Page 1 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

I stare at the half-empty bottle of bourbon on my coffee table, trying to decide if I should finish it now or save some for when the sun goes down.

The blinds are drawn, but I can tell it's mid-afternoon by the sliver of light cutting through the darkness of my apartment. Not that time matters anymore. Days blur together when you've got nowhere to be, no one waiting, nothing but the silence and the steady throb of a knee that betrayed me.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Probably Ethan checking in.

Or Michael with another "opportunity" he thinks will give me purpose.

Or Jack sending photos from whatever rodeo he's conquering this week.

My brothers mean well, but they don't understand.

How could they? Ethan has his forge and his girlfriend.

Michael has his empire and his new girlfriend.

Jack has the whole damn rodeo circuit at his feet.

I had football. And now I have nothing.

The phone buzzes again. Persistent. I grab it, squinting at the screen. A text from an unknown number.

*I need to see you. I'm outside your building. Please.*

Probably another reporter. They've mostly given up after months of "Former Star Quarterback David Morrison's Spectacular Fall from Grace" stories, but occasionally one gets ambitious, hoping to catch me at my worst. I'm not giving them the satisfaction.

I toss the phone aside and reach for the bottle, but before my fingers close around it, there's a knock at my door. Sharp. Determined.

"Go away," I call out, my voice rough from disuse.

"David, please. It's Mia."

The name hits me like a rival linebacker. Unexpected, jarring, knocking the breath from my lungs. Mia. A ghost from before. Before the big leagues. Before the fame. Before the fall.

"Mia?" I say, more to myself than to her.

"Please open the door. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

I push myself up from the couch, wincing as my knee protests. The doctors just yesterday told me about an experimental surgery that might fix it enough for me to play again. One last shot at redemption. But that's next month, and right now, I'm still broken. In every way that matters.

I glance at my reflection in the darkened TV screen. Unshaven, hair too long, wearing the same sweatpants and T-shirt I've had on for three days. I look exactly like what I am: a man who's lost everything.

I open the door, and there she is. Mia. Five years older than when I last saw her, but still beautiful in that way that always made me want to rip off her clothes. Dark hair pulled back, those deep brown eyes that see too much. She's thinner, though. Tired-looking.

"You look like hell," she says, not unkindly.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe for support, both physical and emotional.

"Can I come in?"

I hesitate, suddenly aware of what she'll see. The empty bottles. The takeout containers. The evidence of a life in ruins.

"It's not a good time," I say.

"It's never going to be a good time, David." She clutches her purse tighter. "But this can't wait."

I step back, gesturing her inside with a half-hearted wave. She enters cautiously, like she's walking into a lion's den. I can't blame her. I'm not the same man she knew.

"Do you want something to drink?" I offer, then realize the absurdity of it as her eyes take in the state of my living room.

"No," she says, remaining standing though I collapse back onto the couch. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to be sober enough to hear it."

"I'm sober enough," I lie. I'm never truly sober these days.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders. "You have a son."

The words don't register at first. They float in the air between us, disconnected from meaning.

"What?"

"We have a son," she repeats, her voice steady but her hands trembling. "His name is Tyler. He's four years old."

The room tilts. I grip the edge of the couch, trying to anchor myself to something solid as her words sink in.

"Four years..." My mind races, calculating backward. "That's..."

"Right after you left for the majors," she confirms. "I found out two weeks after you were gone."

"Why didn't you tell me?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, an accusation rather than the plea it actually is.

Her eyes flash. "You were living your dream, David. The one you'd worked for your entire life. What was I supposed to do? Call you up and say, 'Congratulations on making it to the big leagues, by the way, I'm pregnant'?"

"Yes!" I stand up too quickly, my knee buckles, and I catch myself on the coffee table. "That's exactly what you should have done!"

She steps back, and I see fear flicker across her face. Not of me. I'd never hurt her, but of this situation, of the mess I've become, of what bringing me into her son's life—*our* son's life—might mean.

"I'm sorry," I say, softer now. "I just... a son? I have a son?"

She nods, her expression softening slightly. "He looks like you. Same eyes. Same stubborn chin."

I sink back down, my head spinning. "Why now? After four years, why are you telling me now?"

She hesitates, and I can see her wrestling with pride.

"I need help," she finally admits. "My car broke down last week.

I can't afford to fix it and pay for Tyler's daycare, but I need both to keep working.

I've been taking the bus, but we're always late, and my boss said one more time and I'm fired.

" She takes a shaky breath. "I've never asked anyone for anything, but this isn't about me anymore. It's about Tyler."

"You need money," I say flatly.

Her cheeks flush.

"I need help," she corrects. "And Tyler deserves to know his father. Even if his father is..." Her eyes sweep over me, and I feel the full weight of her assessment.

Even if his father is a broken-down, washed-up drunk.

"I can give you money," I say, though my accounts aren't what they were. I've been living on savings since the injury, and without a contract renewal, those savings won't last forever. But I have enough. More than enough for a car repair.

"It's not just about the money," she says. "When I decided to come here, I made a choice. Either you're in Tyler's life or you're not. I'm not looking for child support payments sent from a distance. I'm offering you the chance to be his father. If you want it."

A father. The word repeats in my head, foreign and terrifying. I can barely take care of myself. How could I possibly be responsible for a child?

"I need time to process this," I say.

"Of course." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a photograph, handing it to me. "This is Tyler."

I take it with trembling fingers. A little boy with my eyes stares back at me, grinning wide, a tooth missing in front. My heart pounds painfully in my chest.

"He loves football," Mia says softly. "Ironic, right? I never told him about you, but somehow he gravitates to the game. He's got a natural arm."

Pride surges through me, followed immediately by shame. What right do I have to feel proud of a child I didn't know existed until five minutes ago?

"I'm staying at the Westside Motel," she continues. "Room 118. I'll be there until Friday, then I have to go back whether my car is fixed or not." She pulls out a piece of paper and writes something on it. "Here's my number. When you're ready to talk, really talk, call me."

She places the paper on the coffee table, careful to avoid the bourbon bottle.

"He deserves better than this, David," she says, gesturing around the room. "If you want to be in his life, you need to decide what kind of man you want him to see."

The words cut deeper than any tackle ever has. Because she's right. The man I am right now isn't someone a child should know. Isn't someone I would want my son to know.

My son.

I have a son. I still can’t believe it.

Mia moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, I remember the man you were before football became everything. That man would have been an amazing father."

The door clicks shut behind her, and I'm alone again with the photograph in my hand and the weight of a responsibility I never knew I had crushing down on me.

I stare at Tyler's face: my eyes, my chin, Mia's smile, and something stirs inside me. Something I thought died the day the doctors told me I might never play again.

Hope.

Not hope for a comeback or for glory on the field, but for something I never knew I wanted until this moment. A chance to be more than just number 18. A chance to be Dad.

I reach for my phone instead of the bourbon bottle. For the first time in months, I have a reason to be better than I am. I just don't know if I remember how.