Page 55 of Choke

“Liberty, you better wipe that shitty fucking look off your face and get in the game.” He barks.

Captain Ronan Pierce.

I look around him at the two guys who are no longer facing our direction.

“The game hasn’t started.” I grit out.

He shoves me hard into the bench. I collide with… someone… and drop into a seat. I glare at him as he lowers to sit beside me.

“Do not make me regret helping you get those tickets, man. Focus on the game.” He warns.

A hand on my jaw snaps my attention to the left. Cally reaches across a couple of the guys to gently swipe his hand down my face.

“Yeah, puddin’.” He goads. “Don’t be sad.”

They all laugh, and I stare at the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds.

Three.

Two.

I’m on my feet, reaching for the door to the ice, ripping it open when the coach signals for a change.

One.

I charge onto the ice. The sensation of my legs propelling me forward feels like a drug. The puck is with a forward in a forest green jersey featuring a large Sasquatch on the front. Slap-happy Sasquatches. These names are utterly ridiculous. I take the puck from the opposing team and pass it to Ronan, who sends it sailing into the upper right corner of the net.

We navigate through the first two periods, and I mostly forget about the two guys in her seats. I love this game. I hate social media, but I love the game. Every goal ignites a roar of cheers. In a charity game for a beer league team, there are no team-specific fans; the crowd is a blend of both jerseys. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the second period, and we head to the changing room.

On the bench, my thoughts drift back to Lex, to the tickets I left for her, and the two fucking numskulls using them. I am deep in thought when a towel hits me in the face; looking up, I see the beat red face of the coach.

“Adrian fucking Liberty. If it wouldn’t be too goddamn much, might you grace us with an iota of your attention?” He booms. “Or do you plan to keep eye fucking those guys next to the bench for the rest of the game?”

Okay, relax.

Since I can’t say that, I mumble, “No, coach.”

“No, what?” He sounds like he’s on the verge of a stroke.

Someone tell this man it’s a fucking beer league charity game.

“No, I do not plan on eye fucking the guys next to the bench.”

From the other side of the room, Cally calls out. “Yeah, he just plans on for real fucking Polka-Roo!”

The room fills with laughter, and the coach screams at us to shut up and get our heads in the game.We’re up 3-1. I’m not sure why he’s so stressed, but cool.

We all rise, heading back for the ice.

Ronan pushes up to walk just behind me. “You’re a fucking weapon out there, man.”

“You complaining?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Nah, man — just don’t do anything that will pull Officer Cally off the roster.” He looks over his shoulder, laughing, but as we reach the bench, he stills, his energy changing.

“Shit…” I hear him say under his breath.

Turning, I follow his gaze and see her going up the stairs toward the nosebleeds. She’s with the girl from the club, who is again wearing a tiny dress that is inappropriate for a cold arena, leaving her thighs bare. She’s covered her short dress with one of our home jerseys; it’s white with a beaver on the front. I don’t even check who the name belongs to on the back.

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