Page 54 of Lucky Shot
A shy smile tips up the corners of his mouth. He looks so much like his dad, but this smile is one I have not seen from his father. “He worries.”
“Good. Parents are supposed to worry.” I hold up the bottle. “Is it okay if I borrow this?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I guess so.”
“Thanks.” I huff a small laugh, then note the guitar hanging off his shoulder. “How long have you been playing?”
“Not long.” He glances down at his feet and shuffles. “I’m not very good. My dad and grandpa wear earplugs. They think I don’t notice, but they aren’t very good at hiding it.”
“Being good at things takes practice.”
“I guess so, but I don’t want to annoy them all the time while I practice.”
I get that. I used to make my family read everything I wrote. Poems, short stories, plays, eulogies—those didn’t always go over very well, oops.
I was so passionate about writing. I lived for the laughs, the smiles, the joy I could see on their faces. When I could get a real, genuine laugh out of my dad, I would buzz with excitement the rest of the day. Tears from my mom? A rush of adrenaline that lasted hours. And anything Olivia reread or asked to keep meant I had struck gold.
I learned a lot during that phase of writing, including that you can’t force anyone else to feel the way you do about art. Something that brought me immense pleasure, didn’t always do the same for them. If my parents were busy or my sister was ina bad mood, then I was almost guaranteed to be disappointed by their response to read something I’d written.
I never learned an instrument so at least my practice could always be done in silence.
“If your dad is okay with it, you can come practice at the cabin any time you like,” I say to him.
His eyes widen and a dimple appears in his cheek as he smiles. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I find myself smiling back at him as I nod.
He tips his head to the side as if considering my offer. “And you won’t wear earplugs?”
I let out a small laugh. “Of course not.”
He gives me a strange look like he doesn’t believe me.
“Were you always good at hockey?” I ask him.
He thinks for a moment. Those green eyes lift and his mouth twists in concentration. “No, I guess not. My slap shot used to be pretty bad.”
I have no idea what that means but I think I’m still making my point. “And now?”
“Much better.”
“Because you practiced?”
“Every day for months.”
“See? You just need to keep practicing.”
“Even if it forces them to wear earplugs?” His cheeks tinge red.
“Even then.”
He doesn’t look convinced. And I don’t blame him. Other people’s opinions can be loud and hard to ignore—even the ones offered with the best of intentions. We have a deep understanding of the people closest to us, which means we can tell when they don’t love something. But the only way to get better is to push through the crap. It’s a good reminder for myself.
“You’ll get the hang of it, and I love to listen to music while I work.”
“Even really bad guitar?”
“Especially that.” I smile at him and his grin returns.
