“No, you don’t,” Jack says. “You like telling us things.”
“Not in the company of the team. They don’t need to know about my love life.”
“That means things are going well?” Alfie asks.
“We’ve only had one date.”
Even though it went really well, I still don’t want to divulge too much about it to these guys.
Cracks and bangs echo around the room as the players get started. Whoops and shouts ring out.
“Damn. It looks like they’re really liking this,” Jack tells me.
“See? I wasn’t lying.”
I had no idea how this would go, but it’s clear they are liking it. Hell, seeing the smiles on their faces has me thinking this might be a good place to bring Liv.
If only to see her let her hair down.
“Think we need to be concerned with Simmons?” Jack asks, nodding toward our goalie, who is pounding away on what appears to be an old trash can.
Glancing across the room, I find the man in question.
At the rate he’s going, he is going to demolish the sledgehammer he’s using. Considering we were the most scored upon team last year, his anger is justified.
“I’ll check on him after.”
I watch as the guys keep smashing the room to smithereens. Bits of debris fly around—thank God for the helmets, because I don’t want anyone getting injured.
“Hey, Coach. You want a turn?”
McCord, the newest player we got in a trade with Belfast, holds out a baseball bat to me.
“Hell, yeah.”
Safety shield firmly in place, I grab the bat and find something that isn’t ripped to shreds. A lone TV sits in the corner untouched.
Winding up the bat, I take a swing.
Glass and plastic explode from the tip of the bat as it shatters the small screen.Fuck, yeah.
I don’t let a single piece of it out of my sight as I swingand swing. The cracks and explosions from around the room are music to my ears.
“Do you have your own issues to work out?” Alfie questions as I wipe the sweat from my brow.
“Nah. It just feels good.” I hold out the bat to him. “You do it.”
Alfie grabs the bat and Jack takes a sledgehammer from another guy. Between the two of them, they work out their aggression on an old trash can.
By the end of our hour, not a single thing is left intact. Guys are stepping over scraps of what was once a TV. Glass. Wood.
“How’d that feel?” I ask the guys as we head back into the dining area off the smash room.
“Fucking awesome. I wish we could do this every week.”
Pizza and buckets of beer sit on the tables stretching across the room. The walls in here are like the ones in the smash room—covered in graffiti in bright oranges and yellows.
TVs hang in the corners with videos of people tearing various rooms up. The guys immediately go for the drinks and stand around chatting, reliving what they just did based on their gestures.
