Page 96 of Worth Every Game
“You’ve got to start believing, because that impacts every single action you take.” His words are a tender whisper that nestles in my heart. “If you believe, you’ll go the extra mile. You’ll make that extra post, write another song, make the last song even better. If you don’t believe, you won’t bother. All those choices are cumulative, and they have ripple effects you can’t anticipate. And I’m telling you, it’s good.”
He strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I hope he can’t read the doubtful thoughts running through my mind, not only about me and my ability, but about him. Jack Lansen isn’t exactly the arbiter of taste when it comes to music. “Thank you,” I say.
Jack tips his chin in acknowledgment of my thanks. “We can get Derek to step up the posts he’s doing for you, shunt more of the burden to him, if that would make it easier. He’s been doing a good job, right? He’s great at the marketing for creative types.”
“Creative types?”
He lifts his hand from my face and rubs at his jaw, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he assesses me. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? All the feelings and the lyrics and the music.”
“And what are you?”
“Not that.” He nods his head up at the speaker in the ceiling, changing the subject. “This song. Start with this one. Put it out there over and over again until it goes viral.”
Fear splices my insides.Viral? Millions and millions of people hearing me?Seeing me?“I’m not ready.”
“You are.”
I fidget, shuffling in my seat, tearing the croissant in front of me into tiny pieces. “The idea of it is terrifying.”
He’s staring at me with such a serious expression that I almost cower before him. “What’s the fear? Because fear is bullshit. If you know what it is, you can disprove it and move on.”
That sounds ridiculously simple, and I can’t believe it would ever work. Could I have done that when I was sitting in that reception area, waiting for my interview with Robert Lloyd, panic rising through my veins like a tsunami?
Could I have rationalised away all my fear?
Under Jack’s watchful gaze, my thoughts begin to churn and anxiety claws at me, but I don’t want him to see how frightening this is for me. Everything comes so easily to him. He’s so competent, so capable, so confident in his own ability.
“You know what?” I say. “I know I’m good at what I do. The music, the song-writing. The singing. I doknowthat, but...” I fade off, struggling to complete the thought.
Jack eyes me, as though he’s weighing me in some way, then he blows out a breath in a gust. “Seriously, if I find the prick who made you this afraid of putting yourself out there, I’ll destroy him.” He pauses, his eyes widening into an expression of appalled revelation. “Oh, shit. Am I gonna have to kill your mum and dad?”
I let out the tiniest laugh in response. “No. Maybe. There is no one person. It’s the whole thing. Music is precious to me. It’s my creative outlet… it’s intimate. Private, almost. I gave up a lot to do this, and once things are out in the online world, they’re no longer mine. I can’t control what people think of me or my music. If it’s not perfect, everyone will tear me apart.” The fear grows as I put it into words, rising like a cobra up my throat, preparing to strike. “If I put myself out there... Shit happens. I let it in. Icauseit. Like your mum turning up and screaming at me. Or the tomatoes at the Marchmont. And those are small scale. What happens when something goes viral? If I don’t—”
“If you don’t do anything, nothing can hurt you?”
His words burn right through me, exposing a truckload of excruciating pain behind them as though they’re dragging every bad memory through my torso.I’m trapped by my own fear.I can’t look at him. Tears are throbbing behind my eyeballs, waiting to spill.
“El,” he says, his voice soft. “No one is perfect. If that’s what you need to be to move forward, you’re going to be sitting in the Marchmont strumming that guitar for the rest of your life. There will always be people who don’t like you. There will be critics. There will be people who are rude and obnoxious and say fucking nasty shit. But if you don’t let the shit stick… if you don’t let it get inside your head… you win.”
“I get it. I can hear you, but…”
I can’t. I can't do it.
Jack's large, warm hands come to rest on my shoulders. “All you need to do—all youeverneed to do—is get up and try again. You keep fucking trying until you get where you want to go, and you make sure you’re letting the shit slide off on the way there. You have to be bigger than what people throw at you, or it will crush you. And I really don’t want that to happen because I like having you around.” My insides begin to fizz, releasing tension Iwasn't even aware of. How is it possible for a few kind words to dispel pain I’ve endured for years?
But it’s not just the words.It’s him. Knowing I have Jack Lansen’s support means more than I could ever have guessed it would. It’s a balm that soothes all my wounds.
His piercing blue eyes fix on me. “I love you. And you’re brilliant. Get out there and shine.”
“Okay.”
He kisses me gently, but when he pulls back he’s still frowning as though he’s not convinced I’ve taken the advice on board. He dips his head to make sure he has my full attention. “I’ve got a meeting at nine, so I have to go get dressed. I’ll get Derek to call you. You’re wonderful. Don’t forget it.” He releases me and turns away.
“Do you have five minutes?”
He stops, glancing back over his shoulder, a dark eyebrow rising. “What do you want to do in five minutes?”
“Fuck me before you go.”