Page 7 of Choke

That cocky tone and his stupid haircut.

Where the fuck have I met this guy?

As I search the archives of my brain, the man in front of me pushes back his chair to turn around. The unexpected movement means I don’t have time to think before reacting, and the chair slams into my legs, knocking me backward and into the server, who is bringing another round of drinks to the table.

She stumbles, flailing in a desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. The tray, full of drinks, flies out of her hands and toward the men’s table, hitting one man directly. Drinks cascade across the table’s left side, soaking three men in a rainbow of liquids. The others’ reaction is instantaneous.

The stupid haircut guy screams,“OPAH!”at the top of his lungs before letting out a full belly laugh.

His friends follow suit, most slamming their hands against the table like a drum. Before I can say a word, the volume of the table hits its absolute peak of the entire lunch hour.

My shoulders are around my ears, and my hands are in a defensive pose. My cheeks don’t just heat; they incinerate.

Holy fuck, I might just die from embarrassment.

I back away, hoping to slip out and sprint back to my office, when I make eye contact with the man seated before me—warm brown eyes that I haven’t seen in five years.

Familiar brown eyes.

The weight of recognition slams into me, stealing my breath. The years haven’t changed him much—If anything, the years may have made him larger. Despite wearing a hockey jersey, I can see his thick, muscular arms, now covered in tattoos. They harden him somehow, making him appear more dangerous and darker. I swallow hard. It’s been years, and the emotions that hit me confound me: a mix of excitement and fear. I have no reason to feel either. Our encounter wasfleeting, but something about him, his presence, and how he carries himself left a mark. I quickly scan my brain, trying to recall if he told me where he was from or if I saw where he was from when I went looking for him online. I draw a blank.

It can’t be him.

His hand hits the back of the chair, signaling that he’s planning to stand, and my stomach plummets.

No, no fucking way.I am not doing this today.

I turn and sprint toward the door. The table dissolves into laughter once again.

My cheeks burn hotter as I hear one of them say, “Hey, Libby, isn’t that the chick you fell in love with after our tournament a few years ago?”

What…in the actual fuck?

Adrian

I am still sitting, legs tense, hand on the back of the chair.

I can’t believe it.

Five years later, and she’s here.

She’s not supposed to be real—at least, not anymore. She’s supposed to be an idea, a what-if, something I can laugh about over beers with the guys. Not someone I’d actually run into again. She has become an urban legend among the team.

If Ronan hadn’t been there to meet her that night, I swear they would have named her Polka-Roo and claimed she was entirely fictional. Half of the team is wearing our round of drinks. They shrug off their jerseys, laughing as they use napkins to wipe up the mess. I chuckle a little as I absorb what just happened. What a perfect shitstorm.

“Hey Libby,” Ronan calls across the table, “isn’t that the chick you fell in love with after our tournament a few years ago?” She is still within earshot when he yells at me, and I see her flinch, pausing forhalf a second. The smile falls from my face, and I glare at him, and he laughs. Cally, who is beside Ronan, snaps to attention.

“That is her?! She is a real person. I thought she was someone you made up to stave off the puck bunnies! Not at all the caliber of woman I have come to expect from you, Lib.”

Before I can change the topic, the entire table talks about her.

Ronan, ever the piece of shit, focuses on her looks and body. He has maintained that she was not my type since that night. If we ever saw her again—and I never thought we would—I was sure he’d laugh, claim she was some fever-dream nightmare, and insist he had exaggerated her into some swamp creature to justify his bruised ego.

“She’s too tall. Too lanky.” He laughs.

“Yeah, and what’s with the tattoos?” Another one of the guys chimes in.

My chest and jaw tighten as I grab my drink and slam it back, hoping the burn will take the edge off. The discussion continues around me. I try to get our server’s attention to request a refill. This is not how I expected my Monday lunch hour to go: half drunk and reeling over what happened.

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