Page 3 of Choke

Warm and comforting, nostalgic.

I see what we could have been if I hadn’t so royally fucked everything up. Movies, walks, marriage, kids, and slow dancing in our home. It feels so real—as if she’s standing right in front of me, a sea offlames behind her. She doesn’t seem to notice them; her expression is relaxed and calm. I reach out—if I could touch her one more time and tell her I’m sorry, maybe this could be okay. I haven’t finished here, but I can accept the outcome if I can just tell her how fucking sorry I am.

Her head tilts slightly, her eyes sparkling as a wide smile spreads across her face. It’s magic and my heart stutters.

Finally.

Yeah…it was worth it.

Great Game

Adrian

5 years ago

Heavy bass vibrates through my chest. The speakers are old and blown out, and the opening riff of“Welcome to the Jungle”screeches through them, sharp and tinny like nails dragged down a chalkboard. I swirl my beer around—nothing has ever looked less appealing. Somewhere behind me, I hear a loud, high-pitched laugh. It sounds fake, as if the woman laughing is trying hard to appear amused. It’s so noisy that perhaps that’s why the firm hand landing on my back startles me, making my body tense instinctively. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has come looking for trouble after a game, and honestly, I wouldn’t mind letting off a little steam tonight. The bar is packed with people from the arena, a sea of jerseys, and I’ve learned not to expect much from strangers in a place like this. I spin on my heels, tension ripples through me, and my fists curl out of habit.

“Libby, man, you played brilliantly tonight!”

A minor disappointment tempers my pleasure; I had hoped for something different, but I still manage to plaster a broad smile on my face.

“Thanks.” I pause. I recognize the guy before me, but his name is missing from my memory.

“Jake… White,” He offers. “We met at Jen’s birthday thing a few months ago.”

He continues, offering details of that night. It’s pointless. I don’t remember Jen’s party or meeting him.

I nod thanks and mumble the typical bullshit we’re encouraged to spit out: a team effort, we had a goal, we worked hard, and we’re happy with the outcome. I still can’t believe the attention this beer league hockey tournament gets. When I was a kid, this was where the old boys went to reminisce about the good old days—the days that never were. Thanks to social media and our goalie’s wife’s videos, we’re “viral,” and our quiet beer league hockey draws a considerable crowd and brand sponsors.

I rejected it outright when the team brought it up. I can’t stand social media - the endless highlight reels and fake smiles, curated lives that mean nothing. I don’t understand how people have the time or energy to maintain that presence. Don’t even get me started on the character of people who waste all their time on those platforms, putting on a show for people they’ll never meet. I don’t see the appeal of making yourself vulnerable to an audience that doesn’t give a shit about you. And now, somehow, I’m part of it.

“Adrian?” the guy in front of me asks.

Guess I tuned him out.

“Sorry, bro, pretty gassed after today. Did you say something?” I say, scrubbing a hand over the scruff that seems more like ten o’clock than five.

“What’s next for the team? Seems like you guys have completely changed beer league hockey. You’re famous!”

He touches my shoulder again. I look at his hand, and he realizes what I’m thinking, quickly taking it away. He mumbles something about next year and promises to see me back home, then rushes into the crowd. Relieved, I turn back toward the bar. My half-drank beer looks flat, free from the bubbles that signify effervescence. Groaning, I narrow my eyes and silently curse… Jason? John? Whatever the fuck his name was, he wasted my beer. For a moment, I contemplate going after him. Wouldn’t a fight be justified? With my forearms on the bar, I let my head hang between my shoulders and get lost in my thoughts.

How the hell did I end up here?

The bar is seedy, dirty, and thick with smoke, and I’m taken aback when a warm, sweet scent hits my nose. This scent isn’t onlysurprising, it’s completely improbable: warm, sweet, almost nostalgic. Vanilla, with something faintly like Christmas morning. The kind of scent that evokes a time when the world felt less heavy. I turn and scan the bar, trying to locate the source of the out-of-place scent, but Ronan catches my attention. There are two women on either side of him, and I can’t help but laugh—there are always women around him. A third woman stands in front of him, her back to me.

“Liberty!” He screams across the bar. “Get over here, man!”

The last thing I’m interested in tonight is desperate women whose partners don’t pay them enough attention. Still, he has a habit of getting into situations requiring adult supervision. I push off the bar and slowly make my way to him; my boots stick to the floor, tacky with spilled booze. As I get closer and get a better look at the girls on either side of him, I decide he might not be the one needing adult supervision. I’m shocked these girls are in the bar at all. They appear to be about a decade younger than us, around 18 years old.

One of my eyebrows shoots up, and I glare at Ronan.

“Man, what’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light enough that only he will know where my thought process is going.

He winks at me.

Here we fucking go.

“This,” he spits, pointing at the blonde on his left. “Is Amandaaaa.” He drags the name out like it’s supposed to sound exotic.

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