“Where are we going?” I ask as Quinton guides us through the people on the sidewalks. I figure since we are downtown, the chances of us staying outside are slim to none, thank goodness, but now I’m even more curious about how his outdoorsy look was a clue.

“We’re almost there.” We round the corner and he points to a door. “What do you think?”

It takes a second for the words on the door to register. “Axe throwing?” I shout, startling the poor woman walking her dog as she passes us. “What if I kill you?”

I know I can be dramatic quite often, but seriously. What if I kill him? This seems like a terrible idea.

“You won’t kill me.” He opens the door and walks me inside. “I’m pretty sure they’ve taken the necessary steps to avoid that. It’s going to be fun.”

“I’m not convinced,” I say as we walk up the stairs. “But I’ll give it a go.”

As soon as we reach the top of the stairs, I change my mind. The huge open space is a mix between industrial, artsy, and rustic. The brick walls and exposed air ducts on the ceilings somehow meld perfectly with the long wood tables going down the center of the room and framed art throughout the space. Six cages compiled of wood and metal wire house the bull’s-eyes where people are throwing axes. The outside of each cage has a different mural painted on the wood base, and there is a huge bar boasting local beers at the end of the room.

Other than HERS, it’s one of the coolest places I’ve ever been to.

“Hey, can I help you two?” A man approaches us and his eyes widen just a fraction when he recognizes Quinton, but to his immense credit, he doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah,” Quinton says. “I have a reservation under Quinton for two hours.”

Now it’s my eyes going wide. Throwing axes for two hours? But also, spending time with Quinton for two hours? Yeah, I’m alright with that.

The man, also sporting a plaid flannel shirt and a beard, opens up an iPad and swipes around for a moment. “Quinton for two,” he says. “Right this way.”

He walks across the room to an empty cage in the back, but closer to the bar. “Alright, before we get going, we just need you to sign some waivers and then we have some rules and tips to go over. As I’m sure you can guess, we want to make sure everyone has a fun time and you can’t do that if you get injured.”

“Yes.” I pull the iPad he’s extended from his hands. “Please tell us how. Do you remember when Gavin Pope fell ice-skating? I cannot be responsible for something like that. Got it, Howard?”