Page 6 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

"Mom, is it time yet?" Tyler asks for the fifth time in as many minutes, peering out the motel window for any sign of David's SUV.

I've barely slept, torn between practical concerns and emotional ones. The practical: How would we afford to stay in town if I'm not working? What about Tyler's preschool? Our apartment in San Diego?

The emotional: Is David really committed to sobriety and fatherhood, or is this just the initial excitement that will fade when reality sets in?

Tyler bounces from the window to the bed and back again, his energy boundless. He's been up since six, talking non-stop about what he wants to do with his dad today.

"Do you think Dad knows how to play catch with a real baseball? Bobby's dad taught him, and I want to learn too. And maybe we could go to the zoo! Do they have a zoo here? San Diego has the best zoo in the whole world, that's what my teacher said."

"I'm sure there's a zoo," I say, smoothing his cowlick for the dozenth time. "But maybe we should see what your dad has planned before we make suggestions."

"Okay," Tyler agrees, though I can tell he's already formulating his pitch for whatever activity he's set his heart on.

A car door slams outside, and Tyler races back to the window. "He's here! Dad's here!"

Before I can stop him, he's flung open the motel room door and is running across the parking lot.

I follow quickly, relieved to see David crouching down to catch Tyler in a hug.

He's dressed nicely in jeans and a button-down shirt, hair still damp from a shower, but something seems off.

As I get closer, I notice the dark circles under his eyes, a certain tension in his posture.

"Good morning," I say, studying him, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just didn't sleep well," he says with a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Too excited about today, I guess."

I don't believe him for a second, but I'm not going to call him out in front of Tyler, who's already tugging on David's hand, leading him back toward our room.

"Come see my dinosaurs, Dad! I didn't show you yesterday 'cause we were playing football, but I have a T-Rex that roars when you push his back, and a triceratops that's missing one horn because I accidentally stepped on him, but he's still really cool."

David allows himself to be pulled along, listening as Tyler continues his dinosaur inventory.

I follow, wondering what really kept David up last night.

The obvious answer sends a chill through me—withdrawal.

I've seen it before with my uncle who struggled with alcoholism for years.

The shakes, the sweats, the sleepless nights.

Is that what David's going through? And if so, is he doing it alone?

Inside the room, Tyler immediately dumps out his backpack of toys onto the bed, searching for his dinosaur collection. David sits on the edge of the mattress, as if he's afraid of breaking something or himself.

"I made some coffee," I offer, gesturing to the small pot on the dresser. The motel room doesn't offer much, but it does have a single-cup coffee maker. "It's not great, but it's caffeine."

"That would be amazing, actually," he says with genuine gratitude.

I pour him a cup, black since we don't have cream or sugar, and hand it to him. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I notice his hand is trembling slightly.

"Thanks," he says, taking a sip. "Perfect."

Tyler has finally located his dinosaurs and is now arranging them in what appears to be a prehistoric battle scene on the bedspread.

"Dad, you can be the T-Rex," he declares, handing David the largest dinosaur. "He's the king, so he's the most important one."

"Thanks, buddy," David says, his voice warming as he focuses on Tyler. "That's a big responsibility. What sound does a T-Rex make?"

Tyler demonstrates an impressive roar that makes both David and me laugh. For a moment, David's exhaustion seems to lift, replaced by genuine joy as he joins in, making his own dinosaur roar that sends Tyler into fits of giggles.

I sit in the room's only chair, watching them play. It's surreal, seeing them together like this. Tyler has David's mannerisms—the way he tilts his head when he's thinking, the slight furrow between his brows when he's concentrating. How did I never notice these similarities before?

"So," I say after a few minutes of dinosaur warfare, "what's the plan for today?"

David looks up, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "I actually have some ideas, if that's okay. There's a children's museum downtown that's supposed to be really good. And maybe lunch after? There's a place that makes pizza in the shape of dinosaurs."

Tyler's eyes widen. "Dinosaur pizza? For real?"

"For real," David confirms.

I'm impressed that he's put thought into this, researched activities that would appeal to a four-year-old. It's more effort than I expected, especially given how rough he looks.

"That sounds great," I say. "The museum is a good idea. It's supposed to rain this afternoon."

"I checked the weather too," David says, and there's a note of pride in his voice, as if he's pleased to have anticipated this parental concern.

We pack up Tyler's backpack with snacks, his water bottle, and a change of clothes (accidents are rare these days, but better safe than sorry). David watches with interest, clearly taking mental notes on the logistics of traveling with a preschooler.

"I got something yesterday," he says as we're preparing to leave. "It's in my car."

Outside, he opens the trunk of his SUV to reveal a brand-new booster seat, still in its box.

"I wasn't sure exactly what kind he needed," he admits. "The website had about fifty options. But the reviews said this one was good for his age and size."

Such a small thing, really—a car seat. A basic necessity for any parent. But the fact that David went out and researched it, bought it, made sure Tyler would be safe in his car. It speaks to an effort I wasn't sure he'd make.

"It's perfect," I say, helping him unbox it while Tyler explores the backseat of the SUV, exclaiming over the cup holders and the window controls.

David struggles slightly with the installation, his hands still not entirely steady, but he refuses my offer of help.

"I need to learn how to do this," he insists, finally clicking everything into place.

Once Tyler is securely buckled in, we head downtown. The museum isn't far, maybe fifteen minutes with traffic. David drives slowly, checking the rearview mirror frequently to glimpse Tyler, who's pointing out everything we pass with endless enthusiasm.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask quietly while Tyler is distracted by a fire truck passing on the opposite side of the street. "You seem... off."

David's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "It was a rough night," he admits, keeping his voice low. "Turns out going cold turkey isn't as easy as just deciding to stop."

So, it was withdrawal. My suspicion confirmed, I feel a mixture of concern and unexpected admiration. He could have taken the easy way out, had a drink to ease the symptoms, promised himself he'd quit more gradually. But he didn't.

"Did you sleep at all?" I ask.

"Eventually," he says. "And I talked to my brother this morning. Michael. He offered to help, if I need it."

"That's good," I say, genuinely relieved that he's not completely alone in this. "Support is important."

He nods, eyes fixed on the road. "I told him about Tyler. About you. Hope that's okay."

"Of course," I say. "He's your brother." Then, after a pause: "What did he say?"

A small smile touches David's lips. "He said he was proud of me. For trying to be a good dad. For getting sober."

The simple statement carries such weight. I remember how David used to crave his family's approval, how much it meant to him when his brothers came to his games. To hear that his successful, demanding brother is proud of him now, at what might be his lowest point… I can see how much that means.

"I'm proud of you too," I find myself saying. "What you're doing isn't easy."

He glances at me. "Thanks. That... that means a lot, coming from you."

Tyler shouts, "Museum! I see it!" and suddenly the spell is broken.

The Children's Museum of Denver turns out to be an excellent choice.

It's crowded but not overwhelming, with interactive exhibits designed for kids of various ages.

A building with giant foam blocks, experimenting with water tables, crawling through tunnels designed to look like ant colonies.

Tyler is in heaven, racing from one activity to the next.

David follows him, getting down on the floor to play despite his bad knee, helping Tyler reach things that are too high, asking questions that make him think and giggle in equal measure. For someone who's been a father for less than forty-eight hours, he's a natural.

I hang back slightly, giving them space to bond while remaining close enough to step in if needed. A woman beside me smiles as we watch our respective children.

"Your husband is so good with him," she comments. "My Jason won't even touch the finger paint. Too messy."

I open my mouth to correct her—*He's not my husband*—but the words stick in my throat. What is David to me now? The father of my child, yes. My ex, technically, though we never formally broke up. He just left for the big leagues, and I let him go. But now?

"Thanks," I say instead, letting the assumption stand. It's easier than explaining.

By lunchtime, Tyler is happily exhausted and David looks like he might collapse. We head to the dinosaur pizza place, which turns out to be as charming as promised—T-Rex shaped pizzas, drinks served in plastic dinosaur cups that kids can take home, walls covered in prehistoric murals.

"This is the coolest restaurant ever!" Tyler declares, coloring on his paper placemat while we wait for our food.

"I'm glad you like it," David says, his smile genuine despite the fatigue evident in his posture. "I found it online last night when I couldn't sleep."