Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Eric nodded. Singled out again. Shit. He hoped Ty didn’t rip him too badly. He asked Jason to tell Monica to wait for him, since he’d be slightly delayed, and headed for the showers.

  Ty didn’t motion for Eric to sit, so Eric assumed his coach was going to be brief, which was fine with him. He squared his shoulders and waited for the verbal onslaught.

  “You started the year off slow,” said Ty.

  Eric’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Yeah, I know.”

  “But I’ve been happy with the caliber of your performances toward the end of this season. The trade for you didn’t work out for us this year. But you showed glimmers of what we were looking for. Make sure you play that way all next season.”

  Eric tried to contain his elation. For Ty, that was a glowing endorsement. “I will.” He couldn’t wait to tell Monica, and Jace—especially Jace.

  “Don’t get fat in the off-season,” said Ty. “I need you at your peak from the moment the puck drops on opening night.”

  “That won’t be a problem, Coach.”

  He’d work out every day. Rent ice time with Jace so they could keep their skills sharp. He’d make sure he came into training camp in game shape. The idea of rising to the challenge pumped him up.

  Ty looked down at his notes, signaling the conversation was over.

  Eric turned to go.

  “By the way,” Ty called after him, “tell your girlfriend I’m glad she’s back on W and F. It sucked without her.”

  Eric turned back to him, grinning. “Will do. Have a good summer, Coach.”

  “Really? He said that? That the show sucked without me?”

  Monica couldn’t hide her delight as Eric related to her the details of his postgame conversation with Ty.

  “Yup.”

  “I must be doing something right.” She snuggled against Eric in the back of the cab taking them back uptown to her place. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The Daytime Drama Awards are in two weeks. I take it you’re going to be my dream date?” she said kittenishly, rubbing her nose against his.

  “Uh . . . I meant to talk to you about that.”

  The undertone of apprehension Monica heard in his voice made her sit up.

  “Yes?” she said, trying to keep her voice from sounding clipped.

  Eric looked apologetic. “I’m not going to be able to go with you to the Awards.” He rubbed his neck; Monica imagined a knot of tension forming there, fast. She assumed this, because a knot was also forming in her neck right now, too, matched by one coalescing in her stomach.

  This time she couldn’t hide her upset. “Why can’t you come?”

  “I probably should have talked to you about this a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been so preoccupied with the hockey . . .”

  Monica waited.

  “I have a charity event I have to go to for the team.”

  Monica’s heart sank. “Can’t you get out of it?” she wheedled.

  “No. I committed to it before we got back together.”

  Shit. She couldn’t fault him for that.

  “Please don’t be pissed.”

  “I’m not. Just disappointed,” she admitted sadly. “I would love to have you with me if I win. I would have loved to have you with me, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be watching you.”

  Monica brightened. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” Eric replied with a wounded look. “I’ll TiVo it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I love you so much,” said Monica, pressing her lips to his. She wondered if kissing him would ever stop being an exhilarating experience; if, years from now, it would feel mundane. She couldn’t imagine that ever happening.

  “I love you, too.” Eric’s arm snaked back around her shoulder, drawing her to him. “This is the best,” he murmured. “And you know what? It’s only going to get better.”

  “I’ve a mind never to speak to you again.”

  Monica ignored Gloria’s fuming as she sat down at one of the W and F tables at the Daytime Drama Awards with Monty. At first, she’d intended to come alone, since Eric couldn’t be with her. But then she thought: Why not bring Monty? It would force him and Gloria to talk. Monica steered Monty to sit down next to his old friend and supposed nemesis.

  “Hello, Gloria,” Monty said quietly.

  Gloria turned her head dramatically so she was looking in the other direction. “Don’t talk to me, you desiccated old lizard. You look a hundred years old.”

  “And you already look like you’ve been moldering in the grave for years,” Monty retorted.

  Monica knew the remark was meant to get Gloria’s goat, and it did: Gloria jerked her head back to glare at him, though Monica caught an almost imperceptible look of sentimentality quickly pass over her friend’s face before she forced her features back into a sour mask. “You’re a son of a bitch,” Gloria said to Monty.

  Monty sighed, debonairly straightening his bow tie. “Yes, I am. But I have missed you.”

  Gloria snorted.

  “C’mon, Gloria,” Monica intervened. “You’re being silly. You know you’ve missed him, too. You always ask about him. It’s time to forgive and forget.”

  Gloria’s eyes flashed daggers, but Monica could see, in the nearly undetectable relaxation of Gloria’s features, that she knew Monica was right. Gloria frowned, looked Monty up and down sniffily, and took a swig of champagne. “Beg me for forgiveness, old man. I’m all ears.”

  Monica, not wanting to eavesdrop, excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Men and women watched her as she sailed by, the women somewhat enviously, the men longingly. As she did every year, she’d taken great care to choose her dress: full length, black, strapless, the back plunging low. A string of pearls around her neck. Diamond teardrop earrings. Completely elegant. Completely classy.

  She wished Eric were here to talk to, get nervous with, look at. She loved when he got dressed up; he looked stunning. His absence was a sad ache inside her, but she understood why he couldn’t be there.

  She didn’t go as far as the ladies’ room, standing instead in the back of the banquet room where she could watch Gloria and Monty from a distance. Focusing on them helped keep her mind off the butterflies bombarding her stomach every time she thought about the Award. It would be especially satisfying to go home with the statue this year, after Christian Larkin’s short-lived reign of terror. She tried not to dwell on her three previous nominations. If she lost, she was in danger of becoming the next Susan Lucci.

  She hadn’t prepared any sort of speech, afraid that it would jinx her chances of winning. Still, if she did win, she had a pretty good idea whom she’d thank.

  Gloria and Monty seemed deep in conversation, leaning into one another, their mouths going a mile a minute. It was possible they were arguing, but from what Monica could see, Gloria wasn’t scowling, and Monty wasn’t sneering. Gloria must have accepted his apology. Monica was glad she’d engineered this reunion. She was also glad Gloria hadn’t worn her old von Fürstenberg dress. Unfortunately, she’d decided to wear a tiara.

  Monica hung back a few minutes more, then returned to the table. Her friends’ conversation was impassioned but appeared devoid of rancor, at least right now. Gloria glanced over at her as she took her seat next to Monty, and winked. Monica heaved a big sigh of relief and poured herself a glass of champagne. Hopefully, this was a harbinger of a wonderful night to come.

  “Here it comes, darling.”

  Gloria leaned past Monty to squeeze Monica’s hand. They were waiting for the presenter for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Daytime Drama to take the stage, where he or she would read out the nominations, tear open the envelope, and then—and then—Monica was too rattled to even complete the thought. On the outside she was cool as a cucumber, but inside, her guts were somersaulting.

  So far, the big upset of the evening had been Royce winning the Award for Outstanding Lead Actor
in a Daytime Drama. Monica had nearly choked on the shrimp she was eating, but she recovered quickly and congratulated her costar, who seemed so genuinely touched and humbled as he accepted his award that for a few seconds, she was able to forget she couldn’t stand him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.”

  The ballroom murmur turned to silence in an instant. Monica was squeezing the stem of her champagne flute so hard she was afraid it might shatter in her hand.

  “Here to present the Award for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Daytime Drama is longtime soap fan Eric Mitchell of the New York Blades.”

  Monica put down her champagne flute and tried not to faint.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Eric. Onstage, in a tuxedo, beaming down at her. I’ll be watching you, he’d said. He’d neglected to tell her it would be face-to-face.

  Monica’s heart was pounding so loud, she feared people would think there was drummer crouching beneath her table. She folded her hands in her lap like a polite little schoolgirl to keep herself from wringing them. How could a few seconds feel so damn interminable?

  Eric cleared his throat—He’s nervous, Monica thought, though how a man so suave and photogenic could be nervous about anything was beyond her—then focused his attention on the TelePrompTer. “The nominees for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Daytime Drama are: Monica Geary, The Wild and the Free.”

  The audience applauded enthusiastically as a camera zoomed in on Monica’s face, projecting her image on a huge screen behind Eric. She knew she shouldn’t betray how she was feeling, but she couldn’t help it; she gave a small, nervous smile.

  “Tanya McKinnon, Shadows and Horizons.”

  More applause. Monica noticed as Tanya’s image flashed on the screen that she gave the same nervous smile. Monica wondered if Tanya was on the verge of throwing up the way she was.

  “Kim Calvados, Golden Days, Passionate Nights.”

  Applause, but no smile from Kim. She looked as grim as a woman crossing the prairie by covered wagon in the 1840s.

  “And last but not least, Jessica Nevelson, Reap the Wild Wind.”

  Since Jessica was the final nominee, she prompted the final round of applause. The screen showed Jessica smiling confidently. Ugh, thought Monica. Tanya and Kim were worthy opponents. But Jessica ranked with Chesty in terms of talent. Monica hated being petty, but all she could think was, If Jessica wins, I’ll shove a dessert fork in my eye.

  The anticipation in the room had been building all night, a rumbling volcano eager to explode. Eric flashed one of his devastating smiles that made Monica weak at the knees as he began tearing open the envelope. “And the winner is . . . Kim Calvados, Golden Days, Passionate Nights.”

  Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

  Okay, Kim could act. But still. Shit shit shit shit. Monica felt like someone had sharpened a flint and was scraping it up and down the inside of her throat. On the outside, though, she was completely professional. She’d been in this position four times now, so she knew that the polite thing to do was look happy for Kim. Afterward, she’d tell the press, “It was an honor just to be nominated.” She wondered what would happen if just once, one of the losers told the truth and said, “I’m really upset! I deserved the Award!” Well, she’d never know.

  Kim had already started crying before she reached the podium. Eric gave her a small peck on the cheek before handing her the Award, then moved off to the side so she could give her acceptance speech. Being a decent actor, he looked pleased for Kim. But Monica knew deep down, he was disappointed for her.

  Thankfully, Kim’s acceptance speech was short. Monica had been to enough Award shows to know that everyone in the audience hated when their cohorts went on and on, thanking everyone from their sainted granny in Missouri to their pet poodle, Daisy. Another round of applause accompanied Kim’s departure from the stage with the statuette that Monica feared would never grace her own mantelpiece. Eric was supposed to exit the stage so the next presenter could come on and give out the Award for Outstanding Daytime Drama. Instead, he moved back to the podium. The flint in Monica’s throat halted midscrape.

  Eric’s eyes sought hers, his expression unabashedly adoring. As far as Monica was concerned, there were only two people in the room right now: herself and the man she loved.

  “Anyone who competes for any prize is disappointed when they don’t win. I know: my team, the New York Blades, didn’t make it into the playoffs this year. But I think I have something that might help Monica Geary over her loss tonight.”

  He reached into one of the front pockets of his tux and held up a sparkling diamond ring. “I love you, Monica,” he said humbly. “Will you marry me?”

  Monica felt her stomach plummet to her feet as he mouthed, “I love you,” to her. She took her eyes from his for just a second as one of Gloria’s pointy nails stabbed at her bare shoulder.

  “Go up there,” Gloria hissed. “Go up there and accept!”

  Monica turned back to Eric. It still felt as though all the tables around her had vanished, and she and Eric were alone in some enchanted place where time was suspended. She rose slowly, floating toward the podium where the man she loved stood waiting, the engagement ring in his hand refracting the colors of the rainbow as the blazing lights above the stage hit it.

  Eric met her at the top of the steps.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” Monica whispered in awe.

  “C’mon. You know what a ham I am,” he whispered back. “You look incredibly beautiful tonight, by the way.”

  “And you’re so handsome I could die.” She gave him one of her little pinches.

  “How did you wangle becoming a presenter?”

  Eric grinned. “Theresa arranged it for me. When I told the producers of the show I intended to propose, they went nuts. Real romance in a TV genre that specializes in it and all that.”

  “Smooth, Mitchell. Very smooth.”

  They were standing together in front of the miked podium now. Eric held out the ring to her. It was a gorgeous two-carat marquise-cut diamond, the band platinum. There was a slight tremble in his hand as he awaited her answer. Monica’s breath hitched, moved. How could he ever doubt what it would be?

  “Yes, I’ll marry you,” Monica said, voice cracking with emotion. She couldn’t hold back her tears of joy any longer. She wept as Eric slipped the ring onto her finger, and the crowd broke into mad applause. Eric grabbed her tight, his face nuzzling her hair.

  “You know who we are?” he whispered into her ear.

  “Who?”

  “Two famous people who are hot. How about you give me your number and we set the world on fire?” he murmured sexily, using the exact lines he’d tried to pick her up with the first time they met.

  Monica laughed. “I’m so glad I went against every sane instinct I had and agreed to Theresa’s crazy scheme.”

  “I’m glad you did, too.” He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  “Where are we going?”

  He kissed her softly. “Somewhere I can’t wait to get to: the rest of our lives.”