Page 87 of Choke

The sun shines directly on my face, and I groan as I open my eyes. I hadn’t intended to sleep through the night, but the weekend was a lot to handle. I grab my phone from the nightstand, and the battery shows 3%. Perfect. I plug it in and decide to wander to the coffee shop around the corner instead of making one here. I’m off work until Tuesday, so I might as well enjoy the day. I don’t change my clothes; I grab my wallet and head out the door.

The coffee shop is bright and busy when I walk in, alive with the soft hum of conversation and the faint strum of an acoustic guitar playing through the speakers. The aroma of fresh croissants fills the air. This cafe is notorious for its fantastic cinnamon butter; the scent has my mouth watering. I glance at the clock on the wall; it’s just after 10 a.m. I start when a warm hand lands gently on my shoulder. Turning, I see the partially healed split on his lip first, then shift my gaze to his eyes. He smiles widely, the small cut pulling as Greg, the Team Captain of the Yetis, maybe, tries to hide his wince.

“Morning, Lex.”

His voice is calm, gentle, and very friendly.

“Greg!” The surprise over seeing him is thick in my voice.

He looks me up and down and laughs, his eyes crinkling. I’m taken by how handsome he is, but more importantly, by how light and easy he seems.

“You look like… well… you look like shit.”

The comment comes off as genuine and sweet, not unkind. I can’t help but laugh. I didn’t even look in a mirror before leaving the house, and I can only imagine how I must appear.

“I got in from Florida last night and passed out. I definitely feel as rough as I likely look. But thanks for that.”

“Well, let me buy your coffee. Looks like you could use some TLC this morning; plus, we didn’t get to say goodbye after the event.”

If he’s upset about this, he doesn’t show it. His eyes are kind, and I notice the small cut in his eyebrow, faded to almost nothing—so tiny that only someone who knew it was there would see it. He steps up next to me, orders an Americano and a cookie, and taps his card on the screen.

“Have time to grab a seat?”

“Actually, I am off all day. I think I can spare a few minutes for you.”

I welcome the distraction from thinking about Adrian, and we move into a booth near the front window. Greg animatedly talks about hockey and work. I nod and smile at the right moments but only catch pieces. The rest of me is trapped between last night and the note I crumpled in my fist. He takes me by surprise when he breaks his cookie in half and holds some out for me. I hesitate a moment before I reach out and take it from him.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

He chuckles and replies, “I wasn’t sure you’d take it. Thought maybe you’d assume it was poisoned, like some weird hockey rivalry payback for Adrian sucker punching me.”

I smirk at the comment.

“I’m not entirely sure I’d be your first target.” I bite into the cookie, and the flavor explodes on my tongue. It tastes like a Skor bar.

Greg leans onto his elbows, looking thoughtfully into the air. When he finally speaks, his voice is conspiratorial.

“That’s true. Adrian is definitely at the top of my list. However, poisoning him is too obvious. Cutting his brake lines seems like a more subtle option.”

I stare wide-eyed for a moment before a laugh bursts from me. My reaction must surprise Greg because he’s silent for a second before he starts to laugh, too. I wipe a tear from my eye. It feels so good to really laugh. After a moment, Greg says, through chuckles, “Full disclosure, I was going to eat the whole thing myself, but I didn’t want you to think all hockey players are complete Neanderthals.”

I snort into my coffee. “Not all, but some.”

“Yeah, some. The ones who are well over six feet tall and built like brick shit houses.”

I know who he means; he knows I do.

I shake my head and snicker, “You’re an idiot.”

He beams, and we settle into a comfortable silence, watching the people wander by on the street outside. Twenty minutes later, we stand and say goodbye. He gives me a light hug before holding the door for me and heading down the street. I turn in the opposite direction and head home, waiting for the inevitable moment when Adrian reappears.

I Like Games, Too

Adrian

“Shoot the fucking puck!”

I roar at the TV, but my focus isn’t on the game. My eyes flick to my watch, needing to squint to see it in the apartment’s dark. The first and only thing I did upon moving in was hang blackout curtains. The only light comes from the TV, making the space feel like a tomb. She’s nearly 15 hours late. A growl builds in my chest as I shift my attention back to the TV, continuing to take my frustration out on the game unfolding in front of me. I thought we had an understanding. After Friday night, things felt different. They felt like…

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