Page 56 of Choke

All I can see is Lex.

The sounds of the game cut out. The chants, the whistles, the sharp scrape of skates on ice—silent. She’s walking up the stairs. The Sasquatch-green jersey drapes against her thighs, but the name on the back sends white-hot fury licking up my spine.

Grizzly.

Greg fucking Grizzly.

Their Team Captain.

What. The. Fuck?

My eyes shift to their bench. To Greg the Grizzly — a stupid fucking nickname that was gifted to this douchebag by social media. He’s talking to his teammates, but his eyes are on her. He gestures toward her, and like fucking clockwork, heads turn.

Watching.

Watching Lex.

Watching what’s mine.

Fuck the game.

Fuck the score.

I’m going to jail tonight.

Lex

“Don’t look now, but I think we’ve been spotted.” Rosie’s tone is way too excited for what she whispers in my ear.

I shift, turning to glance over my shoulder at the team benches. We’re so damn high, but it doesn’t matter; I can see the eyes glued to us. One side is white, the other green. The green side is clearly smiling and laughing with each other, pointing at us. If it were just them, I’d definitely be thrilled. However, the other side doesn’t just stare at us; they glare. Their eyes shift from us to the other team and back.

Rosie bounces beside me, lifting her hand to wave back and forth before blowing kisses toward them. I grab her hands.

“Stop!” I urge.

She doesn’t understand how fucked up this whole situation is.

“Oh, relax, Lex! Look at them! They love us!”

I grab her hand and pull her the rest of the way to our seats, desperate to sit down and hide behind the rest of the crowd. Rosie grumbles, not wanting to block their view. From our seats, I can see Adrian on the bench. He’s facing the other team, and his arms are moving as he yells. Without looking away, I tug on Rosie’s jersey.

“Rose, look at him.”

She looks back and forth before spotting what I’m referring to, letting out another squeal.

“He’s so mad! I told you this sport is intense!”

“I say this with nothing but love,” I turn to face her as I speak. “You need therapy.”

Rosie leans into me as she laughs, her laughter bringing a smirk to my face. She’s always so upbeat and carefree. The buzzer sounds, and the third period begins. I cuddle into Rosie to keep warm, trying my best to focus on the game. The score is 3-1 for the Beavers, and the other team seems to be pushing harder. The players collide more frequently, sending gloves and sticks flying around the ice. I do mybest to avoid the bench, to avoid looking toward Adrian. My skin crawls as if covered in ants. I know he’s watching us.

A foghorn startles me, and I realize I must have been daydreaming—perhaps about a warmer place. I see the score change to 3-2 as Rosie leaps from her seat, screaming with joy. She hoots and claps with those around us while I remain seated, enjoying the barrier their bodies create around me. As she settles back down, she slaps my leg.

“Ooh! #55 is back on the ice!”

Her neon pink nails glow as she gestures toward the ice. Adrian moves slowly, seeming lazy and disinterested, which feels out of place. The action swirls around him, but his gaze is fixed on our section as he glides forward, one skate after the other. A slow burn of adrenaline spreads through me, my pulse thrumming in response. He doesn’t notice the puck soar past him, and I see another player on the team throw their arms up in frustration.

Gradually, his gloved hand lifts—what is he doing?

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