Page 53 of Choke

I hate beer.

She pulls a ticket out of her pocket, reads it, and groans. Her full lips tilt down into a pout.

“I can’t believe you traded your tickets for these.”

I’m surprised she doesn’t stomp her feet like a toddler.

“Two tickets magically show up in my recently burgled condo. Do you think it’s a good idea to use them?”

She says nothing as we walk up the stairs to the 300-level seating. I had traded one of the temps at work for his two tickets. He was too willing to swap when he saw our rink-side seats next to the players’bench. My stomach bottoms out as we reach our row. I hate heights. I grip the railing, suddenly lightheaded. This is too high up.

“This place is massive…” I murmur, leaning into Rosie.

She spins around suddenly, bumping my beer and spilling half of it on the ground.

“Ah! Sorry, girl, that’s alcohol abuse.” She jokes.

Thank god—less for me to choke down.

We’re taking our seats when she continues.

“This is the arena for the NHL team, but these beer league teams are drawing insane crowds, and the pro team is on the road this week.”

That makes sense. The place is nearly full. The game is to raise money and teddy bears for the local children’s hospital; these events always draw a huge crowd. Add in theBushy Beavers’ infamy, thanks to TikTok and Instagram, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s sold out. The chair under me is hard and cold; consequently, my legs are rubbing together. The movement creates heat and friction, sending a pulse of electricity up my core. Just knowing he’s here fucks with my head.

The lights dim, and loud music starts to play. A siren sounds as spotlights and strobe lights kick on. I’ve never been to anything like this and have no idea what to expect. A deep voice sounds over the loudspeaker, announcing the entrance of theBushy Beavers. Rosie and I giggle at how absolutely idiotic the name is.

Welcome to the Jungleplays as the players are announced individually. Then, they skate onto the ice, forming a human chain, moving so fast. The crowd erupts in cheers as a group of players sinks onto one skate, their left foot straight in front of them, hooking the player ahead. One guy at the front pulls the chain, and they do what can only be described as an interpretive dance with their hockey sticks.

Leaning to Rosie without taking my eyes off of them, I ask. “What is happening here?”

She laughs, “They perform, duh! That’s how they went viral.”

I wrinkle my nose as they continue, eventually rising to their full height as many Beavers skate onto the ice. They are colossal mascotcostumes, with varying neon bikinis on. Around the bottoms, what looks like enormous pubes stick out.

Rosie and I groan and laugh, and flashes overcome the arena and screams erupt from the crowd.

This is so stupid.

Hilarious but stupid.

I spot him without looking. He is leaning against the door to their bench, helmet off. Rather than observing his teammates, his eyes are fixed on two guys who, from here, look to be the temp from work and his friend. Even from this height, I can see the tension in his jaw. He’s not watching his team. He’s watching them. When another player crashes into him, he shifts, scanning the arena. We’re so high, but I can see his ragged breaths—the way they punch through his chest. It looks animalistic, and I can’t stop the chill that runs through me.

I’m mesmerized, watching him as another player shoves him into the box, still breathing heavily and glaring at the seats I should be in. The sound of the buzzer startles me back to reality. The game is about to start, and Rosie squirms beside me, already fully invested. She leans toward me, not taking her eyes off the ice as the puck is dropped and the Beavers take possession of the puck.

“God, doesn’t this make you so hot?”

I scrunch my nose at the question because, no, it does not.

This makes me feel trapped. Caged.

The game is a flurry of rapid movements that I miss. My eyes are locked on Adrian, #55, on the bench. Other players poke at him and slap his helmet. I squint my eyes, trying to read his expression beneath his helmet, but it’s useless; we‘re too far. He stares straight ahead, leaning forward slightly, looking like a bomb waiting to detonate. The crowd cheers when a goal is scored, and I drag my eyes away from him to the players on the ice. They all move so fast, so much quicker than I realized.

Adrian’s huge presence grabs my attention as he enters the ice, towering over most other players. He moves with precision and control, similar to how he walks. The movements capture me, and I watch the puck pass back and forth. He intercepts it and explodesforward, racing toward the net. He weaves through players from the other team, his white jersey a flash among their green. The hit surprises me—I was so focused on him that I missed the other player ahead until Adrian slams into him. The entire arena flinches. It was violent.

Rosie winces, grabbing hold of me. “Oof—your boy doesn’t hold back.”

Her words spread warmth through my body.

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