Page 10 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

This is happening.

Mia is on top of me, her body moving in perfect rhythm with mine, and I can't believe this is real. Why did I waste so much time drowning myself in bourbon when this—when she—was what I really needed? When a family was what I needed?

It still sounds strange in my head—family. Me, a father. Possibly a boyfriend again. Maybe even a husband someday. But for the first time, I realize that even if my surgery fails, even if I never play professional football again, my life isn't over. It's just beginning in a different form.

Mia rides me like she was made for this, her ass bouncing against my thighs as she takes me deeper with each stroke. I grab her ass, helping guide her movements, increasing our pace together. We're a team, working in unison toward the same goal. That's something I've learned with age.

Sex is better when it's truly collaborative, when both people are fully present and engaged.

I place my hand on her back and pull her down to me, wanting to feel more of her, needing her closer.

Now she's lying on my chest, her perfect breasts rubbing against me, beads of sweat from her hair dripping onto my skin.

She's still riding me, but now I'm thrusting up to meet her, our bodies colliding halfway in a perfect dance.

It feels so fucking good I can barely stand it. My knee is starting to ache from the exertion, but I don't care. Her pussy feels incredible around me, hot and tight and slick, draining every ounce of strength I have.

"I'm close," I warn her, feeling the familiar tightening at the base of my spine.

"Me too," she gasps, her movements growing more erratic.

I lean up, whispering directly into her ear: "Cum for me, Mia. Let me feel you."

She smirks, then throws her head back as her orgasm hits, and holy shit.

I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

Not touchdowns, not championship trophies, nothing compares to this woman lost in pleasure above me.

Her hair wild around her face, lips parted, completely uninhibited and free.

She moans, her inner walls clenching around me in throbbing pulses that push me over the edge. I grip her hips hard enough to leave marks as I thrust up one final time, emptying everything I have into her with a groan that comes from somewhere deep inside me.

We stay joined for several seconds, both of us panting, sweaty, and completely spent. Finally, I help her lift off me, and she immediately grimaces.

"Bathroom?" she asks, laughing a little. "I'm kind of... leaking."

I chuckle and point her toward the bathroom. "Through there."

She rushes off, and I lie back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, feeling more content than I have in longer than I can remember. When she returns a few minutes later, she looks gorgeously disheveled. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed, wearing nothing but my discarded t-shirt.

"That was incredible," she says, settling beside me on the couch, laying her head on my chest. I can feel her ear pressed against my still-pounding heart.

I stroke her cheek gently with my thumb, gazing out at the city skyline visible through the windows.

I've always loved this view, this reminder of the life I built for myself through talent and hard work.

But now I'm seeing it differently. Now I'm seeing the emptiness of it all without someone to share it with.

"I want more than just being Tyler's dad," I whisper, still looking at the view rather than at her, afraid if I meet her eyes I'll lose my nerve.

"I want to be a constant presence in his life.

And in yours, if you'll let me. I'm not going anywhere now, Mia.

I'll get better. Stronger. And even if the surgery goes well and I can play again, I'm staying with you both.

Because I've realized that none of it matters if I have no one standing beside me when the game is over. "

I feel wetness on my chest and look down to see tears streaming down Mia's cheeks.

"Are you sure?" she asks, her voice small and vulnerable. "Because I'm ready to believe you, David. I'm ready to trust you again."

I wipe her tears away with my fingertips.

"I've never been surer of anything," I tell her, meaning every word. "I'll be there for you and for Tyler, no matter what happens with my knee, with football, with anything. You're what matters now."

She leans in and kisses me softly, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, making a silent promise to never let go again.

One month later

I stare at my reflection in the hospital bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the man looking back at me. Clean-shaven, clear-eyed, dressed in the standard-issue hospital gown that somehow makes everyone look vulnerable regardless of their size or strength.

In just under an hour, I'll be wheeled into surgery.

The experimental procedure we've been waiting for, the one that might allow me to play football again.

A month ago, this day loomed like the final judgment, the moment that would determine whether I had a future in the game I've loved my entire life.

Now? Now I'm terrified for completely different reasons.

I splash water on my face, trying to calm my racing heart. It feels like my eyes might pop out of their sockets, like my heart might leap from my chest.

My brothers have all texted their support. Ethan offering to drive down if I need him, Michael ensuring I have the best surgical team money can buy, Jack promising to be at my first game back if things go well.

But it's Mia and Tyler waiting for me in the pre-op room who matter most right now.

I dry my hands and face, take a deep breath, and return to them. Tyler sits quietly in a chair, swinging his legs, his dinosaur action figure clutched tightly in one hand. Mia looks up from her magazine, offering me a smile that doesn't quite hide her own anxiety.

The past month has been a revelation. After our unexpected reconnection that day in my apartment, Mia agreed to stay in town.

Not in my place. She was firm about needing their own space, but in a furnished condo Michael helped us find just ten minutes from my building.

He even offered to pay for the first six months.

I've been sober for thirty-three days now.

Not without struggle. There have been moments of intense craving, nights when sleep wouldn't come, days when the only thing that kept me from breaking was the thought of Tyler's disappointed face if I failed him.

But I've done it. One day at a time, just like Mia said.

I've also been going to outpatient therapy three times a week, both for the drinking and for the depression that followed my injury. It was Michael's suggestion, and though I resisted at first, it's been helping. Slowly, painfully, but helping.

"You okay, buddy?" I ask Tyler, noticing his unusual quietness. "You've been pretty silent this morning."

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "I'm okay."

I crouch down in front of his chair, wincing slightly as my bad knee protests. "Are you worried about the surgery? Because the doctors are really good at this. They've done it lots of times."

He shakes his head, still fidgeting with his dinosaur. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?" I ask gently.

He finally looks up, his eyes—my eyes—serious and concerned. "I'm afraid you won't care about me anymore once you start playing football again."

Fuck. I've been so focused on the surgery, on my recovery, on building our new family dynamic, that I hadn't considered how Tyler might be interpreting all this. To him, football is the thing that kept me from being in his life before. Of course he's afraid it will take me away again.

"Tyler," I start. "That will never, ever happen. You're more important to me than football. If you're worried about this surgery, I'll walk out of here right now. No operation."

His eyes widen. "Really?"

"Really," I confirm. "You and your mom are my priority now. Football is just a job."

He thinks about this for a moment, then throws his arms around my neck. "I don't want you to not have the surgery," he says against my shoulder. "I want you to get better. I want you to be happy again."

I hold him close, my heart so full it feels like it might burst. "I am happy, buddy," I tell him, and I mean it. "Happier than I've been in a very long time."

I look over Tyler's shoulder at Mia, who's watching us with tears in her eyes.

She mouths 'I love you,' and though we haven't said those words aloud to each other yet, I know in this moment that I love her too.

Not just because she's Tyler's mother, but because she's Mia: strong, patient, forgiving Mia who gave me a second chance I'm not sure I deserved.

The door opens, and a nurse appears. "Mr. Morrison? We're ready for you now."

I take a deep breath, give Tyler one more squeeze, then stand up.

"This is it," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

Mia comes to my side, taking my hand. "You've got this," she says. "We'll be right here waiting."

I lean down and kiss Tyler's forehead. "I'll see you soon, buddy. Be good for your mom."

Then I turn to Mia and kiss her properly, not caring that we have an audience. "Thank you," I whisper against her lips. "For everything."

"Just come back to us," she says, squeezing my hand.

I nod, then follow the nurse to the door. Before I go through, I turn back one last time.

"Whatever happens today, with my knee, with football, it doesn't change anything important. We're a team now. The three of us. And that's never going to change."

As they wheel me toward the operating room, I'm surprised to find I'm no longer terrified. Whatever happens in the next few hours, I've already won the most important game of my life. I have my son. I have Mia. I have a future worth fighting for.

The anesthesiologist asks me to count backward from ten. I make it to seven before darkness claims me, but my last conscious thought isn't of football or fame or my career.

It's Tyler's laugh. Mia's smile. Home.