Jeremy nodded, one eye squinting as though deep in thought. “Must be some serious pressure being the son of an NHL All-Star.”
“You have no idea.” Linc finished the rest of his drink and slammed the glass onto the counter more forcefully than he intended. Sliding the glass toward the bartender, he winced. “Sorry.”
“You’re right, I might not have first-hand experience. But I know enough of the game to know a little about a little. Pressure from your dad to be great, just like him, right?”
Linc sighed. “It’s like he’s retired from the game, but at the same time, he’s not. I’m not good enough to go pro. I’m not as good as he was – hell, I’m not even as good as you are. But he seems to think if I train just a bit harder, go to one more training camp, and play in front of just the right scouts, things would happen for me. Sometimes you just gotta know your limits, and I know mine.”
“But you don’twantto play pro, even if you were good enough.”
A jolt of surprise shot through Linc. If he were talented enough to play NHL level hockey, would he? Would he push forward to play on a national scale? Would hewantto do it or would he just feel obligated to make his father’s dream come true?
A frustrated sigh escaped him as he scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “I don’t know the answer to that, Lupes. Maybe if I was better at the game I wouldn’t feel like such a fake and failure.”
Jeremy snorted, then took a sip of his beer. “That’s the spirit, warming up to me nicely, Linc, nickname and all. I guess that’s the trouble with feeling like a fraudster. Once you’re prone to feelings of inadequacy, it doesn’t matter how good you are, that voice will always shout louder. Even if you went pro, you’d still find a way to feel like you’ve hoodwinked people into thinking you’re good.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“How do you deal with it?”
Jeremy chuckled. “I pat myself on the back for being an epic trickster god and convincing people I’m actually good enough at something that they believe me.”
It was Lincoln’s turn to laugh. “That works?”
“Sometimes more than others.” Jeremy shrugged. “What would you do if you didn’t play hockey? What’s your major?”
“Communication studies… and a minor in art history.” Lincoln flexed his fingers under the melting ice pack, ready to spring into action if Jeremy said a single negative word about the fact he was studying art history.
“Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“At ease, angry man. Yeah, I see you flexing those digits. This face is way too pretty to be broken by your damn fist. You’re not the only one who knows their limits. I’d have no chance against you. I don’t have backup in this place and no one knows I’m here, so they’d never find the body.” He winked and indicated to the almost empty bar.
“I dunno why you’re so defensive about the fact you’re doing an art history minor. I wouldn’t give a shit if you were doing an art history major, for fuck’s sake. My opinion on your life choices doesn’t matter a fuck, Linc. Are you happy? Is it something you can see yourself doing as a career? And in the words of our great leader, Ms. Marie Kondo, does it spark joy?”
Linc laughed, his muscles relaxing, and he flagged the bartender down for a glass of water and two beers.
“What can I say?” Jeremy shrugged again. “I like reality TV shows. Anyway, does art history set your heart on fire? Does it take you closer to what you wanna be when you grow up?” He wrinkled his nose at his last question, as though growing up was something that tasted awful to say.
“Do whatever the fuck lights you up inside. Do it shamelessly and unapologetically. Life is too short to live in the shadow of where you really want to be. It’s too short for regrets.”
His glassy eyes met Linc’s. Unshed tears reflected in the dim light of the bar. He swallowed hard. “We don’t get enough time to spend a chunk of it doing something someone else wants us to do.” His voice broke on the last sentence.
Linc’s chest tightened. Jeremy’s parents had been brutally murdered in a mass shooting. “I’m sorry, Jer. I didn’t mean to—”
“Ah.” He held up his hand. “It’s fine. I don’t mind talking about them, especially if it serves to help someone realize they need to do all the things they want to do, because time isn’t our friend.” He took another drink.
Linc nodded. The shooting had made the national news, and hockey circles being what they were, it was impossible to keep it under wraps. If anyone knew about not having enough time, it was him. “Have you changed how you’re living since they… uh… since you lost them?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Bought a boat. My mom would be so pissed.” He shook his head with a sad smile. “This isn’t a pity party, though. This is about you.”
He tilted his bottle toward Linc. “Whatever is tugging at your heart, you should probably give in and let it. If you want to run off and join the circus, go do it. If you wanna be a professional ballerina, I dunno man, that ship has probably sailed but if anyone could become a geriatric ballet dancer my money’s on you.”
He leaned forward and pushed Linc’s shoulder. “You do you, boo. So your dad’s pissed at you for not doing pro hockey, he’ll get over it. Ultimately he’ll realize that you’re not him and your dreams aren’t his dreams. Maybe he’ll get on board the Linc-train, maybe he won’t, but either way, you’ll have stayed true to yourself and done something worthy of your time.”
Linc took a sip of the beer the barman set in front of him and slid the other bottle across to Jeremy.
