Power Play by Deirdre Martin Page B

entertainment section of the paper as soon as he got home. There, among pictures of other luminaries, was a picture of Monica and him from the night before, posing on the steps on the way into the Metropolitan Museum. He stared, amazed and pleased at how goddamn great they looked together. Forget Brangelina: he and Monica resembled a jaw-dropping vision of blondness that had come down from the heavens to give mortals the pleasure of looking upon them. It was unbelievable.
    He was on a bit of a roll, PR wise. Tomorrow, an interview he’d done with New York magazine would hit the stands. He’d made sure to talk about how thrilled he was to be traded to the Blades, since they were the best team in the NHL. He’d made a point of saying he hoped he could follow in Guy Le Temp’s footsteps and continually improve as a defenseman. In short, he’d said all the right things.
    As if attention from print media wasn’t enough, his cameo on W and F would be airing this week, and he had every intention of watching it with his teammates. He knew he’d be able to deftly handle any ribbing that came his way, and in fact welcomed it. Eric liked a challenge, both on the ice and off.
    The lines switched, and six more players hit the ice. Eric felt a bump to his right shoulder and turned to see Barry Fontaine sliding down on the bench to sit beside him, helmet in one hand as he raked the other through his tousled, sweaty hair.
    â€œMitchell.”
    â€œFontaine.”
    â€œI saw that picture of you and Monica Geary in the paper this morning.”
    Eric pretended to be concentrating hard on the ice, watching the drill. “Yeah?”
    â€œHow come you didn’t say anything about it to anyone?”
    Eric turned to him. “Because none of you putzes believed me when I told you we hit it off on the W and F set. I thought, Why even bother?”
    By now, he could tell everyone on the bench was tuning in to their exchange. All Barry had to say was “Monica Geary,” and the team was all ears.
    â€œWhere were you guys going, anyway?” Barry continued nonchalantly.
    â€œA dinner honoring James Dempsey.”
    â€œOh, man,” said Thad Meyers, seated two players away. “Was Chim Chim there?”
    â€œYup.”
    Ulf Torkelson, who up until now had been intermittently scowling at Eric as he sat on his left, turned to him, goggle-eyed. “You met Chim Chim?”
    â€œShook his hand and everything.”
    â€œLucky bastard.” He gave Eric a begrudging once-over. “I guess you can’t be all bad if Monica Geary likes you and you met Chim Chim.”
    Score!
    â€œSo, what is she like?” Ulf murmured, back to looking at Eric dubiously.
    â€œWho, Monica or Chim Chim?”
    Barry looked stricken. “Chim Chim’s not a girl, is he? I mean, Dempsey’s character always called him ‘My dear Mr. C,’ remember?”
    â€œSo?” Ulf snorted. “A female chimp could play a male part.”
    â€œChim Chim’s a guy,” Eric assured them. “He had a tux on.”
    â€œCool,” said Barry.
    â€œAs for Monica, she’s great. Great sense of humor.”
    There was a glint of envy in Ulf’s eye. “Are you guys seeing each other?”
    Eric shrugged. “I guess so. We’re having dinner on Thursday.”
    Admiration rippled up and down the bench. He was the man. He’d have to tell Monica that even though they’d only been out once, already his teammates were holding him in higher esteem. Their ploy was going to work like a charm, at least on his end.
    â€œYo, Mitcho.”
    Eric frowned upon hearing Lonnie Campbell call him by his nickname. His brother’s nickname was Mitchy, so he’d been saddled with Mitcho, which he hated. It sounded like one of those cheap gizmos peddled on late-night TV that always sold for just $19.99. Prevent stove splatters and stains with the amazing Mitcho! And if you