Page 2 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

I make it all the way to the elevator before the tears come.

Pressing my forehead against the cool metal wall, I let them fall silently, trying my best not to smudge my mascara. I can't afford to look like I've been crying when I pick up Tyler from Mrs. Naomi's apartment downstairs.

The elevator dings and I straighten, wiping my cheeks quickly as the doors slide open. Empty, thank God. I step in and press the lobby button, trying to process what just happened.

David Morrison. The man I once loved. The father of my child. A ghost from my past who now looks like a ghost himself.

When I imagined this moment, and I have, countless times over the years, I pictured anger, accusations, maybe even joy.

I never pictured... defeat. The David I knew was vibrant, determined, his eyes always focused on the horizon, on his dreams. The man I just left has eyes that don't seem to focus on anything at all.

I pull out my phone and check the time. I told Mrs. Naomi I'd be back within the hour. Tyler will be getting antsy, asking for his afternoon snack and his favorite cartoon. My sweet, energetic boy who has no idea his whole world might be about to change.

The lobby is mercifully quiet as I cross to the main entrance. Outside, the spring air feels good against my flushed skin. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself before facing Tyler with what I hope is a reassuring smile.

David's building is in the expensive part of town, all gleaming glass and doormen in pressed uniforms. A far cry from our motel room with its musty carpet and flickering bathroom light.

I walk the three blocks to the bus stop, each step taking me further from David's world and back toward my reality.

"Mom!" Tyler shouts as soon as I arrive and Mrs. Naomi opens her door. He launches himself at me, all gangly limbs and sticky fingers, and I catch him, lifting him up despite my exhaustion.

"Hey, buddy," I say, burying my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of apple juice and play-dough. "Were you good for Mrs. G?"

"He's always an angel," Mrs. Naomi says with a wink that tells me otherwise. The older woman has been a godsend since we arrived in town, watching Tyler for a fraction of what daycare would cost while I try to scrape together enough money to get us home.

"We made cookies!" Tyler announces proudly, wriggling out of my arms to retrieve a paper plate covered in plastic wrap. "I saved you two!"

"Thank you," I say, accepting the slightly misshapen chocolate chip cookies. "That was very thoughtful."

Mrs. Naomi gives me a searching look. "Everything okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

If only she knew how accurate that description is.

"Just tired," I lie, fishing in my purse for my wallet. "How much do I owe you for today?"

She waves me off. "We'll settle up Friday. Go get some rest."

I want to protest. I hate owing people, but I'm too emotionally drained to argue. "Thank you," I say instead, taking Tyler's hand. "Say thank you to Mrs. Naomi."

"Thank you!" Tyler chirps, already pulling me toward the door, eager to show me something in our room.

As we walk the short distance to our motel, Tyler chatters about his day—the cookies they baked, the cartoon they watched, the picture he drew of a dinosaur playing football.

I make the appropriate sounds of interest, but my mind keeps drifting back to David's apartment, to the empty bottles, to his bloodshot eyes.

"Mom, you're not listening," Tyler complains, tugging in my hand.

"I'm sorry, baby," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Is it about the car?" he asks, his little face scrunching with worry. "Bobby at daycare said if you can't drive to work, you'll get fired and we'll have to live on the street."

My heart hurts. "Bobby doesn't know what he's talking about," I say firmly. "We are not going to live on the street. I promise."

I unlock our motel room door, and Tyler immediately runs to the bed where he's arranged his small collection of action figures. I set my purse down and sink onto the edge of the bed, watching him play.

Did I do the right thing? Going to David after all this time?

I've survived on my own for four years, worked multiple jobs, sacrificed sleep and any semblance of a social life to give Tyler everything he needs.

But now I'm running on empty, and the truth is, he deserves more than I can give him alone.

He deserves to know his father. Even if that father is currently drowning in bourbon and self-pity.

"Mom, look!" Tyler holds up a plastic football player. "He's doing a touchdown dance!"

I smile, watching him bounce the toy across the bedspread. He's obsessed with football, has been since he could walk. I never encouraged it. In fact, I even avoided ever mentioning the sport, but somehow, it's in his blood. Just like his father.

"That's great, buddy," I say. "Hey, how about we order pizza for dinner? Special treat."

"Yes!" He punches the air, nearly toppling off the bed in his excitement. "Can we get pepperoni? And those breadstick things?"

"Sure," I laugh, grateful for his easy happiness. I reach for my phone to place the order, but pause when I see I have a text message.

Unknown number: *It's David. Can we talk tomorrow? I'll be sober.*

My heart skips a beat. I didn't expect to hear from him so soon. Part of me thought he might not reach out at all, that I'd have to leave town without any resolution.

I glance at Tyler, now making explosion sounds as his action figures battle for possession of the football. He has no idea that his whole world is about to change. That the father he's never known now knows about him.

"Mom! Pizza!" Tyler reminds me, flopping across the bed.

"I'm ordering, I'm ordering," I say, setting my phone aside. David can wait until after dinner, after Tyler's bath, after bedtime stories. This evening belongs to my son.

*Our* son, I correct myself silently.

Two hours later, Tyler is freshly bathed and tucked into bed beside me, his damp hair curling against the pillow. The motel room has only one bed, so we've been sharing, his small body generating more heat than seems possible for his size.

"Story time," he declares, though his eyelids are already drooping. Pizza and bath time have done their work.

I reach for the battered copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" that we've read at least a hundred times, but Tyler shakes his head.

"Tell me about when I was a baby," he says instead.

This is a relatively new request, one that's been happening more frequently since his friend Bobby mentioned something about his own father. Tyler's never directly asked about his dad, but I've been waiting for it, preparing what I'll say when the question inevitably comes.

"Well," I begin, settling back against the headboard. "When you were a baby, you had the loudest cry I've ever heard. The nurses in the hospital said you were going to be a singer."

Tyler giggles, as he always does at this part. "But I'm not a singer."

"No, you're not," I agree, smoothing his hair. "You're my strong, smart, kind little boy."

"Did my dad think I was strong too?"

There it is. The question I've been dreading and expecting in equal measure. I take a deep breath, choosing my words one by one.

"Your dad didn't get to meet you when you were a baby," I say, sticking to the truth as much as possible. "He had to go away for work."

"Like a soldier?" Tyler asks, his eyes wide.

"No, not like a soldier. He... he played sports." This is dangerous territory. I've never told Tyler about David, never even hinted at his identity.

"What kind of sports?" Tyler asks, suddenly more awake.

I hesitate. "Football," I finally admit. "He played football."

Tyler sits up, sleep forgotten. "Really? Was he good? Did he play for a real team? Does he still play? Can I meet him?"

The questions come rapid-fire, each one more difficult to answer than the last. I place my hands on his shoulders, gently easing him back down.

"That's enough questions for tonight," I say. "It's past your bedtime."

"But Mom—"

"Tyler," I say firmly, using my no-nonsense voice. "Bedtime. We can talk more tomorrow."

He pouts but settles back down, his mind clearly racing with this new information. I turn off the lamp, leaving only the bathroom light on with the door cracked the way he likes it.

"Mom?" he whispers in the semi-darkness.

"Yes, baby?"

"Does my dad know about me?"

My throat tightens. "He does now," I say softly. "And he wants to meet you."

"Really?" The hope in his voice breaks my heart.

"Really," I promise, praying that David will make good on his text, that he'll be sober tomorrow, that he'll want to be the father Tyler deserves.

"Is that where you went today? To see my dad?"

"Yes," I admit. "I wanted to talk to him first, to make sure he was ready to meet you."

"And is he?"

I think of David's broken expression when he saw the photo of Tyler, the way his hands trembled. "He will be," I say, more a wish than a certainty.

Tyler yawns, finally surrendering to sleep. "Tomorrow?" he asks drowsily.

"We'll see," I say, kissing his forehead. "Sweet dreams, baby."

I wait until his breathing deepens before slipping out of bed to retrieve my phone. David's message still waits for a response.

Me: *Tomorrow works. Tyler's asking about you. I didn't say much, but he knows you exist now.*

I hit send before I can overthink it, then add:

Me: *He's excited. Please don't disappoint him.*

The response comes almost immediately:

David: *I'll be there. 10 AM? Where should we meet?*

I consider telling him we can go to his house, but the thought of Tyler seeing where his father lives versus where we're staying makes me uncomfortable. The disparity is too stark. Too soon.

Me: *There's a park two blocks from your building. The one with the red playground. 10 AM works.*

David: *I'll be there. And Mia? Thank you for giving me this chance. I know I don't deserve it.*

I stare at his message, unsure how to respond. He's right. He doesn't deserve it, not in the state he’s in. But this isn't about what David deserves. It's about what Tyler deserves.

Me: *Just be sober. And try to look less like you're auditioning for a role in The Walking Dead. Tyler watches cartoons, not horror movies.*

I add a smiley face to soften the blow, then set my phone on the nightstand and climb back into bed. Tyler immediately rolls toward me in his sleep, one small hand coming to rest on my arm. Trusting. Innocent.

Tomorrow, he meets his father. The man who's been a hole in his life, a question he's only just learning to ask. And I have to trust that David will rise to the occasion, that he'll see in Tyler what I see, a reason to be better than he is.

As I drift toward sleep, I find myself praying for the first time in years. Not to any specific god, just a general plea to the universe: Please let David be the man Tyler needs him to be. Please don't let my son's heart be broken by the man who helped create it.

Tomorrow will change everything. I'm just not sure if it will be for better or worse.