Page 12 of Game Changer
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.
