Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Eric looked uncomfortable, rocking on his heels with his hands in his back pockets. “You gonna call for your car?”

  “Actually, I think I’m going to walk.”

  “Oh.” He paused. “I’ll walk you, if you want.”

  “That’s okay. I like to walk alone sometimes. Helps me clear my head.”

  “Right.” He stopped rocking. “Well, bye, then.” It looked as though he was going to plant a friendly kiss on her cheek. Instead, he touched his lips softly to hers. “Just in case there’s someone from the press staked out somewhere we can’t see, watching us,” he explained.

  Monica nodded briskly, still feeling the heat from his mouth. “Yes. Of course.”

  She turned from him and started walking home. For a split second, she was tempted to look back over her shoulder to see if he was watching her, but she didn’t. They were just “helping each other out,” playing their respective parts. Nothing more.

  Monica double-checked her appearance in the mirror in the ladies’ room deep in the bowels of Met Gar before heading to the locker room to meet Eric’s teammates. Maybe it was a sign of her not being as well-rounded as she should be, but she’d never set foot in a sports arena before, nor had she ever been to a professional sporting event. She supposed she’d have to attend a hockey game soon, just to keep the relationship thing looking realistic.

  She’d been careful not to dress too provocatively, showing just enough cleavage to entice but not so much she’d be surrounded by drooling men who thought her body began below the neck. She was surprised to find herself battling a mild case of nerves. Meeting and mingling with fans from all walks of life was one thing; but this was the first time she was meeting exclusively with a group of men, and not just any group of men, either: these guys were all jocks. Classic alpha males. The testosterone level awaiting her had to be staggering.

  She’d brought a stack of photographs to autograph and fully anticipated posing for a picture with each of them. She could lie to herself and say it was a burden, but the truth was, she liked posing for pictures. She hated that Eric could tell it irked her when the woman in Dijon wanted her photo taken with him and not her, but she supposed she shouldn’t. Actors were supposed to be egotistical, after all. She just wished she were getting the ego boost from performing in a more respected branch of entertainment.

  She pushed open the ladies’ room door, heading down the hall toward the locker room. She could hear a hum of excited voices coming from inside, which was flattering. She knocked once; the humming abruptly stopped. “Is that you, baby?” Eric called out.

  “It’s me,” Monica trilled, chafing at the sexy tone with which Eric said baby. But a ruse was a ruse, right? She opened the door, finding herself confronted with nineteen goggle-eyed hulks. “Hi, honey.”

  Now in character, she walked straight over to Eric, giving him a more-than-friendly kiss on the mouth, just so there was no doubt among his teammates that they were truly a couple. Eric embraced her hard, his hands going a little lower on her back than she would have liked. In fact, one inch lower, and he would have been cupping her ass. Such provocative realism, enough to make her want to pop him one. There was a definite feeling of testosterone swirling around the room, a uniquely condensed male energy that Monica had never experienced. “So, guys, here’s my girl,” Eric said proudly as they broke their embrace. “Try not to drool all over her, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

  Monica chuckled, quickly observing the hockey players. Most of them were in jeans and T-shirts, Eric included. He had just come from the shower; his thick, blond hair was wet, his scent lemon fresh. Something rippled through Monica that she didn’t care to address.

  Holding her hand (at least this time he wasn’t cutting off her circulation), Eric led her around the packed locker room, introducing her to each of his teammates. Their names and faces all blended into one, as did their eyes, which always flicked down to her chest before returning to her face to stare worshipfully at her. The only one who seemed not to be awe-struck by her presence was Eric’s dark-haired brother, Jason.

  Jason held out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.” Monica could see a slight resemblance between him and Eric around the eyes, but that was it.

  “I need you to explain something to me, Ms. Geary,” said Jason.

  “Please, call me Monica.”

  “Monica. I’m a little mystified as to why you’d want to go out with my brother here. He’s got the emotional depth of a paramecium.” The other players laughed.

  “Perhaps there’s a side of him you don’t know,” Monica murmured mischievously. Eric smirked at Jason, who made a disgusted face.

  Eric and Monica dropped hands, and Monica sat down on the nearest bench. “Eric said you guys have tons of questions,” she said affably. “Fire away.”

  “Why didn’t you get a priest in to perform an exorcism when Grayson was possessed by Satan’s right-hand man, Rodrigo?” Thad Meyers asked.

  “You mean, why didn’t Roxie get a priest,” Monica corrected gently. This happened all the time: Viewers confused her with her character. She got mail addressed to Roxie, and a woman had once tried to slap her on the street after Roxie had stolen another character’s husband on the show.

  Thad just blinked.

  “Everything is up to the writers,” Monica continued.

  “I gotta say, that was really low of you, that time you buried your cousin Willow alive in that glass coffin,” said Ulf, nostrils flaring with disapproval. “How could you do that?”

  Monica’s teeth gritted slightly. “Roxie did it. I’m not Roxie. She’s just the character I play.”

  But Ulf wasn’t done. “But don’t you think it was a rotten thing for Roxie to do?”

  “She went to jail for it,” Monica pointed out.

  “Yeah, but then you got off on a technicality, which was soooo wrong,” Tully Webster chimed in, shaking his head.

  Monica closed her eyes a moment. Clearly, the “I’m not my character” distinction was a lost cause among these guys.

  More questions came fast and furious.

  “Remember that time you and Grayson discovered Dr. Clifford’s secret dungeon?”

  “Remember when your ex-pimp, Benny, tracked you down?”

  “Are you going to be turned into a zombie?”

  “Are you really trying to get hold of a secret potion that might help Grayson walk?”

  Monica answered each question as best she could, but after fifteen minutes of verbal bombardment, she held up her hand. “Guys, I really hate to do this, but I’m on a supertight schedule, and I want to make sure I have enough time to pose for pictures with you and sign autographs. So, one final question.”

  “What do you like about my brother?” Jason Mitchell asked.

  Monica flashed a charming smile and looked at Eric, who shot her a quick, almost imperceptible look of mild alarm. She reached out and took his hand, hoping he could read the message in her eyes: Relax, buddy, I’m an actress. I can sing your praises in my sleep.

  “There are so many things about Eric, I’m not sure where to start,” Monica murmured, staring into Eric’s eyes as if she were Juliet and he her Romeo. “He’s smart. He’s funny. He’s passionate about what he does.”

  Actually, she was beginning to discover that all those things were true. Mildly unnerved, she shifted her gaze to Jason, who looked unconvinced. Monica would have to ask Eric about him later.

  She posed for photographs with each of the players, as well as a group photo with the whole team. The autograph signing went smoothly, though none of these guys wanted the standard, “To So-and-So, Love, Monica Geary,” scribbled on the picture. No, she found herself writing things like, “To Thad, The Most Talented Player in the NHL”; or “To Tully, You’re Truly Irresistible, Love, Monica Geary.” To a man, they hung her picture up in their locker. It was very, very weird.

  She said her good-byes, and Eric escorted her out into the hall.

/>   “That was great,” he raved.

  Monica took a small bow. “Thank you. Though it was a little scary, them addressing me as my character.”

  “They were just a little nervous, that’s all. And not all of them did it.”

  “True.” Monica put a hand on his arm. “Look, that picture that was taken of me with the team? Could you get it to Theresa? I’m sure some publication would love to print it.”

  Eric looked baffled. “How will that help you?”

  “You can never have enough publicity,” said Monica. “Even bad publicity is better than none at all, and so far, that’s not something we’ve had to worry about.”

  Eric shrugged. “Okay. I’ll run it up to our in-house PR guy, Lou, too. Maybe we can put it in the program for the next game.”

  “That would be great.”

  After comfortably playacting with one another for over an hour, awkwardness suddenly descended. “So . . . what’s next?” Eric asked.

  “Why don’t you visit the set next Monday, if you can? There’s going to be some journalist from Soap World prowling around. Seeing us all lovey-dovey will definitely get me some ink.”

  “Why do you need ink?” Eric asked. “I mean, you’re Monica freakin’ Geary.”

  Monica fought a blush. “And I’ve got a freakin’ ingénue trying to unseat me.”

  “No one can unseat you,” Eric declared. “Deep down, you have to know that.”

  Monica glanced away, uncomfortable with the naked praise. He’s saying that because he’s a fan, she thought. But other thoughts were trying to kick their way front and center: why should she care if Chesty began gaining in popularity, if Monica really thought that acting in daytime somehow didn’t count?

  She checked her watch. “Gotta run. I’ll firm up the details about Monday and call you.”

  “Sounds good.”

  More awkwardness; was he deciding whether to give her a small kiss the way he did when they’d parted ways outside the restaurant? There was no one in the hall to perform for.

  She made the decision for him. “See you Monday,” she said, starting down the hall.

  “Thanks again,” he said softly, his voice trailing after her.

  Just as she did the night after their dinner, she resisted turning around.

  High fives and whistles awaited Eric when he returned to the locker room.

  “You are totally my hero,” said Tully Webster with a hearty slap on the back.

  “And one fuckin’ lucky bastard to boot,” said Ulf.

  “I know,” Eric agreed, looking at the pictures of Monica tacked to each guy’s locker. Man, she was gorgeous. Somehow, in the midst of their playacting, he sometimes forgot that. It was hard to believe she didn’t have a real boyfriend in her life, or that someone as smart as her habitually hooked up with jerks, or so she claimed. For a split second when she’d come into the locker room and kissed him, he’d forgotten this whole relationship thing was a bunch of bull, because the kiss was so realistic. Well, she was good at what she did, right? He wondered if that was how she kissed Royce in all those love scenes between Roxie and Grayson. Had to be. It was part of their job. But did she enjoy it? The thought pricked him.

  “Yo, dickhead.”

  Eric turned to find his brother standing behind him. “Yes, shit for brains?”

  “I cannot believe Monica Geary has fallen so hard for you. The way she was looking at you . . .” Jason frowned. “I don’t know if I can watch W and F anymore. Seriously.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because all I’ll be able to think is, ‘That poor, deluded woman has totally fallen for Eric’s line of bull.’ ”

  “No line of bull, my man. The sparks are there. You saw it yourself.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s just see how long it takes them to fizzle out. With your track record—”

  “This is different,” Eric snapped. Jesus, Jason was a pain in the ass. Jealous, no doubt, now that he’d settled down to a life of Delilah, dogs, and the in-laws from hell.

  “We’ll see,” said Jason. He and Eric picked up their gym bags, and they began walking out of the locker room together. “Nervous about tomorrow night?”

  “Not at all.”

  Tomorrow was the season opener on home ice, Eric’s first as a Blade. He’d been going above and beyond in practice, winning the occasional curt nod of approval from Ty Gallagher, which was about as much validation as he could expect at this point. But tomorrow night would be different. Tomorrow night they’d all see he wasn’t just a hero off the ice but on it as well.

  SEVEN

  Blow. Suck. Disappointment. Unfocused. Those were just a few of the words Eric was able to come up with to describe his virgin performance as a New York Blade. He wished he could put it down to bad luck, but the bottom line was his reaction time had been poor, his concentration worse. He’d choked when he should have been blowing everyone away.

  Maybe it was the booing when he first stepped out onto the ice. He knew Guy Le Temp’s skates were big ones to fill, and that he’d played for a hated rival, but Jesus Christ, it wasn’t like he was some newbie fresh up from the minors. Too bad he played like one. By the time the game was over and the Blades had lost to Tampa Bay 4-1, he was surprised his teammates weren’t booing him, too.

  “Mitchell.”

  The stern timbre of Ty Gallagher’s voice boomed through the depressed haze in the locker room, rendering it silent. Gallagher had already done a postmortem with the team right after the game, and hadn’t, much to Eric’s relief, singled him out. So much for that.

  Eric stopped toweling his hair. “Coach?”

  “My office in five.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He turned back to his locker, looking at the small gold cross hanging there that he wore during games for luck, just like his brother did. Maybe he should start wearing it all the time—not that it had done him any good on the ice.

  He could feel some of his teammates’ eyes on his back, could imagine their thoughts: Can’t believe we got rid of Guy for you. Not a good start, bucko.

  David Hewson walked up to him, and Eric tensed. “So you sucked,” Hewsie said. “It’s just the first game, and you were nervous. You’ll get your legs.”

  “He fuckin’ better,” Ulf growled. “Maybe you should concentrate less on banging Monica, Mitcho, and more on your new job.”

  “Stop calling me Mitcho, okay?” Eric snapped. “I fucking hate it.”

  Ulf sniggered. “Hear that, boys? Mitcho hates being called Mitcho.”

  “Why do you hate it, Mitcho?” Thad Meyers asked.

  “Yeah, Mitcho?” Barry Fontaine chimed in. “What’s wrong with Mitcho?”

  Eric rolled his eyes. Assholes. He should have kept his mouth shut. For the rest of his time on the Blades, he’d have to endure being called Mitcho every three seconds.

  He dressed, trying to concentrate on getting his head on straight before going to see Ty. He felt the same way he did when he was a kid being sent to the principal’s office, a weird combo of vulnerability and defensiveness. Ignoring the jeers of “Good luck, Mitcho,” he squared his shoulders and prepared to meet the one-man firing squad.

  “What the fuck just happened out there?”

  Eric blinked, blindsided by Ty’s hitting him between the eyes before he’d even had a chance to close the door behind him. He wished there was a hint of concern in Ty’s voice, but there wasn’t. It was pure incredulity laced with anger.

  Eric turned his palms up apologetically. “I don’t know.”

  “You were tentative with the puck. You didn’t even try to skate into the zone. We traded Guy for you because we needed an offensive defenseman. That’s what I need from you. That’s what I’ve been telling you I need you to be at practice. That’s what I’ve seen you do at practice. If all I wanted was somebody to dump it into the corners, I would have stuck with Guy.” He shook his head. “You know the papers are going to tear you a new asshole tomorrow, right?”
>
  Eric rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, I know.” Truthfully, he hadn’t even thought about that yet. His mind was still back at picturing himself on the ice, sucking.

  Ty leaned against the front of his desk, eyes narrowed, arms folded across his chest. “I hear you’re dating some actress?”

  “Yeah.”

  Here it comes, thought Eric. The “live, eat, and breathe hockey” speech everyone in the league knew about. The “relationships come second” talk. Judging from what his brother had told him, he was surprised it had taken Ty this long.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Monica Geary from The Wild and the Free.”

  “Really.” Ty looked impressed. “Haven’t watched that show in ages. I think the last time I tuned in, Grayson Lamont’s face had been burned off in a warehouse fire.”

  Eric brought him up-to-date. “Grayson’s face was perfectly reconstructed by the top plastic surgeon in Garrett City, Dr. Jessica Schmidt, and he married her, but it didn’t last.”

  “Huh,” Ty grunted before his trademark glare returned. “Actresses are high maintenance, correct? Lots of parties. Public appearances.”

  “I guess,” Eric mumbled. “We haven’t been going out for that long.”

  “Keep a lid on the social side of things,” Ty warned.

  “I will.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I will.”

  Ty pushed off his desk, walking toward Eric. “You need to live hockey. You have to eat it and breathe it. It has to be the only thing you think about. The only thing you dream about.”

  “I will, Coach,” Eric promised.

  The speech. Finally. In a weird way, it made Eric feel like he was really part of the team. Now he just needed to prove it—not only to everyone else, but to himself as well.

  “You’re late.”

  Monica practically pounced on Eric as he walked through the door of her dressing room, his name written neatly on the name tag the security guard had given him declaring him a “Guest.” For the past fifteen minutes, she’d been stalked by Carolyn Shields, the Soap World writer whom Monica despised. Carolyn, on the set for the day to write what seemed to Monica to be her fiftieth “A Day in the Life of W and F” article, had oh so coyly been asking about Eric. Monica had oh so coyly responded that Eric was in fact going to be visiting her on the set today, and if Carolyn wanted, she could talk to them together and get a Soap World exclusive. All they were waiting for was Eric’s arrival.