Page 4 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

I watch Tyler skip ahead of us toward the ice cream stand, his energy seemingly boundless. Behind him walks David, still favoring his injured knee but moving with more purpose than he had yesterday.

The transformation is striking. Clean-shaven, dressed in actual clothes instead of sweats, his eyes clear and focused on Tyler instead of staring into middle distance.

But I know better than to trust a single good day.

"Chocolate with sprinkles!" Tyler announces when we reach the stand, bouncing on his toes. "Please," he adds, remembering his manners when I give him the look.

"What about you?" David asks me, pulling out his wallet.

"Nothing for me," I say. Ice cream is a luxury I rarely indulge in these days.

"Come on," he says, with a flash of the charm that once made my heart race. "My treat."

"Strawberry," I relent, ignoring the voice in my head that warns against accepting anything from him. This isn't about us. It's about Tyler having a normal day with both his parents.

David orders and pays: one chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles, one strawberry cone, and one vanilla in a cup for himself. We find a bench nearby, Tyler perched between us, already making a mess as chocolate drips down his fingers.

"So, you live in San Diego?" David asks, eating his ice cream in a way that suggests he's working hard to appear normal.

"Yeah, for about four years now. We have a small apartment near the beach. Nothing fancy, but Tyler can hear the waves at night."

"That sounds nice," he says, a wistful note in his voice. "I've never lived near the ocean."

"It's the best!" Tyler chimes in. "Sometimes we see dolphins! And once there was a seal on our beach and Mom said we couldn't pet it even though it looked super friendly."

"Wild animals need their space," I remind him, wiping chocolate from his chin. "Just like people."

David watches our interaction with hunger in his eyes, a man starving for the everyday moments he's missed. It tugs at something deep inside me, a place I've kept guarded since he left all those years ago.

"What do you do in San Diego?" he asks. "For work, I mean."

"I'm a legal secretary at a small firm," I say. "The hours are decent, and they're pretty understanding when Tyler gets sick or has school events."

What I don't add is how tight money always is, how I'm constantly one emergency away from disaster, as evidenced by my car breaking down. Or how I've put my own dreams of going to law school on permanent hold to make sure Tyler has everything he needs.

"And you like it there?"

I nod, trying to read between the lines of his question. "It's home," I say simply. "Tyler's school is great, and we have friends there."

"Mom's friend Anne babysits me sometimes," Tyler adds, his face now thoroughly smeared with chocolate. "She makes the best quesadillas ever."

"Better than mine?" I ask, pretending to be offended.

"Yours are good too," he says, making both David and me laugh.

It's a strange sensation, this shared moment of parental amusement.

For four years, I've been the only one to witness Tyler's personality unfold, the only one to take pride in his kindness, his humor, his stubborn determination.

Having someone else—not just someone, but his father—share in that feels both right and disorienting.

"So, what now?" I ask David quietly while Tyler focuses on saving his rapidly melting cone.

"I meant what I said about the spare room," he says. "It's just sitting there empty. You two could stay as long as you need."

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, keeping my voice low. "Tyler's getting attached already. If we stay with you, then leave..."

"Then don't leave," he says, an edge of desperation in his voice. "At least not right away. Give me a chance to be part of his life."

I search for signs of the old David, the one who made promises he couldn't keep, whose dreams always came before everything else. But all I see is a man terrified of losing something precious he's only just discovered.

"My job—"

"You can find a job here," he interrupts. "I'll help with expenses until you do. Please, Mia. I've missed four years. Don't make me miss more."

Before I can respond, Tyler tugs on my sleeve, his ice cream gone, face a sticky mess. "Can Dad come back to our room and see my action figures? I want to show him my football team."

The hope in his eyes is impossible to resist. "If he wants to," I say, glancing at David.

"I'd love to," David says immediately.

I pull wet wipes from my purse, a mother's essential, and clean Tyler's hands and face while he squirms impatiently. When I'm satisfied he won't stick to everything he touches, I stand up.

"We took the bus here, but we can catch another one back to the motel," I say.

"I have my car," David offers. "I can drive you."

The practical side of me wants to accept: no waiting for the bus, no walking six blocks from the stop to the motel in the afternoon heat. But another part hesitates, reluctant to be further indebted to him.

"Please, Mom?" Tyler asks. "Can we ride in Dad's car?"

And there it is. *Dad*. The word slips so easily from his lips, as if David has always been in his life rather than for less than two hours. I wonder if he even understands what it means, or if he's just excited to have a new person paying attention to him.

"Sure," I say, giving in. "We can ride with Dad."

David's car is not what I expected. Given his NFL salary, I'd imagined something flashy and impractical—a Ferrari or a Lamborghini. Instead, it's a sensible SUV, clean but not ostentatious.

"Do you have a car seat for him?" I ask as we approach it.

David's face falls. "I... no. I didn't think about that."

Of course he didn't. He's been a father for less than 24 hours.

"He can use the normal one this once," I decide, not wanting to dampen the mood. "But we'll need to get one if..." I stop myself before completing the thought. *If this continues. If you're going to be in his life regularly.*

"I'll order one today," David promises, opening the back door for Tyler, who climbs in with excitement.

"Your car is so clean!" he exclaims. "Mom's car has cheerios all over the back seat, even though I'm supposed to eat them at the table."

"Tyler," I warn, embarrassed by the comparison.

"It's okay," David says, smiling. "I'm sure my car would be full of cheerios too if I had a cool kid like you riding in it all the time."

The drive to the motel is short but illuminating.

Tyler chatters non-stop, pointing out everything we pass, a dog being walked, a construction site, a billboard with a cartoon character he recognizes.

David listens attentively, asking questions that show he's genuinely interested, not just humoring him.

I watch them interact in the rearview mirror, noting how similar their expressions are when they're excited about something. It's uncanny, seeing pieces of David in Tyler that I've never fully acknowledged before.

The motel looks even shabbier than usual as we pull into the parking lot. I feel a flash of shame, not wanting David to see where we've been staying, but then remind myself that I have nothing to be ashamed of. I'm doing my best with what I have.

"We're in 118," I say, pointing to a door on the ground floor.

David parks and we all get out, Tyler running ahead to the door, waiting impatiently for me to unlock it.

The room is small but tidy. I've made sure of that, even in a motel. Tyler's action figures are arranged on one side of the bed, his backpack open with coloring books spilling out. My suitcase is neatly zipped in the corner, with just a few items on the bathroom counter.

"Welcome to our palace," I say, aiming for light humor to mask my discomfort.

Tyler doesn't notice any awkwardness, immediately grabbing his plastic football players to show David.

"This one's the quarterback, like you were! And this one's the, um, the guy who catches the ball—"

"The receiver," David supplies, sitting on the edge of the bed to examine the toys.

"Yeah! And they work together to score points!"

I leave them to their bonding and step into the bathroom, needing a moment alone. The face in the mirror looks tired but hopeful, a dangerous combination. Hope has led me astray before.

When I return, Tyler is demonstrating a complicated play with his action figures, and David is watching with complete absorption, offering suggestions for improvement. They look right together, natural, as if they've always known each other.

The scene makes my chest ache with conflicting emotions. Joy that Tyler is finally meeting his father. Fear that it won't last. Guilt that I kept them apart for so long. Uncertainty about what comes next.

"Hey, buddy," David is saying. "Would it be okay if I talked to your mom alone for a minute? Grown-up stuff."

Tyler makes a face. "Grown-up stuff is boring."

"Sometimes," David agrees with a laugh. "But it's important. You can keep setting up your players, and we'll be right outside the door where you can see us through the window."

Tyler considers this, then nods, already focused back on his toys. David stands and gestures toward the door. I follow him outside, leaving the door cracked so we can hear if Tyler calls.

"Mia," David says as soon as we're alone. "I meant what I said earlier. I want you both to stay."

"It's not that simple," I sigh. "Tyler's life is in San Diego. My job, his preschool—"

"I know it's asking a lot," he interrupts. "But I'm asking anyway. Stay for the summer. Give me those months to be his dad, to show you I can be the man he needs."

"And what about what you need?" I challenge gently. "Yesterday you were drunk at 2 PM. One good day doesn't erase whatever's been going on with you."

He winces but doesn't deny it.

"I'm getting surgery next month," he says. "For my knee. There's a chance, a small one, that I might be able to play again afterward."

"And if you can't? If football is really over for you?"

His jaw tightens. "Then I'll figure out who I am without it. But either way, I'm a father now. That doesn't change, regardless of what happens with my career."

I want to believe him. The sincerity in his eyes, the determination in his voice… They're compelling. But I've seen him determined before, seen him chase his dreams with single-minded focus that left no room for anything, or anyone, else.

"I need to think about it," I say. "This isn't just about what you want, or even what I want. It's about what's best for Tyler."

"I understand," he says, though disappointment clouds his features. "Take all the time you need. But know that I'm serious about this. About him."

Through the window, I can see Tyler arranging his action figures in a line, completely absorbed in his game. He looks up, catches us watching, and waves enthusiastically. We both wave back.

"He's happy you're here," I admit. "He's always wanted a dad."

"I want to be his dad," David replies. "More than I've wanted anything in a long time."

This isn't the same man who left me behind years ago, chasing fame and glory on the football field. This is someone new. Wounded, yes, but maybe more capable of depth than he was before.

"Let me think about it," I repeat. "Just... give me a day."

He nods, accepting this compromise. "Can I come back tomorrow? Spend more time with him?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. Tyler's joy today has been worth any complications. "He'd like that."

"I should go," David says out of nowhere, catching me off guard. "Let you two have some time together."

"Okay," I agree, though part of me is reluctant to end this unexpected, imperfect family day.

We go back inside, where Tyler looks up expectantly. "Are you leaving, Dad?" he asks, his lower lip already threatening to pout.

"Yeah, buddy, I've got to go handle some things," David says, kneeling despite his bad knee to be at Tyler's level. "But I'll come back tomorrow, okay? Maybe we can throw the football around some more."

"Promise?" Tyler asks, and I hold my breath, knowing how much weight that word carries.

"I promise," David says firmly. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

Tyler throws his arms around David's neck in a spontaneous hug that clearly catches David off guard. For a moment, he freezes, then wraps his arms around our son, holding him close, his eyes closing briefly as if memorizing the feeling.

When they separate, David's eyes are suspiciously bright. "Be good for your mom," he says, voice slightly rough. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye, Dad!" Tyler calls as David heads for the door. He catches my eye and mouths a silent "thank you" before leaving.

As the door closes behind him, Tyler turns to me, his face alight with excitement.

"Dad's so cool! Did you see how far he can throw the football? And he said I throw just like him! And tomorrow he's coming back and we're going to play more and maybe he can show me how to kick the ball too and—"

"Whoa, slow down," I laugh, though my heart aches at his enthusiasm. "Yes, your dad is pretty cool."

"Are we going to stay here so I can see him more?" Tyler asks, suddenly serious. "I don't want to go back to San Diego if Dad's here."

I sit on the bed, patting the space beside me. Tyler joins me, his small face earnest.

"I'm thinking about it," I say honestly. "There's a lot to consider. Your school, my job—"

"But Dad's here," Tyler insists, as if that trumps all other concerns. And maybe, in his four-year-old mind, it does.

"I know, baby. And no matter what we decide, your dad will be part of your life now. Even if we go back to San Diego, we'll figure out a way for you to see him."

Tyler considers this, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I want to stay," he says finally. "I like it here with Dad."

I brush his hair back from his forehead, marveling at how quickly he's bonded with David. Is it because he's been waiting for a father figure? Or is there something more innate, some biological connection that transcends time and absence?

"We'll see," I say, the parent's universal non-answer. "Now, how about we get something to eat? I think there's a sandwich place around the corner."

As Tyler chatters about what kind of sandwich he wants, I find myself thinking about David's offer. The spare room in his apartment. Staying for the summer. Giving Tyler the chance to know his father.

It's a tempting proposition. Not just for Tyler's sake, but maybe, if I'm honest with myself, for mine too. Because despite everything, despite the years and the hurt and the separate lives we've built, seeing David with our son today awakened something I thought was long dead.

Hope. Dangerous, irrational, persistent hope.

And I'm not sure if that's a good thing, or a disaster waiting to happen.