Page 73 of Choke

“The guys next to us are insane; I think he gave me a concussion, shaking me around.”

“I didn’t realize how different the energy would be here. It’s unbelievable.”

We order our drinks and food and head back to our seats. By the time we get there, the arena will be quieter, and we will be able to carry on a conversation at a reasonable volume instead of screaming at each other.

“When you gonna bring a girl to this shit?” He asks.

“Dad, I have no interest in bringing a girl to this shit. It’s our thing, and I look forward to it every year. Plus, a girl would complain the whole time.”

Since school finished, he’s been on my case about getting a girlfriend, reminding me every chance he gets that he wants a granddaughter, and I’ll be the one to give it to him. However, I’m twenty years old, and a wife and kids aren’t remotely something I am interested in.

He continues to laugh, shaking his head, and his hand returns to his chest. That’s the third or fourth time he’s rubbed his chest.

“Are you alright?” I ask him, my brows pushing together with concern.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. The beer and greasy food gave me some indigestion, but I’m fine.” He replies before continuing, “You know, it’s your responsibility as a man to show your woman new things, to introduce her to things she’s never seen or tried, and to ensure she knows exactly where she’s supposed to be.”

He sets his half-eaten hot dog down on the floor, motioning that he’s done with it. The conversation is so serious for such an arena—a loud, packed NHL playoff game. I haven’t had a girlfriend since Claire…I haven’t thought about her in years.

I am lost in thought for too long, and before I know it, we are entering the third period, and my beer is bone dry.

“Dad, I’m gonna get another beer—you want one?”

He shakes his head at me without taking his eyes off the ice, and I rise and jog to the concession, which is blissfully empty of any other customers. Smart people got a beer before the period started, and I’m jogging back down to our seats within a few minutes. As I near oursection, something is off—the arena is silent—and it stops me in my tracks as I scan the seats and ice to figure out what’s happening; even the players are still, all staring toward the lower part of our section.

The crowd is all on their feet, whispering to each other, and I am so confused.

What the fuck is going on?

When I arrive at our row, I see someone in weird clothes, no jersey, no beer, leaning over, and I…

Where is my dad?

I reach the guy that’s seated beside us and grab his arm, spinning him to face me.

“Where’s my dad?”

His face is somber, and he shifts nervously. He’s obviously drunk and doesn’t know what’s happening, so I shove him away and push forward. The closer I get to the person in weird clothes, the quieter it gets, and I see shoes on the ground.

My dad has those shoes.

I grab for the person in strange clothes, shake him, and he yells at me to get back. A voice screams, “Where is my dad?” but it can’t be my voice, right? I don’t recognize that voice. That voice is cracking and breaking, and it sounds like a kid, but that’s not how I sound. Right?

The ground rushes up, and I’m on my ass on cold pavement.

“I can’t find my dad…” The voice says.

Stretcher.

Ambulance.

Sirens.

Silence.

???

My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and I claw at it before I realize that I was dreaming. Sitting up and leaning against the wall, I rub the center of my chest, where the pain lingers.

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