Page 41 of The Way We Swing

The drive stretched out in patches of road and silence, the kind where you don’t need to talk because the motion said enough. Easton fidgeted, rolling the window up and down, checking his phone, then glancing at the dashboard clock like it might give away the destination. Every few miles, he asked again, each time with a little more edge to his voice. I didn’t answer. The mystery was part of the distraction.

When we finally rolled into the stone-filled parking lot, confusion spread across his face. The building looked half-forgotten—sun-faded letters spelled outAdrenaline Parkabove the entrance.

“What the hell is this place?” he asked, already halfway to the door.

“My business inspiration,” I said, catching up to him quickly and walking in.

On the right, a gray rock-climbing wall towered over us, and on the left, a winding go-kart track curved feet away. Straight ahead, a line of batting cages stretched along the back wall, nets swaying slightly from recent hits. Engine noises throbbed in the air, the metallic clang of baseballs meeting bats, and the easy laughter you only heard in places like this. Easton looked around, and his smile built slowly, like the noise was pulling it out of him. I was already grinning.

“No hitting today, though,” I said. “We’re here to relax.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Easton said. “What first?”

“You’re going to love this.”

At the counter, a college-aged girl thumbed at her phone with the vacant detachment of someone who’d already given up on Monday. After I paid, she led us down a hallway that throbbed with the distant sound of something breaking.

“What the hell is a smash room?” Easton asked me.

I shot him a grin. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“So, we get to smash stuff?”

“If you keep asking questions like that, I’m going to start calling you Gavin.”

College Girl handed us gear and rattled off the rules in the bored cadence of a part-timer who’d done this a hundred times already. The changing area was cramped, the bench lining the back wall worn down to the grain. As I pulled on the protective suit, my boot caught on the leg fabric, and I toppled backward, landing hard on the bench.

I heard the crunch before I felt it.

“I think I need new glasses,” I said, holding up the two broken pieces.

Easton barked out a laugh, sharp and sudden, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls like something let loose. It was good to hear him laugh, especially today.

“You know we haven’t started yet, right?” Easton said.

Once we were fully geared up—blue overalls, steel-toed boots, and bulky helmets—we looked like we belonged in some off-brand alien invasion flick.

“Alright,” College Girl said, “you’ve got a half hour. One person at a time, the other behind the fence.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before turning on her heel and walking out.

The room looked like a garage someone had given up trying to organize. A knee-high table stood in the center, stacked with two old TVs and a dented printer. To the side, a battered crate overflowed with boxes of glass and ceramics. The left wall was covered with jagged boards, stained and splintered from repeated impact.

“After you,” I said.

Easton didn’t hesitate. He immediately chose the sledgehammer, surprisingly ignoring the bat. His firstswing on a TV landed with a crunch that made me flinch, glass spraying like bullets. He swung again and again, each hit more forceful than the last. The remnants of the TV scattered across the floor in pieces too small to recognize.

Then he dropped the hammer, picked up the metal bat, and stepped up to the second TV like he was back in the batter’s box. His stance was automatic, and when he swung, it wasn’t careful. The TV sailed, landed with a thud against the back wall. He didn’t even pause. He retrieved it, reset it on the table, and hit it again, harder.

My hand twitched toward my phone. This would’ve made a great video. But something about the way he moved, like he was chasing a goal no one else could see, made me leave it in my pocket. This wasn’t a moment that needed shared.

When he got to the glass, he picked up a mason jar and held it like a baseball. His stance mirrored that of the thousand games of catch we’d played. His feet were shoulder-width apart, elbow tucked, wrist loose. He wound up and let it fly, the jar smashing into the wall with a pop that startled even him. One by one, he threw every piece at the wall, the sound of glass breaking forming its own rhythm.

I never picked up a thing. I just watched. He didn’t need a partner; he needed a witness.

By the time we peeled off the gear, sweat had soaked through our suits, and dust clung to our arms like chalk. He didn’t look at me right away; instead, he stared at the floor as he undid the clasps on his helmet.

“Sorry about that,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges. “I really needed that today.” Then he looked up. “You always know what I need.”