Chapter 9 #2
I can’t tell them about her without explaining why I can’t do anything about it, and they won’t understand.
They’ll tell me I’m nothing like my father, that history won’t repeat itself, but they didn’t live through it.
They won’t see the similarities between us.
The patterns. The darkness. The disease.
It’s inevitable. I’ve tried to fight it, but nothing ever changes. I’m wired differently, and I have to accept that. Relationships will never be easy for me.
They won’t understand.
So, I lie.
“It’s nothing. I’m just stressed with my course load. Third-year paramedicine is cooked. Advanced meds, patients, protocols. I start my clinical placements this week, and it’s a lot when someone’s life might be on the line.”
Zac’s brow furrows, but before he can say anything, Everett knocks his fist on the side of my head, and I turn to glare at him. “What the fuck, dude?”
He snorts a laugh. “Just checking to see if there are any brains in there.”
I stare at him.
“Have you spoken to Doyle? You’re taking the same classes. He could help you. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Or talk to your professors,” Ritter suggests. “I’m sure there’s extra support they can offer.”
I make a non-committal sound.
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Zac asks, studying me. Unease runs down my spine. He graduated last year with a psychology degree and is now working in mental health services at Beckford Hospital. If anyone is going to see straight through me, it’s him.
“Yep.” The less I say, the less he has to psychoanalyse.
“You know we won’t judge—”
“Zac, chill. I’m all good. Thanks for caring, but I’ll get it under control. I’m sorry for being miserable company lately. So, anyway, does anyone want to tell me why we drove all the way here for breakfast? You do know there are perfectly good places to eat in Beckford?”
Everett grins. “Oh, we didn’t just come here for the food.”
I arch a brow.
“They just opened a smash room inside the warehouse.”
“A smash room?”
“Yeah. You know, one of those places you see on television where they give you a baseball bat or a sledgehammer or whatever and let you loose to smash shit up.” He’s practically bouncing in his seat with excitement.
“Why did we come to a smash room?”
“So, you can work off some of that stress.” He scruffs his hand through my hair.
I force a laugh, shoving him off me as our meals are delivered, and the spotlight shifts away from me to our game tomorrow. BHU has a new goalkeeper who is supposed to be unbelievable, but with the way we’ve been playing, I’m not worried.
After we eat, we take the internal exit from the café into the warehouse and find ourselves in the entrance to the smash room. Apparently, the entire warehouse has been sectioned off into different rooms that you can rent out.
“You realise Coach Johnson’s going to string us up by our balls if we hurt ourselves,” I mutter to Everett as we watch the safety video.
He just grins.
I hate to admit it, and I’ll vehemently deny it until my dying breath rather than give my smartarse housemate the satisfaction, but I have a good time. There’s something almost therapeutic about smashing the ever-loving shit out of things that don’t belong to you.
Of course, the four of us are competitive, so it doesn’t take long for it to turn into an unspoken, testosterone-fuelled contest. There are no rules, but we don’t need them. The goal is to destroy in the most impressive way.
Ritter picks up a ceramic plate and tosses it in the air.
Everett swings his bat and connects, grinning like a buffoon when it shatters.
“Home run, baby!” he whoops, pumping a fist.
Zac snorts from behind his face shield. “That’s child’s play.”
He lines up a microwave that’s seen better days—its door already half hanging off—tilting his head as if he’s calculating the best angle. Just as he’s about to swing his crowbar, Ritter beats him to it, roaring as he brings his sledgehammer down, twisting the metal frame.
“I was lining that up, arsehole,” Zac snaps.
Ritter shrugs, not caring in the slightest. “You snooze, you lose.”
I laugh, the sound surprising me as much as it does Everett, who shoots me a look like he’s just spotted a unicorn shitting rainbows.
“Did we break Blake?” he says. “Is he”—he exaggerates a gasp—“having fun?”
“Shut up,” I say, hefting my bat and swinging it at a television screen. The resulting crack is satisfying as the glass spiderwebs. The vibration of the hit travels straight up my arms, a feeling of exhilaration blooming in my chest.
Oh, yeah.
I get the appeal now.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, resetting my stance. This time, I swing harder, and the screen caves in with a crunch.
“Look out, boys,” Zac taunts with a smirk. “He’s come out to play.”
Everett grins. “About bloody time. Dude’s been walking around like a wound-up grandfather clock for months.”
I narrow my eyes at the familiar crack about my age. “Keep talking, Mathers,” I warn, though there’s no heat in my words. “I’ll be imaging your head for the next one.”
His grin only widens. “Promises, promises.”
The rest of the session is chaos. Beautiful, cathartic chaos.
Tension bleeds out of my shoulders with every smash and shatter.
My muscles ache. Not in a bad way, but I will need a date with my foam roller later.
I egg the guys on, taunting and joking around with my mates for the first time in months as a cacophony of noise fills the space—glass breaking, metal buckling, our laughter echoing off the walls.
“Feel better?” Zac asks, nudging me with his shoulder as we watch Ritter and Everett go to town on an old office printer like it’s personally offended them.
“Yeah,” I say without thinking, and to my surprise, it’s true. I do feel better.
This was exactly what I needed. Four idiots wrecking junk and laughing like hyenas.
A total reset.
I let the masked pixie get under my skin, and I have to accept it’s over. Move on. Build my walls back up.
Beckford is supposed to be a fresh start, and I can’t fuck it up.