Page 5 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

As soon as I close the motel room door behind me, it hits me again.

The reason why I must leave now. The unmistakable smell of whiskey wafting from a nearby room where the door stands slightly ajar. A maintenance worker or another guest, it doesn't matter.

What matters is the instant physical reaction: my mouth waters, my pulse quickens, my brain screams for what it knows will ease the constant, gnawing ache that's become my constant companion.

I sprint to my car, fumbling with the keys, desperate to escape before I do something I'll regret. Before I destroy the fragile trust I've just begun to build with my son and with Mia.

Once inside, I grip the steering wheel, and force myself to take three deep breaths before starting the engine. Even then, my hands shake as I back out of the parking space and pull onto the street.

The drive home is a blur. Traffic lights, other cars, pedestrians… They all fade into the background as I battle the craving consuming me from the inside out. It's been less than twenty-four hours since my last drink, and my body is already in full rebellion.

I park haphazardly in my building's garage and make my way to the elevator, avoiding eye contact with the doorman. In the mirrored walls, I catch glimpses of myself. Pale, sweating, eyes wild. I look like a man on the edge, because that's exactly what I am.

My apartment door finally closes behind me, and I slide down against it until I'm sitting on the floor, head in my hands.

The silence is deafening after hours of Tyler's cheerful chatter.

I should find comfort in having met my son, in the way he looked at me with trust and excitement, in the plans we made for tomorrow.

Instead, all I can think about is the bottle of scotch I know is hidden in the back of my closet. The emergency stash. The one I promised myself I wouldn't touch.

"No," I say aloud, my voice echoing in the empty apartment. "Not today."

I push myself up and stagger to the couch, collapsing onto it. My skin feels too tight, like it's shrinking around my bones. I pull off my shirt, then my shoes and socks, desperate for relief from the heat building inside me despite the cool air of the apartment.

My vision blurs as I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds between breaths. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—

The craving hits again, stronger this time. I can almost taste the burn, feel the warmth spreading through my chest, the blessed numbness that would follow. Just one drink to take the edge off. Just one to stop the shaking.

"No," I repeat, louder this time. "I promised Tyler."

Tyler. Four years old with my eyes and Mia's smile. A little boy who called me Dad without hesitation, who wants to learn to throw a football just like me, who hugged me goodbye with complete trust that I'll return tomorrow as promised.

I can't let him down. I won't.

But God, this is hell. My stomach cramps, my head pounds, and sweat soaks the couch beneath me. Is this withdrawal? Already? How much have I been drinking for my body to react this violently to less than a day without alcohol?

Too much. Far too much.

I roll onto my side, curling into myself as another wave of nausea hits. The clock on the wall says it's only 4 PM. Hours to go before I can hope for sleep to provide some escape.

I try to focus on Tyler instead of the craving. His laugh when I showed him how to grip the football. The serious concentration on his face as he tried to mimic my throwing motion. The chocolate ice cream smeared across his chin. His small hand in mine as we walked to the car.

The memories help, but only briefly before the physical need returns, relentless and demanding.

Maybe I should call someone. Ethan? No, he's got his own life with Sophia now. Jack's on the road. And Michael… Michael would help, but he'd also look at me with that mix of pity and disappointment that I can't bear to see right now.

Instead, I ride it out alone, as the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. At some point, I drag myself to the bathroom, retching into the toilet though there's little in my stomach to expel. I splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

Back on the couch, I cycle through every distraction I can think of—counting backward from one thousand, reciting old football plays, even trying to remember the pledge of allegiance from elementary school.

Anything to keep my mind off the scotch in the closet and the bourbon at the store just three blocks away.

Hours pass in this torturous state. Night falls and still sleep eludes me. I turn on the TV for noise, for company, but the beer commercials are too much to bear, so I switch it off again.

Sometime around midnight, I find myself standing in my bedroom doorway, staring at the closet where I know the scotch is hidden. My feet carry me forward without conscious thought, my hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Dad, I'll see you tomorrow!" Tyler's voice echoes in my memory, stopping me cold.

I back away from the closet, retreat to the living room, and collapse once more onto the couch. This time, I pull my phone out and look at the photo Mia gave me yesterday. Tyler grinning at the camera, missing tooth and all.

"I can do this," I whisper to his image. "I can be the dad you deserve."

The shaking doesn't stop, the craving doesn't ease, but somehow, looking at his face gives me the strength to endure one more hour. And then another. And another.

Next Day

"David? David, are you there?"

I jolt awake, disoriented and groggy. My phone is pressed against my ear, though I have no memory of answering it. Sunlight streams through the windows, painfully bright.

"Hello?" I croak, my throat desert-dry.

"Finally," Michael's voice comes through clearly. "I've been calling for ten minutes. Are you okay?"

I blink, trying to piece together what's happening. I'm still on the couch, still in just my jeans. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes foul, but the worst of last night's torment seems to have passed. Somehow, I fell asleep.

"Yeah," I manage. "I'm here. What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty," Michael says, concern evident in his voice. "Did I wake you?”

I sit up slowly, wincing as my stiff muscles protest. "Rough night," I say, which might be the understatement of the century.

"Drinking?" he asks bluntly. My brother has never been one to dance around a subject.

"The opposite, actually," I admit. "I'm trying to stop."

There's a brief silence on the other end of the line. "That's... unexpected. Good, but unexpected. What brought this on?"

I run a hand through my hair, grimacing at how greasy it feels. I need a shower desperately, but first, I need to tell someone about the seismic shift in my life.

"I have a son," I say, the words still strange and wonderful on my tongue.

"I'm sorry, what?" Michael's normally composed voice rises an octave.

"A son. His name is Tyler. He's four." The facts spill out, followed by the whole story. Mia showing up at my door, the revelation, meeting Tyler at the park, the ice cream, the football, the way he called me Dad without hesitation.

Michael listens without interrupting, a rarity for him. When I finally finish, there's a long pause before he speaks.

"Well, that explains the sobriety attempt," he says finally. "How are you handling it? Both the dad thing and the not drinking thing?"

"The dad thing? Terrified but... happy. Really happy," I say, surprised at the truth of it. "The not drinking thing? It's hell, Michael. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until I tried to stop."

"Do you need help?" he asks, direct as always. "I can arrange for a private rehab facility. Discreet, top-notch care. Or hire a live-in nurse to help you through the worst of it. Whatever you need."

The offer is tempting. The thought of facing another night like the last one makes my stomach turn. But something in me resists.

"I need to do this on my own," I say. "At least try to. I promised Tyler I'd see him today. I can't disappear into rehab right when he's found me."

"Understandable," Michael says. "But the offer stands if you change your mind. And David?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you," he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "For wanting to be there for your son. For trying to get sober for him. That takes real courage."

Proud. When was the last time anyone said they were proud of me? Not since the injury, certainly. Maybe not even before that, when praise was always about my performance on the field, never about who I was as a person.

"Thanks," I say. "That means a lot."

"I mean it," Michael insists. "And if you need anything, anything at all, just ask. That's what family is for."

We talk for a few more minutes, Michael promising to keep my news confidential until I'm ready to tell our other brothers. When we hang up, I sit for a moment, letting his words sink in.

Proud. Someone is proud of me, not for throwing touchdowns or winning games, but for trying to be a good father. For fighting against the alcohol that's had me in its grip for months.

The realization gives me a burst of energy. I check the time—9:45. I told Mia I'd come by around 11. That gives me just enough time to shower, shave, and pull myself together before seeing Tyler again.

The bathroom mirror reflects a man I barely recognize. Pale, exhausted, with dark circles under my eyes. But beneath the physical evidence of last night's struggle, there's something new in my expression. Determination, maybe. Or hope.

I shower thoroughly, letting hot water wash away the sweat and despair of the night before. As I shave, I think about what to do with Tyler today. The park again? Maybe a movie? What do four-year-old boys like to do?

I have so much to learn about being a father. So much to learn about my own son.

Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, I feel almost human again. The craving for alcohol is still there, a persistent whisper rather than last night's scream, but manageable for now. I pour myself a glass of orange juice instead, forcing down a piece of toast to settle my stomach.

Before leaving, I look around my apartment with new eyes. If Mia and Tyler are going to stay here—and God, I hope they will—there's work to be done. The spare room needs cleaning, the fridge needs actual food, the secret stash needs to go.

One step at a time, I remind myself. Today, I just need to keep my promise to Tyler. To show up. To be present. To be his dad.

As I grab my keys and head for the door, I realize I'm nervous. Not the bone-deep dread of last night's withdrawal, but the fluttery anticipation of seeing someone who matters. Someone who might, if I don't screw this up, come to love me simply because I'm his father.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I have something to live for beyond my next drink. Someone to live for.

My son.