Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “Either fake or it’s her boarding school name.”

  Monica had never had a boarding school name, though she remembered plenty of girls who did. Sparky. Chessy. Binky. Mon just didn’t cut it, though Monica remembered one of her classmates, Juliet “Jools” Spencer, always talking to her in a fake Jamaican accent, saying things like, “Irie, Mon, help me with this calculus,” which Jools thought was hilarious. Monica wondered where Jools was now. Probably finishing up her summer in the Hamptons with investment banker husband number two and spoiled kids named Lincoln and Madison. A slight shiver of envy went through Monica.

  “I’ll be curious to see if she can actually act,” said Gloria, “or if this is another case of Ricardo being blinded by a C-cup.”

  “We’ll see.” Monica was actually looking forward to someone new on the show with whom her character would interact frequently. It could be challenging.

  Gloria snuffed out her cigarette and rose. “I’ll let you get back to your shut-eye. See you on the set in forty?”

  Monica nodded as Gloria departed, quietly closing the door behind her. A new costar. Something interesting was happening next week after all.

  “Yo, the savior of the Blades has arrived.”

  Brimming with self-confidence, Eric Mitchell scanned the locker room, waiting for his new teammates to respond to his announcement. Instead, he was greeted by scowls, glares, and the unmistakable look of resentment. What the hell was wrong with these guys?

  One of the most piercing glares came from Eric’s twin brother, Jason, who now thought he was hot shit because he was an assistant captain. The team had a new assistant coach, too: Michael Dante. The head coach was still the legendary ballbuster, Ty Gallagher.

  “What my brother means—” Jason began.

  “Is what he said,” defenseman Ulf Torkelson finished for him, planting himself so close to Eric their noses were practically touching. “Listen up, dickwad: until you prove yourself on the ice, no one in here believes you’re the next Brian Leetch. Got it?”

  Eric returned Ulf’s attempt at an intimidating stare. He’d gone toe-to-toe with him on the ice for years. If his new teammate thought he was going to squeak out a meek, “Okay, whatever you say,” he was wrong.

  Ulf kept staring. Eric stared back, though out of the corner of his eye, he caught the look of mortification momentarily crossing his brother’s face. Clearly Jason thought he was handling this all wrong. Not to worry, Bro. I can hold my own.

  The staring contest ended with Ulf shoving Eric’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

  “Tell me again. I forgot.”

  By now, all the Blades had drawn closer to the two men, ringing them in a semicircle. Were he and the Ulfinator on the ice, gloves would have been dropped, and they’d already be at it. As it was, Eric could feel his adrenaline begin to rise. Ulf wanted a fight? He’d picked the right guy.

  “Cut the shit, both of you.”

  New captain Tully Webster pushed the two men apart, his glare outshining everyone else’s. “This is not the way I want to start the new season.” He turned to Eric. “Glad to have you aboard, but it might serve you better to keep your mouth shut for now, okay?” His body swiveled to Ulf’s. “As for you, save the threats for the ice.”

  Eric gave a curt nod that mirrored Ulf’s. Ulf turned away, angrily pushing his way through his teammates to head for the showers. One by one, the other Blades drifted toward their lockers or the shower, but not before throwing Eric a dirty look. Eric met each and every look with an unapologetic expression.

  Whether they liked it or not, they did need him, which is why he’d been traded from Jersey for two young prospects and one of the Blades’ most beloved players, defenseman Guy Le Temp. Eric was one of the top scoring defensemen in the NHL. His trade to New York from New Jersey had been one of the top stories in local sports, along with the ego-stoking fact that he’d made People magazine’s “Fifty Hottest Bachelors” issue, coming in at number forty. Eric thought he should have been higher. It wasn’t hard to figure out that his new teammates were envious of him, both on and off the ice.

  In need of a shower himself, Eric grabbed a towel and his toiletries from his locker when someone gripped his forearm.

  “We need to talk,” Jason said tersely. Eric refrained from rolling his eyes. He knew what was coming: big lecture, blah blah blah. He’d indulge Jason—this time.

  “Sure. Just let me shower, and I’ll meet you in ten.”

  Eric had no sooner closed the cab door behind him than Jason fixed him with a death stare.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Jason demanded, directing the cabdriver to West Eighty-fourth Street, where they both lived. Three years ago, when Jason was first traded to the Blades from the Minnesota Mosquitoes and Eric had already been playing for Jersey for a year, Eric had found him a primo apartment in a building four doors down from his own. Both of them loved their places, though Jason’s had become a little cramped now that he and his wife, Delilah, who ran a dog-walking business, lived there together along with their four dogs. Luckily, building rules wouldn’t let her maintain her dog-boarding service; otherwise their place would really be a zoo.

  Eric was nonchalant. “What?”

  “What? Your egomaniac display back there in the locker room.”

  “I was just stating fact.”

  “Big deal!” Jason retorted. “You know how this shit works: you bust your hump until your prove yourself.” Jason shook his head in despair. “They’re starting off hating you, man. You’re already at a disadvantage because everyone loved Guy. The guys, the fans . . .”

  “I was just trying to be, you know—”

  “What? A macho, arrogant dick?”

  “We’re all macho, arrogant dicks,” Eric pointed out in his defense. “We’re professional hockey players.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the new macho, arrogant dick. That means eating humble pie until further notice.”

  “They’re just jealous. Especially with the People magazine thing.”

  “Christ.” Jason opened his window a crack. “You’ve been even more insufferable than usual since that came out.”

  “I believe you mean self-confident, not insufferable,” Eric replied smugly.

  “No, insufferable.”

  Eric enjoyed the image of himself as Manhattan bachelor at play, which was why he only dated brainless bimbos: it saved him having to put himself out emotionally. That was certainly the case with his last squeeze, Brandi. Sweet, great in bed, but the brains of a mackerel. When she started pushing for a relationship, he ended things—like a gentleman, of course. Shallow he could do. Mature? That he wasn’t so sure about.

  “You should go in there tomorrow and tell everyone you’re sorry about coming on like such an asswipe; say that you were just nervous or something,” Jason advised.

  “Maybe I’ll just tell them what’s happening next week,” Eric said boastfully.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “I’m doing a cameo on the The Wild and the Free, Bro.”

  Jason’s eyes doubled in size. “No. Fucking. Way.”

  “I kid you not, my man. The show got in touch with Lou in PR after People came out, and they asked if I wanted to do an ‘under five’—that’s TV talk for under five lines, by the way,” Eric added.

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  Eric draped his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Would I shit you?”

  “Yeah. Daily. But I can tell you’re not ringing my bell on this one. I haven’t seen you look this happy since eleventh grade, when Kylie Jacobs told you the rabbit didn’t die.” Jason punched his arm enviously. “You bastard. You’re probably going to meet Monica Geary, aren’t you?”

  “I have a scene with her,” said Eric, feeling quite pleased with this small coup. “I even get to play myself.”

  Everyone in the league watched The Wild and the Free. Soaps were a favorite way for them to pass the time in hotel rooms when they were on the
road, and they all watched when they were home, too, since the teams’ workout and weight rooms had TVs. Eric couldn’t count the times he’d been sweating his ass off on a cross trainer with his eyes glued to Monica Geary.

  Jason had a faraway look in his eyes. “Remember that time Roxie’s fiancé plunged into a volcano, but it turned out he didn’t really die, and he secretly came back to Garrett City, gaslighting Roxie for a while?”

  “That was great,” Eric agreed. Talking about the show was getting him pumped.

  “Or the time Roxie was reunited with the baby she’d given birth to in high school but didn’t know she had, because she’d been kicked in the head at the prom by a runaway horse and got amnesia?”

  “Oh, man. The way Monica turned on the tears during that scene? You could hear guys sniffling all over the weight room that day. She’s a great actress.”

  “When will you be torturing the cast and crew with your presence?”

  “I shoot next Thursday afternoon, I think. I should be getting my script by FedEx today.” It sounded so cool saying that.

  “Do you know when it airs?”

  “No. But I’m sure they’ll tell me.”

  “Bastard.” Jason paused thoughtfully. “You know what you should do? Get an autographed pic of her for the locker room. Or have someone take a picture of the two of you together. That’ll help redeem your ass a little.”

  “I’m not doing that,” Eric scoffed. “It’s so fannish.”

  “You are a fan.”

  “Not on Thursday I’m not. On Thursday I’m a guest star.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Seriously: I don’t want to come across as a geek.”

  “You could never be a geek. But an asshole? That’s another story.”

  Eric yawned. “Yada yada yada.”

  “Delilah wants to know if you want to come for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “I’d love to,” said Eric, “but I can’t. I have to start studying my part.”

  “Your cameo is a week away, Eric, and you have less than five lines.”

  “No,” Eric said emphatically. “I need to be make sure that when next Thursday rolls around, everything goes perfectly. I want to impress Monica.”

  Jason frowned. “Fine, but if you change your mind, just come over. We’re hanging out and watching some special on aardvarks on Animal Planet.”

  “Now that’s love.”

  “You’re damn right. You might want to try it sometime.”

  TWO

  ROXIE: Wait until you see the surprise I have for you, Grayson. (SHE WHEELS HIM, BLINDFOLDED, INTO A LOCKER ROOM. HOCKEY SKATES AND HELMETS HANG FROM SEVERAL OF THE LOCKERS. A FEW BATTERED HOCKEY STICKS ARE PROPPED UP IN THE CORNER. ERIC MITCHELL ENTERS. ROXIE UNTIES GRAYSON’S BLINDFOLD.) You can look now!

  GRAYSON: My God! It’s Eric Mitchell of the New York Blades, my favorite team!

  ERIC: It’s an honor to meet you, Rox—I mean Grayson.”

  “Cut!”

  Monica heaved a sigh of frustration as Jimmy the director flew out of the control booth for the third time, making a beeline for Eric Mitchell. The first time Eric screwed up his lines, Jimmy was patient. The guy was a hockey player, after all, not an actor. The second time he screwed up, Royce, who usually ate guest stars alive, assured him that he just needed to relax and things would be fine. But the third time was too much. As always, they were on a very tight shooting schedule and had no time for multiple takes.

  “For the third goddamn time, the line is, ‘It’s an honor to meet you, Grayson,’ ” said Jimmy through clenched teeth. “Grayson! Grayson! Grayson! It’s not that hard!” He stormed back to the booth.

  “Yowza,” said Eric sardonically, looking at Monica. “Someone should give that guy a chill pill, huh?”

  “This isn’t a joke,” said Monica, wheeling Royce back out of the locker room as he retied his blindfold. Eric took his place, too. Sauntered to it, actually, then had the balls to wink at Monica. This guy was unbelievable.

  “Action!”

  This time, the jock managed not to call Grayson Roxie, but when it came to his line, “I know you’ll score a goal of your own, Grayson, and walk again,” he said “talk again” rather than “walk again.”

  “Do you know how to talk?!” Jimmy shouted through the mike from the control booth. Monica winced as Jimmy turned to the executive producer, Michael Herrera. “Whose bright idea was this to have this guy do a cameo?! Yours?! We’d have better luck with a trained seal!” With that he grabbed the giant bottle of generic aspirin he always kept on the ledge of the control panel, shaking out what looked like a small mountain into his palm before cramming them into his mouth as if they were M&M’s.

  Herrera, W and F’s long-suffering producer, recently back from a second stint in rehab for addiction to Valium, got on the mike and said, “All right, everybody, let’s take five.”

  “We don’t have five!” Jimmy screamed.

  Michael ignored him, focusing all his attention on Eric. “Listen, you have got to nail it the next time, or we’re gonna have to cut the scene; we just don’t have time to fool around with this.” He paused, thinking. “I’ll check with the writers to see if they can write up a few new lines for a different surprise for Grayson if we need to. Maybe Roxie can do a lap dance or something.”

  “You do that, and the only dance I’ll be doing is on my way out of this studio!” Monica shouted up to him. She couldn’t even bear to glance at Royce, whom she knew had to be praying for Eric Mitchell to hang himself the next time he opened his mouth. God, she wished she had a cigarette. She would just have to do with moving off set and doing a few deep-breathing exercises instead.

  “Hey.”

  Monica cracked open an eye in the middle of a deep inhale to see Eric Mitchell standing in front of her. Out of polite-ness, she opened the other eye. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry I keep screwing up. I thought it would be easy.”

  Monica frowned. “Everyone does.”

  It amazed her, the way everyone thought they could act. She could tell him that the sign of a good actor was making it look effortless, but what would be the point?

  Part of the problem was that for every good actor in daytime, there was one bad one. It was one of the reasons the genre got no respect. That, and the fact that to hold the interest of viewers and not repeat themselves five days a week, fifty weeks a year, year in and year out, the writers were sometimes forced to write fantastical story lines ripe for mockery. Evil twins. Characters returning from the dead. Amnesia, demonic possession, characters marrying each other multiple times—it was all there. But there was reality there, too: characters grappling with serious issues of life and love. That was what hooked the viewers. That was what allowed them to suspend disbelief and follow these characters wherever the show’s writers took them.

  The hockey player was looking at her like she was a piece of succulent filet mignon on his plate. She should have been used to that by now, but it never failed to irk her just a little. I’m more than boobs, legs, and a face, she wanted to tell him. Not that it would make any difference.

  “You and I have something in common,” Eric murmured.

  “What’s that?” Monica asked, trying desperately to see past him to the clock on the studio wall. Three more minutes. She only had to endure three more minutes of small talk with the jock who thought he could act. Anything was doable for three minutes.

  “We’re both sexy,” he whispered through hooded eyes. “You were voted ‘One of the Sexiest Women in Daytime,’ and I was voted one of People magazine’s ‘Top Fifty Bachelors. ’ ”

  “I didn’t know that,” Monica replied with affected boredom she hoped would repel him. She could see why he made their list, though. Great bod, sandy blond hair, sparkling blue eyes. She hated to admit it, but physically speaking, he was the male version of her.

  “You really don’t think it’s fascinating we’re both sex symbols?” Eric prodded.

  “No.”<
br />
  “Oh, c’mon. You and I both know it says, ‘These two people were fated to meet.’ ”

  “Actually, to me it says, ‘Delusional athlete.’ ”

  She knew she was taking a risk in being snarky to him. First rule of being in the public eye: be unfailingly polite, even if you are dealing with a crazed fan or an antagonistic journalist. But this guy was being such a horse’s ass she couldn’t hold back.

  Undeterred, Eric leaned in to her. “Two famous people who are hot, the big city at night . . . how about you give me your number, and we set the world on fire?”

  Monica recoiled. “You’re kidding, right? Who do you think I am, some bimbo?”

  Eric looked mystified. “Huh?”

  “That has got to be the most atrocious pickup line I’ve heard in my life. Do you really think a woman would fall for that?”

  Eric rocked confidently on his heels. “I thought it was pretty good, myself. What do you say?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Just a minute and a half more. Tick, tick, help.

  Eric chuckled. “Look, Rox—I mean, Monica—I occasionally glance at Soap World magazine when one of the other players brings it into the locker room, so I know you’re foot-loose and fancy-free these days. As am I, remarkably. You can’t deny there’s some kind of chemistry between us here.”

  Monica cocked her head inquisitively. “Have you ever spent time in a mental hospital? Just curious.”

  “Take a chance, babe. Go out with me.”

  “No,” Monica repeated firmly. “And don’t call me babe.”

  Eric winked at her, and it was even more annoying the second time than it was the first. “How about gorgeous? Hot? Goddess? Stone-cold foxy lady supreme?”

  “Let’s make a deal, okay? You don’t talk to me again unless we’re in character, and I don’t publicly accuse you of harassing me.”

  Eric shrugged. “Your loss, babe.”

  “Aaarrrr!” Monica growled in frustration, storming back to the set, fingers twitching for a cigarette. It was a pity that someone so good looking was such a vapid, annoying tick. The minute their scene together was over, she ran to her dressing room and locked the door until she got word Eric Mitchell had left the building and crawled back to the rink he came from. Sometimes, acting was the easy part. It was getting men to see past her status and body that was hard.