Power Play (30 page)

Even so, Monica couldn't resist tuning in to the next Blades home game, if only to stop herself thinking about work. Chesty was now getting the lion's share of the dialogue in their scenes, while Monica's character was being slowly pushed out of the spotlight. These things tended to go in cycles, but Monica still found it so unnerving that Eric and the Blades were a welcome diversion.

The pregame warm-up was beginning. One by one, the players skated out onto the ice and began circling. Cheers went up when certain players emerged. Monica loved seeing the kids pressing right up against the Plexiglas, getting an up close view and hoping one of the players would flip a puck to them.

Eric skated out, and Monica could hear the early arrivals start chanting, “Monica! Monica! Take! Eric! Back!” She blushed, even though she was sitting all alone in her apartment. Eric waved, and a bigger cheer went up. The camera cut to the two hockey commentators from the Met Gar channel.

“The Blades are really going all out to help Eric win back Monica Geary,” said the one who looked like a walrus. “Take a close look at the guys on the bench.”

The camera cut to the home bench, panning its length. Every player on the team had an
M
sewn onto his jersey where the
C
or
A
for the captain or assistant captain usually went. Monica felt her heart lurch.

“Do you think it will work?” asked the balding commentator with the beaky nose.

“I hope so. The Blades need to turn their luck around.”

“Maybe Eric's wearing his heart on his sleeve—or should I say, on his chest,” chuckled the walrus guy, “will do the trick. It's sure brought the team together.”

A flash of heat licked its way up Monica's body as the game began. God, he really did want her back; look at how foolish and desperate he was willing to appear. She focused on Eric when he hit the ice. Initially she'd been convinced he only wanted to reunite so he wasn't awful on the ice anymore. But more and more, it was obvious that wasn't the case—or was just a small part of it, anyway.

She hated to admit it, but she missed going to the games and getting cheered. And she missed watching him, even though she still didn't know what was going on half the time.

She looked up as Gloria came out of the spare bathroom to join her on the couch, her face slathered in cold cream. Monica loved her dearly, but she hoped Gloria's apartment was repaired soon. She was used to living on her own, to being quiet when she needed to be quiet. Gloria liked to talk all the time.

Gloria sighed as she sank down beside Monica. “For someone who claims not to give a tinker's damn about that little Hottentot, you certainly watch a lot of hockey.”

“He asked me to watch tonight's game. There was something he wanted me to see.”

“What's that?”

“See if you can figure it out.”

Gloria squinted hard at the television. “Haven't a clue.”

“Most of the Blades are wearing
M
s on their jerseys for Monica.”

Gloria squinted again. “Oh, my. You're right.” She put her hand over her heart. “That's so sweet that they're all helping him to get you back.”

“It's only because he's been playing really badly since we split. They're all superstitious and think I'm some kind of living good luck charm.”

“Dear God, you are so naïve when it comes to machismo,” said Gloria with a cluck of the tongue. “That's what they tell themselves and each other: that it's because of their play. They can't admit they actually have feelings.”

Monica made a sour face and went back to watching the game, pretending Gloria wasn't there. Perhaps, taking a cue from how hard Monica was concentrating, Gloria was largely silent, except when a break in the action came and some fans resumed the chant: “Monica! Monica! Take! Eric! Back!”

Gloria turned to her. “Monica! Monica! Take! Eric! Back!”

Monica squirmed and said nothing. The Blades didn't play poorly, earning a tie at the end of regulation. But then they gave up a goal in the five-minute overtime. Skating off the ice, the players looked as dejected as the fans. Monica switched off the TV, the fans' chant now embedded in her head, repeating itself over and over. It was ridiculous, but she was beginning to feel that she
was
responsible in part for the Blades' slump.
As if you're that powerful,
she chided herself.
You're just as egotistical as he is.

She and Gloria rose simultaneously.

“Well, good night, my dear,” said Gloria, covering her mouth as she yawned. “Enjoy sleeping all alone in that big bed of yours.”

Monica glared at her, said good night, and went to her room, where she spent the night staring at the ceiling. The next morning, she was as fresh-faced and professional as ever on the set, even though she was only in two scenes and had two lines. She'd adopted her own chant these days: “These things go in cycles.” Interesting that both she and Eric were having a downward swing these days. Christian might be trimming her role on the show, but her ratings were as high as ever. Chesty's ratings showed she was barely registering a blip with viewers.
That which does not kill me makes me stronger,
Monica told herself as she left the set hours earlier than she had in years, her own chant drowning out the realization that she had no idea whether she was coming or going these days.

 

“Dude, no offense, but I don't think the
M
on our jerseys did anything.”

Eric ignored Thad's comment as he toweled off following a particularly brutal practice. His teammate was right, of course. They'd gotten a single point from the overtime loss but were still trailing Jersey by eight points in the standings. If they didn't turn it around soon, they could miss the playoffs entirely. The gesture hadn't helped personally, either. He still hadn't heard from Monica. She probably didn't even know about the chanting fans and the
M
s. He was fighting a losing battle, both on and off the ice.

Ulf swiped Eric's deodorant. “I told you: you should have sent her the snake.”

“Or the singing clown,” Thad put in.

Eric took back his deodorant, wondering if there was a doctor somewhere in New York who could reverse the lobotomies his teammates had obviously had.

“What are you going to do next?” Ulf asked.

“I don't know,” Eric replied despondently. If he went after her one more time, he was pretty sure he'd be crossing the line from ardent pursuer to pathetic jerk. Maybe it was time to give it a rest. Then again, tenacity and relentless drive were how he'd achieved everything in his life, from getting out of Flasher to winning the Cup. He couldn't understand why it wasn't working with Monica.

Eric finished toweling off, grimacing as he dressed. He'd been playing and practicing his butt off. As a result, he'd at least raised his play to mediocre. But he knew that wasn't good enough for Ty, his teammates, or himself.

As he headed over to Fuzzy's with a bunch of the guys, he resolved to drop his pursuit for a while and just focus on his game. What else could he do?

 

“Stop, stop, stop.” Christian rubbed his beady eyes, crooking his finger to call Monica over to him. “How many times do I have to tell you,” he said in a low voice, “to really put your guts into it?”

That's it,
Monica thought. She wasn't going to let this little troll keep on humiliating her just because she'd refused to screw him.

“I am putting my guts into it,” she snarled. “Which is why my ratings are through the roof. Too bad I can't say the same about the show. Notice how we've slipped to number two since you've taken the helm?”

“Temporarily,” Christian sniffed. “Always happens when a show is transitioning.”

“And what are we transitioning to?”

“Younger, hipper, more savvy.” Christian narrowed his eyes. “What's with this antagonism, Monica?”

“Don't play stupid. I know I'm being punished. And if you really gave a damn about this show, you'd put some energy into calling your talentless little girlfriend on the carpet, not me. Breasts and Kewpie doll eyes do not an actress make.”

Christian's jaw clenched. “Watch it.”

“You'd better watch Chessy before she—and you—destroy this show. Now piss off, I have some
acting
to do.”

 

“Anything? Any packages or notes?” Monica asked Franco at the front desk of
W and F
as she left the building.

“Nope. Have a good night, Miss Geary.”

“You, too.”

“Anything?” she asked Gene the doorman when she arrived home. “Any packages or anything?”

“Nope.”

“No one stopped by to see if I was home?”

“Nope.”

“I guess Eric's decided to give up, then,” Monica replied with a small, blasé laugh.

“Looks like.”

Monica bade him good night and went up to her apartment. God, she was loathsome. For two weeks she hadn't gotten anything from Eric, nor had he ambushed her outside her building or the studio. Nothing. Neither he nor his teammates had the
M
sewn onto their jerseys anymore. At first she told herself she was relieved he was giving up. But as the days wore on, she found herself feeling neglected. And disappointed. If she missed his wooing, however over-the-top, by extension that must mean she missed him.

She turned on the TV as soon as she slipped into her sweats, knowing the Blades had a home game tonight. The fans didn't chant about her even once. Instead, they occasionally broke into a vulgar chant about someone named Potvin. They'd given up on her as soon as they sensed Eric had given up.

Monica drew her favorite quilt around her and curled up on the couch. Her home had never felt more of a haven to her. For the first time in her life, Monica dreaded going to work in the morning. Rumors were rife that the writers were going to have a plague from Mars kill off half the cast. Doing something that radical reeked of desperation. The show's slipping ratings were beginning to have an effect.

She closed her eyes, dozing. When she woke, the game was over, and the local news reported that the Blades had lost again.
He needs me,
she thought.
Do I need him, too?
She drew her comforter tighter around her, remembering the things he'd said to her the night of the charity banquet, how when she'd dumped him, his primary concern was that they tell the press it was mutual, so he wouldn't look like a loser. But then her mind jumped ahead to his appearing in her lobby, admitting his jerkiness, claiming he knew she was just giving him a taste of his own medicine, kicking him in the teeth the way he'd kicked her to teach him a lesson. Finally, she thought about Gloria telling her to risk a reconciliation, how it was so obvious Eric loved her by how willingly he'd made a fool of himself. She wondered if she would do the same if she were in his shoes.

Confused as ever, she turned off the TV.
Well, you got what you said you wanted,
she told herself.
He's finally given up.
Exhaustion overtook her, both emotional and physical. Alone of her own making, she slept on the couch.

TWENTY-FIVE

“What the hell—?”

The last thing Monica expected to see when she walked into Gloria's apartment was Eric. Gloria had called and invited her to lunch, after which they planned to hit Fifth Avenue and drop a bundle on whatever hit their fancy. Monica always enjoyed going over to Gloria's apartment, because it was so interesting and eclectic. Turn-of-the-century paintings mixed with Art Deco furniture combined with ornate Victorian pieces. Somehow, Gloria made it all work. The only thing Monica disliked was the ever-present aroma of tea rose. It made her think of funerals.

Eric looked up at her from where he sat on the couch, leafing through one of Gloria's leather-bound photo albums. There was a glint of mischief in Gloria's eye as she ushered Monica inside.

“I was just showing Eric some pictures from more glamorous times.”

“You were quite the looker,” Eric told her. Monica felt a shiver pass through her as her entire body gave a small leap at seeing him. This wasn't what she wanted to feel. She gave Gloria a dirty look.

“Was this your idea?”

“It was Eric's. He called me and wanted to know if I could help him see you.”

“And of course, you just had to comply.”

“Call me Cupid,” Gloria replied with an angelic smile.

“I'd like to call you something else. You ambushed me.”

Gloria shrugged.

Monica's annoyed gaze shifted to Eric. “Very clever.”

“I have my moments.”

“What do you want?” Monica asked Eric icily.

“I need to talk to you.” A look Monica wasn't sure she'd ever seen came to his face: desperation.

“Go ahead.”

“Alone.”

“I don't mind,” Gloria the traitor quickly announced. “I'll just toddle off to the kitchen and mix myself a mai tai.”