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

I stare at Mia's last text for a long time before setting my phone down.

*Try to look less like you're auditioning for a role in The Walking Dead.* She always did have a way of cutting straight to the truth.

Tyler. My son. A little boy who wants to meet his dad.

I push myself off the couch, my knee protesting as I limp to the bathroom. The face that greets me in the mirror is barely recognizable—bloodshot eyes, unkempt beard, hollow cheeks. When did I become this ghost?

The bourbon bottle calls to me from the coffee table, promising oblivion, a few hours of not feeling this overwhelming mixture of terror and hope. But for the first time in months, I ignore its siren song.

Instead, I turn on the shower, stripping off clothes that should have been washed days ago. As hot water cascades over me, I try to imagine what I'll say to Tyler tomorrow.

"Sorry I missed the first four years of your life" doesn't quite cut it.

Steam fills the bathroom as I scrub away layers of self-pity and neglect. By the time I step out, my skin is red and my mind clearer. I wrap a towel around my waist and wipe the condensation from the mirror.

Still a mess, but at least a cleaner one.

I find my razor and shave away the scraggly beard, revealing a face I haven't seen in months. Younger than I expected. Less damaged. The man beneath the wreckage is still there, it seems.

Back in my bedroom, I open drawers that have remained shut since I moved in, finding clean clothes that still carry the scent of fabric softener. I set out an outfit for tomorrow. Jeans, a button-down shirt, clean sneakers. Nothing fancy, but a far cry from the sweatpants I've been living in.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ethan: *Checking in. Need anything?*

For the first time, I consider telling someone about Tyler. But the words don't come. Not yet. This feels too fragile, too new. I need to meet my son first, to make sure I don't screw it up before involving my brothers.

*I'm good,* I text back. *Turning in early tonight.*

It's not a lie. I set an alarm for 8 AM, early by my recent standards, and pour the remaining bourbon down the sink. The smell makes my stomach turn as I watch it swirl away.

In bed, I stare at the ceiling, Tyler's photograph on the nightstand beside me. Sleep seems impossible with tomorrow looming, but eventually exhaustion claims me, and I drift off to the unfamiliar sensation of anticipation rather than dread.

Next Day

The alarm blares at 8 AM sharp, jolting me awake with a racing heart. For a moment, I forget why I set it. Then the events of yesterday crash back: Mia at my door, the photograph, the text messages arranging today's meeting.

I'm going to meet my son today.

My knee aches as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, but it's a different kind of pain this morning. Not the center of my universe, just an inconvenience. I have bigger things to focus on.

The kitchen is a disaster with takeout containers and unwashed dishes, but I manage to find a clean mug for coffee.

While it brews, I open the blinds, squinting against sunshine I've been avoiding for months.

The city sprawls below, going about its morning routine, oblivious to the fact that my world has tilted on its axis.

By 9:30, I'm dressed in the clothes I laid out, hair still damp from a second shower. The mirror shows someone almost presentable, someone who could, with some imagination, pass for a father rather than a cautionary tale.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mia: *We're heading to the park now. Tyler's bouncing off the walls with excitement.*

My hands shake as I type back: *On my way.*

I grab my keys, then hesitate at the door. What do you bring to meet your son for the first time? Should I have bought a gift? Is that trying too hard? Not trying enough?

In the end, I leave empty-handed. Better to be honest about who I am than to try to buy his affection right out of the gate.

The elevator seems to take forever. Each floor ticks by with excruciating slowness while my anxiety builds. What if he hates me? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I'm not cut out for this?

The lobby is busy with morning commuters. I keep my head down, not wanting to be recognized. The last thing I need today is someone asking for an autograph or, worse, offering condolences about my career.

Outside, the spring air hits me. Has it always smelled this good? The three-block walk to the park helps settle my nerves, the movement a comfort even with my damaged knee. I focus on my breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other, on anything but the momentous meeting ahead.

The park comes into view, a green oasis amid concrete and glass. The red playground equipment stands out against the landscape, and even from a distance, I can see children climbing, swinging, running with the boundless energy of youth.

And then I see them. Mia sitting on a bench, watching a small boy—Tyler—hanging upside down from the monkey bars, his face red with exertion and joy. My son. My heart stutters in my chest.

I approach slowly, not wanting to intrude on their moment. Mia spots me first, her expression guarded but not unwelcoming. She leans forward and says something to Tyler, who immediately drops from the bars and whips around to look in my direction.

Even from twenty feet away, I can see myself in him. The shape of his eyes, the set of his jaw. He stands perfectly still for a moment, staring at me with the left eyebrow arched.

Then he's running, full-speed, straight at me.

I freeze, unsure what to do. Should I kneel down? Open my arms? Stay where I am?

Before I can decide, he's skidding to a stop in front of me, looking up with eyes that mirror my own.

"Are you my dad?" he asks, direct and unflinching.

I swallow hard, nodding. "Yeah, buddy. I'm your dad."

He looks at me with a seriousness that seems beyond his years, taking in every detail of my face.

"You look like me," he announces, satisfied with his assessment.

"Actually," I say, finding my voice and smiling, "you look like me. I was here first."

A grin breaks across his face, Mia's smile, and something inside me cracks open. I've seen thousands of fans cheer for me, but nothing has ever felt like this smile directed at me.

"Mom says you play football," he says, bouncing slightly on his toes.

"I used to," I correct gently, gesturing to my knee. "I got hurt."

His face falls. "So, you can't play with me?"

The disappointment in his voice cuts deep. I look at Mia, who has approached but is hanging back, giving us space. She raises an eyebrow, challenging me.

"I can still play," I say, making a decision. "Maybe not professionally anymore, but I can definitely play with you."

Tyler's face lights up again. "Really? Right now?"

I laugh, actually laugh, a sound I haven't heard from myself in months. "Sure, why not? Do you have a ball?"

He nods eagerly and runs back to Mia, who produces a small foam football from her bag. Tyler returns, holding it like it's made of gold.

"Mom says I have a good arm," he informs me seriously. "Like you."

Pride swells in my chest, unexpected and overwhelming. "Let's see what you've got," I say, taking a few steps back, ignoring the twinge in my knee.

Tyler sets his feet, his tongue poking out in concentration, and throws a wobbly but surprisingly strong pass. I catch it easily, grinning.

"Not bad," I say. "Want to see how the pros do it?"

He nods eagerly, and I demonstrate the proper grip, the stance, the follow-through. He watches with rapt attention, absorbing every word. When I toss the ball back, he mimics my technique perfectly.

"Like this?" he asks.

"Exactly like that," I say, amazed at how quickly he learns. "You're a natural."

We throw the ball back and forth for what feels like hours, but is probably only twenty minutes. My knee protests, but I ignore it. This matters more.

Eventually, Tyler runs off to the slide, declaring I should watch how fast he can go. I make my way to the bench where Mia sits.

"He's amazing," I say, sitting beside her, watching Tyler climb the ladder.

"He is," she agrees. "And he's been waiting his whole life for this, whether he knew it or not."

Guilt twists in my gut. "I should have been there."

She sighs. "That's on me. I should have told you."

We sit in silence for a moment, watching our son navigate the playground with the confidence of someone who knows his place in the world.

My throat aches for the familiar burn of bourbon, that warm cascade that promises to dull both the pain in my knee and the anxiety churning in my gut.

I find myself scanning the park perimeter for a liquor store sign, a reflex so automatic it shames me when I catch myself doing it in front of my son. But I can't. I won't.

"I want to be in his life," I say finally. "I know I'm a mess right now, but I want to try. I need to try."

Mia turns to face me. "Are you sure? Because if you're going to do this, you must commit. He's not a game you can walk away from when it gets tough. He's a person. A little person who will build his heart around you if you let him."

"I know," I say. "And I'm terrified I'll screw it up. But I've never been surer of anything."

"You're sober today," she observes.

"I'll be sober tomorrow too," I promise. "And the day after that."

She doesn't respond immediately, watching Tyler who is now waving frantically from the top of the slide.

"Dad! Mom! Watch this!" he shouts.

We both wave, and he launches himself down the slide, arms raised in victory when he reaches the bottom.

"I can help with your car," I say, returning to the immediate problem. "And whatever else you need."

"We don't need charity," Mia says, her pride flaring.

"It's not charity. It's responsibility. He's my son too."

She softens slightly. "The car would help. But what happens when we go back home? Tyler's in pre-K there, my job is there—"

"Where is home?" I interrupt, realizing I don't even know where my son has been living.

"San Diego," she says. "I've been there since... since we split up."

Five hundred miles away. The thought of them leaving, of Tyler disappearing from my life just when I've found him, makes my chest tighten.

"What if you stayed?" I hear myself asking before I've fully formed the thought. "At least for a while. Give me a chance to get to know him. To be his dad."

She looks surprised. "We can't just stay in a motel indefinitely, David."

"No, but..." I scramble for a solution. "I have a spare room. You could stay with me while we figure things out."

"Let me think about it," she finally says. "This is all happening very fast."

"I know," I agree. "But he's four years old. We've already missed so much time."

Tyler races back to us, breathless and flushed. "Did you see how fast I went? I was like WHOOSH!"

I laugh, ruffling his hair. "I saw. Very impressive."

"Can we get ice cream?" he asks, looking between us hopefully.

Mia checks her watch. "It's not even noon," she says.

"Please?" Tyler draws out the word, clasping his hands. "Dad's here. It's special."

She melts at his reasoning, just as I do. "Okay, ice cream it is."

As we walk toward the ice cream stand, Tyler between us, he reaches up and takes my hand without hesitation. His small fingers wrap around mine with complete trust.

For the first time since my injury, since my world collapsed, I have a purpose again. Not catching footballs or making touchdowns, but something infinitely more important.

Being a father.

I've never played a more important game, never had more at stake. And for once, I'm grateful for clear eyes and a full heart to face the challenge.