Page 45 of Playing By Ear

“I didn’t⁠—”

“You cannae go in like that. Your opponents’ll smell the fear a mile away.”

“Fear’s a good motivator.”

“If a tiger’s chasing you, aye. But in sport and business, fear kills the thinking mind. Clouds your judgment.”

“Once I’m on the pitch, I won’t be afraid. I’ll focus fine.”

“Once you’re on the pitch, it’s too late.” Martin pointed at Jamie’s temple, almost poking it. “You gotta mentally prepare ahead of time. Picture the victory. Close your eyes and feel that cup in your hands. Feel how heavy it is to lift.”

“There’s no trophy for winning the quarterfinal.”

“But you cannae get to the trophy without it.” Martin shook his head slowly. “I didn’t raise you to have small dreams.”

Jamie bit back a surge of invective. If his dreams were small—eking out a living as an obscure street musician—it was because of his father. Anonymity was the only path to peace.

The bell jangled on the café door, and Rita appeared with a tray. “Giving you a double dose of biscuits, Jimmy, since it’s been so long.” She set down his coffee and plate, then laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, lad.”

“You, too, Rita.” He would happily sit for a nice long blether with her, learn how her kids were getting on and whether she still had that schnauzer who sang for crisps.

When she was gone, Martin took a bite of his chocolate cake and closed his eyes. “Christ, that’s good.”

“Rita’s the best.” Jamie picked up a biscuit, admiring the curves of the icing surrounding the glacé cherry, and the way the raspberry jam oozed out from between the heart-shaped pieces of shortbread.

“Dunno how much longer I can enjoy eating.”

Jamie froze with the biscuit an inch from his mouth. Well, that got real. “Erm, sorry.” He lowered the biscuit to his plate.

“Fuck’s sake, eat,” Martin said.

Jamie didn’t know what to say, so he followed his curiosity. “What’s it feel like?”

“The cancer?” His father’s jaw shifted, and he stared out over the loch as he spoke. “Feels like a hoax. Like the doctors are messing me about, and someday they’ll tell me they were just having me on.”

“What about the headaches?”

“They come and go. Same with the dizziness, and I’ve only had the one seizure. It never feels like my head’s got a hungry monster the size of a golf ball inside.” He took a long sip of coffee, then made a hmm face, his eyes still following the swans. “It’s good to talk about it.”

Martin MacKray was predictably unpredictable, but this admission floored Jamie. “When I was here Monday, you didn’t want to talk about the cancer.”

“That’s cos your sister was there. I don’t like upsetting her. And I know my expiring doesnae upset you, so⁠—”

“How do you know that?” Jamie asked, though the protest felt hollow.

“Just a feeling.” Martin’s voice held no trace of resentment.

This newfound vulnerability had to be a trick. “Why tell me, though? We barely know each other nowadays.”

His dad shrugged. “You still got one of those faces that says ‘Talk to me.’ You would’ve made a good barman.”

Jamie rubbed the back of his fingers over his beard, which he’d grown in hopes of shrouding his cherub cheeks so he could finally look his age. “‘A face a mouse wouldn’t be feart of.’ That’s what—” He stopped and corrected himself before the unnameable name could pop out. “It’s what Auntie Norma always said.”

“Did she?” Martin smiled, and Jamie couldn’t tell whether he remembered who’d really said it. “She and your Auntie Rosie always had a go at me about you, saying such a sweet wee lad could never be my natural son.” He finally looked at Jamie. “Apart from the fact you were the dead spit of me even as a wean.”

Jamie forced himself to hold that gray-blue gaze, never flinching as Martin scanned his face. Was it like looking at a living Dorian Gray portrait?

“Anyway.” His dad picked up his fork again. “I know I can talk to you, cos if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s keeping secrets.”