Page 17 of Game Changer
"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."
Our pizza arrives. A T-Rex for Tyler, regular pies for David and me, along with a basket of breadsticks shaped like bones. Tyler is delighted, eating around the edges of his dinosaur pizza to "save the best parts for last," as he explains very seriously.
"Have you thought any more about staying?" David asks while Tyler is occupied with his meal. "At least for a while?"
I've thought of little else since yesterday. "It's complicated," I say. "My job, for one thing. I can't just not show up on Monday."
"You could call them," he suggests. "Explain the situation. Or look for something here, if you decide to stay longer."
"And what about our apartment? Our things?" I counter. "I can't just abandon everything."
"I could help with that," he offers. "Pay for movers, storage, whatever you need. Or even just the rent on your place while you decide what you want to do long-term."
The offer is tempting. Too tempting. It would solve so many practical problems. But there are other concerns, ones not so easily addressed with money.
"And what about you?" I ask quietly. "Last night was just the beginning, David. Getting sober isn't a one-day battle. It's going to be hard, really hard. Are you sure you want Tyler to see that?"
He looks down at his barely-touched pizza, then back up at me, his eyes steady despite the exhaustion in them.
"I want Tyler to see me trying," he says. "I want him to know his dad isn't perfect, but that I'm doing everything I can to be the father he deserves. Isn't that better than him not seeing me at all?"
It's a good answer. Maybe too good.
"And what if it doesn't work out?" I press. "What if you can't stay sober? What if the surgery doesn't fix your knee? Or what if football calls you back? Tyler's already attached to you. If you disappear from his life now, it will break his heart."
"I won't disappear," he says with such conviction that I almost believe him. "Football may or may not be in my future, but Tyler always will be. I promise you that, Mia."
