Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  PAIGE: You’re lying!

  ROXIE: It’s true, Paige. But mine is a child created from love, while yours is the result of a night of debauchery. Tell me, dear sister: How long do you think it will take him to divorce you and marry me?

  “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.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Monica muttered under her breath to Gloria’s back.

  She could hear Eric draw a deep breath as she remained standing by the door. “Have you been watching any of our games?” he asked.

  “No,” she lied.

  She felt stupid just standing there, so she moved farther into the living room, sitting opposite Eric in one of Gloria’s vintage leather club chairs.

  “Well, if you’d been watching,” said Eric, looking somewhat dejected, “you’d have seen the crowd chanting for you to take me back. And all the guys on the team sewed Ms on their jerseys that stood for Monica.”

  “I did read something about that in the paper.”

  “So will you . . .” Eric ran his hands over his face, whether in dejection or in an effort to wake himself up, Monica couldn’t tell. He looked awful.

  “Hypothetical question,” he said. “If you were having trouble at work, and you knew there was someone who might be able to help you out, would you ask for their help?”

  “Yes,” Monica said cautiously.

  “Okay, then. I’m asking for your help. I need you to come to the next Blades game.” Monica opened her mouth to protest, but Eric swiftly held up a hand to silence her. “Hear me out. You were my good luck charm, Monica. I’m not kidding. If you come, maybe I can reverse the slump I’m in.”

  Monica stood up. “You selfish bastard!”

  Eric looked alarmed. “What? What did I do?”

  “I knew you were only trying to win me back because of your stupid superstitions! I knew it!”

  “No, no, no,” Eric insisted frantically. “That’s not it at all.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Eric was edging his way off the couch. “Can’t you just come to one game? Please? For old time’s sake?”

  “We don’t have an old time’s sake, remember?” Her voice was bitter. “Our whole relationship was fake for you.”

  “Not tr
ue. I’m begging you here, Monica. One game.”

  “Fine,” she harrumphed, thinking about all his inept wooing and the fondness it produced in her against her will. “You’ll see me at the next game.”

  Eric’s face lit up with gratitude as he rose from the couch. “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

  “No, you can’t. Now please leave.”

  “Fine. I mean totally. Right this minute,” said Eric, bowing and scraping. “It worked,” he called out to Gloria in the kitchen. “Thanks for helping me out.”

  Gloria tottered back into the living room, cocktail glass in hand. “Anytime.” She looked back and forth between Eric and Monica triumphantly. “Should I lift my glass high to toast the newly reunited couple?”

  “Bite your traitorous tongue,” Monica snarled.

  Eric gave Gloria a quick peck on the cheek. “The game is tomorrow night,” he reminded Monica as he headed toward the door.

  Monica looked at him coolly. “I told you: you’ll see me there.”

  “Adieu, sweet prince,” Gloria called after Eric. She turned to Monica. “How is it that you’re not back together?”

  “I’m helping him out professionally. That’s all.”

  “Deep tissue massage?” Gloria teased.

  “Not funny.”

  Gloria took a huge gulp of her mai tai. “Want one of these? Brando taught me how to make them perfectly when I visited him in Tahiti many years ago.”

  “No thank you.”

  “It might help loosen you up. You seem a bit fraught to me.”

  “Of course I’m fraught; you tricked me, Gloria,” Monica repeated in a hurt voice. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “It was for a noble cause,” Gloria insisted.

  Yeah, so Eric could save his own ass, Monica thought.

  “How would you feel if I tricked you into seeing Monty?”

  Gloria clutched at her throat. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Behave, and I won’t.”

  Gloria relaxed, lowering her hand. “May I at least ask how you’re helping him out professionally?”

  “That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Monica replied. “Now finish up your Brando mai tai so we can do some serious damage at Bergdorf’s.”

  Eric couldn’t remember the last time he was this excited to play as he cruised toward the Blades locker room, a spring in his step. He’d told his teammates at practice that morning that they’d see Monica at tonight’s game, and to a man they were elated. Not surprisingly, he’d had a great practice. Whether Monica wanted to admit it or not, her defenses were slowly crumbling; it was only a matter of time before she took him back. Damn, you’re good, he said to himself. Perseverance: that’s the key in sports, in life, and in romance.

  He opened the door of the locker room, jerking to a stop at the threshold. There, planted in front of his locker, was a life-sized cardboard cutout of Monica.

  “Mitcho!” said Thad. “Check out what Lou just brought down.”

  Ulf grinned. “Awesome, is it not?”

  Oh, it was awesome, all right. Cardboard Monica was wearing a low-cut, beaded red gown, her long blonde hair falling in soft waves down her shoulders. The expression on her face was sexy, but not overwhelmingly so; it was more kittenish than come-hither. Eric felt his face flame.

  “Why’s it in front of my locker?”

  Thad shrugged. “Lou said that’s where it’s supposed to go.”

  “You mean, that’s where Monica told him to put it,” said Eric, feeling like an idiot.

  Jason came up to him. “What’s going on here, Bro?”

  Eric frowned. “Monica’s exact words to me yesterday were, ‘You’ll see me there.’ Not ‘I’m coming to the game.’ ” Eric was seething as he gestured at the cutout. “Well, there she is, guys. She’s at Met Gar.”

  Low laughter rumbled through the room. “Oh, man, did she ever stick it to you,” Barry Fontaine chortled.

  “She got you, Mitcho,” Ulf added. The Blades began clapping and whistling.

  “You can all fuck off, thank you very much,” Eric growled. He dropped his gym bag and started moving toward his locker. “Let’s get it the hell out of here.”

  “Dude, no!” Thad stepped in front of him. “I think we should keep it.”

  “What the hell for?” Eric scowled.

  “Maybe it’ll bring good luck,” said Ulf. “At any rate, she sure is fun to look at.” He moved his hips suggestively as he slithered toward the cutout, putting his mouth on cardboard Monica’s for a long, long time. “Mmm-mmm good.”

  Eric fought the urge to punch him in the face, even though he had no right to; she wasn’t his girlfriend anymore. Besides, this was a cardboard cutout. “I don’t want to see it,” he declared emphatically, sizing up the locker room. “There’s no room in here for it, anyway.”

  “We can put it out in the hall, right outside the locker room,” Thad suggested. “A good luck charm for all of us. All those in favor say aye.”

  “Aye,” said everyone but Eric and Jason. Eric shot his brother a grateful look for siding with him. Jason nodded curtly and began lacing up his skates.

  “It’s decided, then,” said Barry. “Monica Geary will assume an honorary position—”

  “You mean a missionary position?” Ulf interrupted with a smirk as the other Blades catcalled.

  “—outside the locker room door.” Barry picked up the cutout by its neck. “May I?” he said to Eric.

  “Knock yourself out, asshole,” Eric muttered. Any excitement he’d felt about playing had evaporated in a puff of mortification. It was time to get out of his head and start channeling all his frustration and disappointment over failing to win Monica back into playing his guts out. He avoided looking at cardboard Monica as he trooped out of the locker room with his teammates.

  That night, the Blades won 4-2 against Philly. Eric was all over the ice, scoring once on a slapper from the point and assisting on two power play goals. His teammates were ecstatic. Ty slapped him on the back when the game ended, and Michael Dante gave him a hug when they got back to the locker room.

  “Cardboard Monica brought your mojo back,” Ulf proclaimed. “We definitely have to keep her around.”

  How could Eric argue? He reluctantly nodded his assent as he headed for the shower. But he couldn’t help thinking his play would have been even better had flesh-and-blood Monica been there. Talk about sending him a clear message. He showered, but rather than joining his buddies for a postgame, celebratory drink at Fuzzy’s, he headed straight home to lick his wounds. The day after tomorrow the Blades were leaving for a road trip, and he was glad, since everything he saw reminded him of Monica. He flicked on the TV, surfed, nodded off. Some bachelor life.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “I’m just going to say this straight out,” Christian declared solemnly. “Next Friday is going to be your last day on W and F.”

  Monica kept her expression neutral as she sat down on the giant couch in Christian’s office, the one he probably screwed Chesty on daily. She thought she was going to be called on the carpet about her attitude and for challenging him in front of the cast and crew. She never thought she’d be fired. Monica blinked hard as a gash opened up in her chest out of which stunned incredulity poured.

  She held her head high. “May I ask why?”

  “We’re taking the show in a younger, hipper direction. The character of Roxie simply doesn’t fit into that.”

  “I see.” Monica pressed her lips together hard, a dam against the torrent of expletives threatening to gush from her mouth. “And may I ask how Roxie is going to be written off?”

  “She’s going to be killed by a zombie on next Friday’s show.”

  “I see,” Monica repeated.

  “I know this must come as a shock to you,” said Christian, who was a worse actor than Chesty. The sympathy on his face was about as real as Chesty’s boobs.

  “It is.”

  “We will, of course, buy you out
of your contract and pay you accordingly.”

  Don’t expect me to say thank you, you spiteful little prick. Legally that’s what you’re bound to do, unless you want me to sue your pudgy little ass.

  “And of course we’ll throw you a huge going-away party after we finish shooting for the day.”

  “That’s so sweet of you,” Monica replied with just the slightest tinge of sarcasm coloring her voice.

  “Well, you are beloved by some of the cast and crew.”

  Some. Screw you and the horse you rode into town on, mister. You are so going to regret this.

  Christian stood. “That’s it. Thank you for all the hard work and dedication you’ve demonstrated over the years.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  He came out from behind the desk to open the door for her. “I know you’ll flourish wherever it is you wind up.”

  “That goes without saying,” Monica said with a false smile as she breezed past him. Her pace quickened as she headed for her dressing room. Chesty passed her in the hall, her pouty pink mouth sporting a tiny smirk. She knew. The little bitch already knew.

  Monica fought the urge to follow her, burst into Christian’s office, and yell, “How dare you tell this stupid little tart before me?!” Oh, she could picture the genesis of her fate: Chesty breathlessly urging the king of the Munchkins on as she gave him head, encouraging him to tell the writers to write Monica off the show; Chesty covering his lumpy little face in kisses when he brought her the news that he’d fulfilled her wish. It was disgusting. Disgusting, corrupt, and unfair.

  Monica steamed toward her dressing room, struggling not to slam the door. She closed it with quiet dignity before locking it. And then she sat down on the couch and cried her eyes out.

  “He’s been gunning for you ever since you turned down his offer for nooky,” Gloria said as she bit into a piece of rare rib eye steak, following it with a sip of her Johnny Walker. At Gloria’s urging, Monica had joined her soon-to-be ex-costar for a meal at the Old Homestead Steakhouse, the oldest in New York. Gloria claimed that apart from mindless sex, nothing assuaged devastation better than a good hunk of meat washed down with strong booze. Monica wasn’t sure she agreed, but she wasn’t complaining. She was getting a nice buzz off her martini.