Page 20 of Game Changer
"Honestly? I don't know," I admit. "The man I was then... I'd like to think I would have stepped up, done the right thing. But I can't say for sure that I wouldn't have seen it as an obstacle, another distraction from the goal."
She nods, accepting my honesty without judgment. "That's why I didn't tell you. I knew how important your career was to you. I didn't want to be the reason you gave it up or resented your own child."
"But now football might be over anyway," I say, the reality of it still raw. "And I missed four years with my son."
"You're here now," she points out. "That's what matters to Tyler."
"And to you?" I ask, venturing into dangerous territory. "What matters to you, Mia?"
She looks away, focusing on something outside the window. "That Tyler is happy. Safe. That he has stability in his life."
"Can I provide that?" The question that's been haunting me since yesterday. "I want to. God, I want to. But after what you saw yesterday, what you're seeing today... I'm not exactly the picture of stability right now."
Mia sets her glass down and leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Let's talk about that. The drinking. How bad is it, really?"
I consider deflecting, minimizing, but what's the point? She's seen the evidence with her own eyes. "Bad," I admit. "Worse than I realized until I tried to stop. Yesterday was... rough."
"What were your withdrawal symptoms?" she asks, clinical but not cold.
I nod. "Shaking, sweating, couldn't sleep, felt like my skin was crawling. At one point I was standing in front of my closet where I had a bottle stashed, and it took everything I had not to open it."
"But you didn't," she notes.
"No. I kept thinking about Tyler. About today. About the promise I made to see him."
Her expression softens. "That's a good start. But David, withdrawal can be dangerous. Sometimes even fatal if it's severe enough. Have you thought about getting medical help?"
"Like I told you before, Michael offered," I say. "My billionaire brother. He mentioned rehab or a private nurse. But I don't want to disappear on Tyler just when he's found me."
"There are outpatient options," she suggests. "And having medical supervision doesn't mean you can't see Tyler. It just means doing it safely."
She's right, of course. The rational part of my brain knows this. But there's another part, the part that's spent years being self-sufficient, handling pain and injury without complaint, that resists admitting I can't do this alone.
"I'll think about it," I promise. "Talk to Michael again, see what he suggests."
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this compromise.
"He looks like you when he sleeps," Mia says. "Same little furrow between his eyebrows, like he's concentrating on his dreams."
The observation catches me off guard, a glimpse into the four years of Tyler's life that I missed.
"What else?" I ask, hungry for these details. "What else does he do that's like me?"
A small smile plays on her lips. "He's stubborn. Once he sets his mind on something, good luck changing it. And he has your competitive streak. Everything's a contest, even brushing teeth."
I laugh softly, recognizing myself in her description. "Poor kid. Those aren't my best qualities."
"He also has your focus," she continues. "When he's interested in something, he gives it his complete attention. And your kindness."
"Kindness?" I repeat, surprised. It's not a trait I typically associate with myself, especially lately.
"You were kind, David," she says. "Before the fame, before the pressure. You were the guy who stopped to help change flat tires, who remembered everyone's names, who visited children's hospitals even when the cameras weren't rolling."
I look down, uncomfortable with her assessment of a version of myself I haven't seen in the mirror for a long time.
"I'd like to be that guy again," I say quietly. "For Tyler. For myself."
"You can be," she says with a certainty I wish I shared. "It's still there, underneath everything else."
