Page 2 of Game Changer
"We have a son," she repeats, her voice steady but her hands trembling. "His name is Tyler. He's four years old."
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the couch, trying to anchor myself to something solid as her words sink in.
"Four years..." My mind races, calculating backward. "That's..."
"Right after you left for the majors," she confirms. "I found out two weeks after you were gone."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, an accusation rather than the plea it actually is.
Her eyes flash. "You were living your dream, David. The one you'd worked for your entire life. What was I supposed to do? Call you up and say, 'Congratulations on making it to the big leagues, by the way, I'm pregnant'?"
"Yes!" I stand up too quickly, my knee buckles, and I catch myself on the coffee table. "That's exactly what you should have done!"
She steps back, and I see fear flicker across her face. Not of me. I'd never hurt her, but of this situation, of the mess I've become, of what bringing me into her son's life—*our* son's life—might mean.
"I'm sorry," I say, softer now. "I just... a son? I have a son?"
She nods, her expression softening slightly. "He looks like you. Same eyes. Same stubborn chin."
I sink back down, my head spinning. "Why now? After four years, why are you telling me now?"
She hesitates, and I can see her wrestling with pride.
"I need help," she finally admits. "My car broke down last week. I can't afford to fix it and pay for Tyler's daycare, but I need both to keep working. I've been taking the bus, but we're always late, and my boss said one more time and I'm fired." She takes a shaky breath. "I've never asked anyone for anything, but this isn't about me anymore. It's about Tyler."
"You need money," I say flatly.
Her cheeks flush.
"I need help," she corrects. "And Tyler deserves to know his father. Even if his father is..." Her eyes sweep over me, and I feel the full weight of her assessment.
Even if his father is a broken-down, washed-up drunk.
"I can give you money," I say, though my accounts aren't what they were. I've been living on savings since the injury, and without a contract renewal, those savings won't last forever. But I have enough. More than enough for a car repair.
"It's not just about the money," she says. "When I decided to come here, I made a choice. Either you're in Tyler's life or you're not. I'm not looking for child support payments sent from a distance. I'm offering you the chance to be his father. If you want it."
A father. The word repeats in my head, foreign and terrifying. I can barely take care of myself. How could I possibly be responsible for a child?
"I need time to process this," I say.
"Of course." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a photograph, handing it to me. "This is Tyler."
I take it with trembling fingers. A little boy with my eyes stares back at me, grinning wide, a tooth missing in front. My heart pounds painfully in my chest.
"He loves football," Mia says softly. "Ironic, right? I never told him about you, but somehow he gravitates to the game. He's got a natural arm."
Pride surges through me, followed immediately by shame. What right do I have to feel proud of a child I didn't know existed until five minutes ago?
"I'm staying at the Westside Motel," she continues. "Room 118. I'll be there until Friday, then I have to go back whether my car is fixed or not." She pulls out a piece of paper and writes something on it. "Here's my number. When you're ready to talk, really talk, call me."
She places the paper on the coffee table, careful to avoid the bourbon bottle.
"He deserves better than this, David," she says, gesturing around the room. "If you want to be in his life, you need to decide what kind of man you want him to see."
The words cut deeper than any tackle ever has. Because she's right. The man I am right now isn't someone a child should know. Isn't someone I would want my son to know.
My son.
