Power Play (18 page)

He could feel her tense slightly against him. “What's that?”

“I need you to come to the next home game.”

“What for?” Monica asked suspiciously.

“It's an experiment.”

She brushed her own fallen bangs from her eyes, the better to eye him. “What kind of experiment?”

Eric hesitated. “I need to see if your being there brought me good luck.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm not.” He looked at her earnestly. “How can I explain this without sounding nuts?” he mused aloud. “Hockey players have rituals, little things they do to protect themselves. For example: One guy on my team has to puke before a game or it's bad luck for him. Another guy has to kiss a picture of Giselle Bunchen. My brother brought his dog to Met Gar when the Blades were in the running for the Cup two years ago, and it brought them luck. They won.”

“Because of a
dog
?”

“It helped,” Eric insisted.

“What about you?” Monica asked. “Do you have any personal rituals?”

“I have to, uh, put my socks on in a certain order. My pads, too. And I have this cross my mom gave me that I have to kiss.”

He waited for her to start mocking him, but she didn't. “Actors have certain superstitions, too,” she shared with him. “Like, you never say ‘Good luck' to someone before they perform; you always say ‘Break a leg.' And you never say the title
Macbeth
aloud; you call it ‘The Scottish Play' or it's bad luck.”

Her admission made Eric feel much better. “What about rituals? Do you have any?”

Monica thought. “I always read the
Daily News
while I'm in makeup and hair. Does that count?”

“I'd say so.”

“You think you did well on the ice tonight because I was there?”

Eric thought he detected a note of pleasure in her voice.

“That's what I need to find out.”

“You did do well, right?” Monica asked uncertainly.

Disappointment tackled him. “Yeah. I mean, you couldn't tell?”

“I told you, Eric: I know as much about hockey as you know about acting.”

“I could explain it to you sometime, if you want.”

“That would be nice,” Monica murmured noncommitally. Eric wasn't sure he agreed. He could imagine her eyes rolling up in her head from boredom, begging him to shut up.

“So, what if I come to another game, and you do great? Does that mean you'll want me to come to every home game?”

“If you can,” Eric admitted. A thought occurred to him: if Monica was his good luck charm, it meant they'd have to keep their ruse going through the whole season. That was a long time, much longer than he imagined this thing going.

“I can't,” Monica said without hesitation. “It's after eleven right now. Do you know what time I have to be at work tomorrow? Five thirty in the morning. I can't come to games two or three nights a week! I have lines to learn! I need to get some sleep!”

“Okay, one game a week,” Eric begged. “Just one. And it's not like we're home every week! We go on the road.”

Monica sighed. “Let me think about this. It's asking a lot. Seriously.”

“Do you want this thing to look real or not?”

“Oh, please. This has nothing to do with faux us and everything to do with real you.”

“I'll pay you.”

Monica's hands flew to cover her ears. “Stop! You're getting pitiful! I can't stand it!”

Eric pulled one hand away with a force akin to that of when he'd grabbed her in his old bedroom. They both felt it: the shock of hard contact, the sparks. “You don't understand, Monica. This is my first year as a Blade. They traded a beloved player for me, which means I was supposed to come out of the starting gate dazzling the shit out of everyone. But the exact opposite happened: I've sucked from the minute I hit the ice—until tonight. Tonight was the first time I could feel all my teammates and the coaches thinking, ‘Yeah, this guy was worth the trade.' It was the first time since the season started that
I
felt worth the trade.” He hesitated. “Maybe your being there inspired me—just a little,” he added quickly. “But I really need you to help me out here. Please. One more game.” He slowly let go of her hand, the heat fading from where they'd been touching.

“Fine,” Monica said quietly. “One more game. But I need to leave as soon as the game is over so I get home at a decent hour. No waiting for you to shower and then hanging with the guys awhile or anything like that.”

“I promise you can rush right out of there as soon as the final buzzer sounds.” He took her hand. “I really appreciate you helping me out like this,” he murmured, lifting it to his mouth and kissing it tenderly. He saw the swoon in Monica's eyes, quickly followed by a look of minor desolation. She was falling for him; it was obvious. He lowered her hand, regretting this kiss, because it made him look like he was playing her, the way he'd done with so many women before her in order to get what he wanted. He wanted to tell her that his gratitude was real, that he wasn't just turning on the charm, but the words stuck in his throat.
I don't know how to do this,
he thought miserably.
I don't know how to be the one made vulnerable by the truth.

“That's what friends do for each other: they help out,” said Monica, looking out the window. “Which is why you're coming to a party with me Saturday night.”

“What kind of party?” Eric loved parties, because—well, strike that. He usually loved them because they were filled with hot babes and he had his pick.

“An actor party,” said Monica, still looking out the window. “One of my old classmates from Julliard is holding a little reunion. I haven't seen her in a while, so I thought it might be fun to go.”

“We'd be going as a couple, right?”

Monica turned back to him. “Of course we are. Why wouldn't we?” There was a note of panic in her voice.

“The reason I asked,” Eric replied calmly, “is that when you invited me a few seconds back, you said, ‘Friends help each other out.' So I just wanted to be sure of my role before going in. Whether I'm going as a friend or—a lover.”

“I need us to keep pretending,” said Monica, skirting the word
lover
entirely. “Most of my friends are married now, or at least have partners. The last time I went to a party solo, I could see the ‘Poor Monica, still alone' in their eyes.”

“Don't worry,” said Eric. “We'll blow them away when they see how in love we are.”

Monica slowly broke into a confident smile. “We will, won't we?”

FOURTEEN

Eric had been to a lot of upscale parties since he'd moved east, and this ranked with the best of them. It was held in a loft that seemed the size of the ground floor of Macy's. The loft, owned by Monica's old buddy from Juilliard, Desiree, and her husband, Raymond, was fashionably spare, with lots of original art hanging on the walls and a minimum of furniture, which explained why most of the guests stood rather than sat, talking in small groups. Three waiters circled the room with trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. In one corner, a short woman in a glittering green dress tickled the keys of a white baby grand piano.

Eric did a quick scan of the crowd, his old habit of assessing women hardwired into him. It was a mixed bag: some were drop-dead gorgeous; some he could never imagine trying to pick up in a million years. None held a candle to Monica.

The partygoers were a mixed bag, too. There were lots of people whose simple but tasteful attire subtly signified wealth, and others who looked a little down-at-the-heel. Eric assumed they might be struggling actors, but this was New York, so you never knew. They could deliberately be cultivating that New York boho thing.

A waiter approached him and Monica, and they each took a glass of champagne.

“Which one is your friend?” Eric asked.

Monica indicated an Amazonian redhead about thirty feet away dressed entirely in white, the biceps of her tan arms so cut they indicated hours spent at the gym. Her lips seemed to be moving—kind of—and her eyebrows were frozen in place. Botox. She had to be, what, thirty? Eric supposed he could understand it, being good-looking himself. But she still seemed a little young to be injecting her face with botulism, or whatever the hell it was.

He pressed a hand to the small of Monica's back. “Do you want to go over and say hi?”

Monica hesitated, looking uneasy. “She looks a little busy right now. Let's wait a few minutes.” Eric got the sense that Monica was somewhat wary of Desiree. He was glad to see her uneasiness fade when a scruffy-looking guy with John Lennon specs and a day's worth of stubble on his face waved to her, motioning for her to come join him on one of the few couches in the room. Monica grinned. “There's someone I'd like to talk to.”

His hand still on her back, Eric helped maneuver her through the crowd toward him.

“Monica!” The scruffy guy bounded off the couch, drawing Monica into a tight embrace. “It's so great to see you!”

“You, too, John.” Monica turned to Eric. “Eric, I want you to meet my old friend, John. John, this is my boyfriend, Eric.”

John shook Eric's hand warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

“John blew everyone away when we were at Julliard. We all envied him.”

John frowned. “Yeah, that's why I'm still waiting tables.”

Monica reached for his hand, squeezing it. “It'll happen. It will. You just have to have faith.”

“Yeah, well . . .” John didn't look too sure about that.

“Are you still auditioning? Doing showcases?”

“All the time.” John seemed self-conscious as he gazed down at his feet. “You know what it's like. For some people, it happens, and for some it doesn't. After ten years, I'm starting to think it's time to throw in the towel.” He smiled at her sadly. “At least it happened for you. God knows you deserved it.”

John and Monica weren't chatting very long before John turned to Eric and said, “I'm so sorry; I'm being totally rude. Tell me about you.”

“I play defense for the New York Blades.”

“No way,”
said John, impressed. He nudged Monica in the ribs playfully. “About time you hooked up with someone manly. Monica here was renowned for hooking up with these skinny, pasty losers—”

“He knows all about that, John, thank you very much.”

John chuckled. “Sorry. Anyway,” he said to Eric, “a pro athlete? That's totally cool.”

“Hey, if you ever want me to hook you up with tickets, just tell Monica.”

“Thanks, man,” John said, wide-eyed with unabashed gratitude. He gave Monica's shoulder a little shake in an unmistakable sign of approval.

Monica gave an uncomfortable little cough. She turned her faux adoring gaze on Eric. Which, he thought, might not be so faux anymore. But now wasn't the time to think about that.

John gestured toward Desiree. “I think she wants to talk to you.”

Monica hugged her friend. “It was great seeing you, John. I've told you a million times;
call me
.”

“I know, I know,” John muttered sheepishly. “I just worry about bothering you, big-time busy actress and all that.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Monica chided. “I'm still just me.”

“Thank God.” John extended his hand to Eric again. “It was really great to meet you.”

“You, too.” Eric slipped his free hand into Monica's. “Nice guy,” he murmured to her as they walked across the loft to talk to Monica's friend Desiree.

He could feel something surge through Monica as she held his hand tightly: Happiness? Pleasure at making a connection with an old friend? Pleasure that they were holding hands? Whatever it was, he was glad she felt it.

 

“Monnie, Monica, Monniemoo!”

With over-the-top glee, Monica's old friend Desiree, threw her tanned arms open wide and embraced Monica, kissing both her cheeks.

“Good to see you, Desiree,” said Monica.

“You, too, sweetie pie. I'm
soo
glad you could come.”

Monica looked a little shell-shocked as Desiree released her from their embrace. Monica's eyes gripped Eric's apologetically.

Finished with her effusive greeting, Desiree pursed her lips as best she could, turning her attention on Eric. “You must be the boyfriend.”

“I must be,” Eric replied. Monica shot him a sharp look.

“Hockey player, right?”

“Yup. New York Blades.”

“See,” Desiree said to Monica, “I keep up with all the
star
gossip.” The sarcastic way she said
star
irked Eric immediately. She flashed Eric a patronizing smile—at least he thought it was a smile; it was hard to tell with her frozen face. “You have to forgive me, but I've never understood the appeal of sports. It's so—violent. And it just seems so silly.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eric replied. “It's not an important profession like acting.”

Desiree inhaled sharply, looking mildly stunned before launching into a tinkling little laugh as she waved a palm in the air. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it.”

Monica drew closer to Eric and gripped him tightly at his waist but not before digging her nails into his side. Eric ignored it as he put a protective arm around her shoulder. If Monica thought he was going to let this pretentious phony insult her, then she hadn't learned a thing about him.