keep coming to games?”

  “I don’t mind, as long as I don’t have anything else going on.”

  “What else would you have going on?” Eric asked tersely.

  Monica turned back to him, wounded. “I’m not a total loser, you know. I might have been written off the show, but I do have other things going on.”

  Eric held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I meant no offense.”

  “No offense taken,” said Monica, pushing her back against the opposite door of the cab, mildly embarrassed about how happy it made her feel that he might be jealous. “How are your parents?” she asked suddenly. The claustrophobic New York night was making her think of the wide-open spaces of Eric’s childhood home.

  “They’re doing okay. They’re selling the farm to Jason, Delilah, and me. We want to keep the house in the family.”

  Monica tried to picture Eric’s father without his cows, his mother not talking to the “chickadees.” “Are your folks sad?”

  “Yeah.” Eric looked depressed. “But my folks will finally be able to travel. My brother and I will just use it in the summer.”

  Monica felt sad she might never see Eric’s folks again. “Tell them I wish them all the best.”

  “I will.”

  Eric gazed at her curiously as the cab jolted them over a pothole, making both of them wince.

  “What’s up with your parents? You never talk about them.”

  “There isn’t anything to say, though I am going up there this weekend so they can insult me and tell me how I’ve wasted my life. They’ll probably be happy I’ve been written off the show. That will give them an opening to tell me I should go to business school and get my MBA.”