Page 10 of Choke

“Sorry—I don’t know that guy,” He starts, but I cut him off.

“Hockey player,” I say, my laugh cold and humorless. “Your friend should’ve been a dead giveaway.”

His expression shifts—a flicker of surprise, something close to amusement… then irritation.

“Nice to meet you, Adrian,” I say as I walk away.

I make for the employee exit at the back. He doesn’t try to stop me right away, pausing as if I caught him off guard. With my back to him, all I need to do is work to walk a straight line. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I feel the energy shift, my chest tightens, and the overwhelming urge to run overcomes me. I reach out for the door and see how much I shake. As my fingers brush the door handle, I feel a slight sense of victory and relief and then hear him.

“Lex,”

His voice is lower, and there is an unmistakable growl in it.

Don’t slow down.

Don’t turn around.

When I hear the door slam closed behind me, I run. An all-out sprint for my little car, tucked into the back corner of the lot. My legs burn with the effort. I’ve been on my feet for nearly 10 hours. I’m exhausted. I also feel completely ridiculous. He didn’t say or do anything wrong, but my intuition set off alarm bells, and if I could fly to the moon to get farther away from him, I would.

I fumble for my keys, the tremors in my hands amplifying with each passing second. It feels like someone is behind me. When I finally get the doors unlocked and dive in, I slam down the lock and allow myself to scan the lot. It’s empty, save for a couple making out against the side of the building. I try to calm down and take centering breaths, but I won’t feel better until I am locked inside my apartment. I push my key into the ignition, and the engine roars to life. It makes me chuckle every time because it really does roar. The catalytic converter fell off a few weeks ago, and it sounds like a monster truck without it.

I smell the bar on my clothes and in my hair. I lift my arm to my nose to check how terrible the odor is, recoiling when all I can detect is that smoky scent that engulfed me when Adrian sat inches from my face.

Fine Fine

Adrian

Present Day

Ronan and I sit shoulder to shoulder in front of his laptop, staring at the screen filled with tiny, exhausted teammates. Last night ran late. We look like shit warmed over—and Wes might actually be dead. The celebration didn’t end with lunch, and I poured myself into bed after 2 a.m.

Brittney, the wife of our goalie and the team’s social media manager, is front and center, sharing her screen with the month’s social media schedule on display. She explains the different posts she wants us to create, ranging from team photos, game photos, and game schedules to the stupid videos solely responsible for catapulting our team to whatever you call the viral internet version of fame.

“I have a couple of books I am going to send with Dave. I’ve bookmarked a few lines for one of you to read to the group, and the rest of you will react.” She gets like this when she is excited about her idea.

This one falls flat. We all stare at the screen blankly except Wes, who appears unconscious while sitting up. I nudge Ronan.

“Look at Wes. Is he even breathing? He looks fucking green, man.” I whisper.

“Adrian, something to share with the class?” Brittney asks.

“If I wanted to share with the class, I would have said it louder, Brit.” I retort. Working to keep my tone playful. “I have a question, though. Why the fuck do you want us to read to each other? Who is going to watch that?”

God, I hate social media.

It’s a necessary evil, like taxes and Ronan’s opinions. I have an account because sponsors demand it, but no one has noticed that it has been private for years. If it didn’t raise red flags, I’d delete it entirely.

“I am so happy you asked that! Hockey romance novels are all the rage on social media right now. Has anyone among you ever done any reading?”

I was trying to be patient and friendly with this chick, but that snarky fucking comment pushes me past niceties. To avoid a retort that will inevitably leave me at odds with Dave - and he is a fucking weirdo loaner as it is - I sit back and seal my lips closed.

Ronan leans forward, clicks the button to mute our microphone, and turns our camera off.

“Makes sense that she is married to Dave. They are both fucking weird.” Ronan muses before facing me, “We going to talk about yesterday?”

“Talking’s not our thing. I met her five years ago and saw her yesterday. End of story.”

I do not want to get into this with the person with the least character depth in my life.

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