Page 20 of Choke

“Thanks, Jay. Again, Good riddance.”

Jay is quiet for a moment, long enough that I lift my eyes to see him still staring at me.

“Jay. What!” My tone conveys my irritation.

“Lex, something about that guy. He makes me uneasy. I don’t think that’s a good person—beyond just an annoying hockey bro. Something about him feels very off. I was going to throw the paper out, but that didn’t feel like it was my right to do.”

I’ve never seen him truly worried before. I take a deep breath. It’s not his fault that Adrian Liberty left an impression, for better or worse.

“Jay, don’t worry. I am not calling him. You didn’t give him my name, right?”

Jay nods enthusiastically.

“I will never see him again.” I hold my fingers up as if to suggest Scout’s honor.

Jay relaxes a little and lets me know he is going to search for more glassware to polish. When he is out of sight, I reach into my bag, pulling out the slip of crumpled paper. Jay’s warning should’ve been all the confirmation I needed to forget about the stranger with those intense eyes.

He’s just some guy—a stupid, cocky hockey player.

But curiosity has a way of ignoring logic. Instead, I pull out my cell phone and record his name, just in case. I put the paper on the bar.

When Jay returns, I push the paper toward him.

“Do me a favor and chuck this, please. I don’t need it.”

I return my focus to my laptop, hoping Jay doesn’t pick up on how my cheeks flush with the lie. I met him once, and he already has me lying to a kid who’s always treated me respectfully and kindly.

Great.

While Jay finishes setting up for the day, I grab my cell phone and Google search, Adrian Liberty Hockey. He was playing some level of hockey that had strangers approaching him to comment on games.

The first result is for the Bushy Beavers. I pause, rereading the name. Of course. Because a group of grown men playing beer league hockey wouldn’t settle for anything less than juvenile.

The link opens Instagram to the team page. I blanch when I see they have over a million followers. The bio on the page states they’re a Cup-Winning Beer League team.

Whatever the hell that means.

I look through a few posts. With the sound muted, it mostly looks like hockey players chatting with each other on the ice, but the comments suggest the content is humorous. Eventually, I come across a team photo. Each guy is wearing a white jersey with big beavers on the front, fluffy with fur. Bushy Beavers. I can’t help but snort a laugh.

Okay, it’s kind of funny.

The photo is tagged, and the caption calls out the roster of players.

I spot the teenage rapist first. His account has a decent following count and is filled with selfies. I return to the team photo, seeing him.

There’s no mistaking him.

My stomach flips.

Fuck.

I click the tag, and his account opens. It’s private. The profile photo is of a guy wearing hockey equipment on the ice. I would assume it’s him. There are a few hundred followers and a straightforward line for the bio.“Forward and Assistant Team Captain for the Bushy Beavers.”

My finger hovers over the follow button, but before I click it, I realize the access the action would give him. My profile is under my full name. Not Lex, but Alexandria Donnelly. I quickly close the app, as if being on his profile too long could relay that information.

He lives across the country.

I’ll never see him again.

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