Page 21 of Game Changer
From the bedroom, we hear a small sound. Not crying, just the rustle of movement. We both freeze, listening, but there's no further noise.
"Still sleeping," Mia confirms. "Just repositioning."
The moment feels domestic, intimate. Two parents monitoring their child together. It's something I never knew I wanted until now.
"About your offer," Mia says, returning to the subject of them staying. "I've been thinking about it. A lot, actually."
My heart rate picks up. "And?"
"I'll stay," she says. "Not necessarily here," she adds quickly, gesturing around the apartment. "But in town. At least for a while. Give Tyler a chance to get to know you better."
"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than I've meant anything in a long time. "But look… The offer to stay here stands. The spare room, I mean. I can clear it out today."
She hesitates. "I'm not sure that's the best idea. For a lot of reasons."
I understand her reluctance. Moving in together, even in this context, would be complicated. There's history between us, unresolved feelings, the awkwardness of co-parenting when we're essentially strangers now.
"I respect that," I say. "But just so you know, I can help find you a place nearby. Something better than the motel. And cover the cost," I add when I see her start to protest. "It's the least I can do, Mia. Please let me do this."
She considers for a moment, then nods. "Okay. A short-term rental, maybe. Something furnished, since all our stuff is in San Diego."
"I'll make some calls," I promise. "My real estate agent can probably find something perfect."
"Your real estate agent," she repeats with a small laugh. "Sometimes I forget who I'm talking to. NFL star David Morrison."
"Former star," I correct. "Currently just Tyler's dad."
"That's a pretty important job too, you know."
"I'm learning that," I say. "And I'm going to get better at it. I promise."
"One day at a time, David. That's all any of us can do."
Chapter 8 - Mia
"One day at a time. That's all any of us can do."
I would never tell him, but I'm happy to be here. Happy that beneath the alcohol and pain, glimpses of the old David still emerge. The thoughtful man who researched children's museums and dinosaur restaurants, who bought a car seat and installed it himself despite shaking hands, who speaks about his mistakes with honesty instead of excuses.
But wanting to see more of that man and being willing to stick around through what comes next are two different things. I watched my uncle try to quit drinking a dozen times over the years. The pattern was always the same. Determination, withdrawal, sobriety for a week or two, then relapse, each cycle more devastating than the last.
During those withdrawal periods, he'd become someone else entirely—agitated, sometimes violent, a stranger wearing my uncle's face.
David is only on day two. What happens on day five? Day ten? When the reality of giving up alcohol fully sets in?
I glance at him as he moves closer on the couch, our thighs brushing. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, he's still ridiculously handsome: that perfect jawline now clean-shaven, those expressive eyes, the nose I always found oddly endearing, those arched eyebrows that rise when he's surprised or amused.
But what I can't stop looking at are his lips. He used to bite his lower lip when he was nervous, a habit he seems to have outgrown. They look soft, inviting. Delicious.
"Everything alright?" David asks, catching me staring.
"I'm just tired," I fumble, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's been an eventful couple of days."
He tilts his head. "I know you well enough to know when you're lying, Mia. You can tell me the truth."
The truth? The truth is that I'm an absolute idiot. The truth is that I want him to kiss me, to touch me, to make me feel something besides stress and worry for the first time in years. But I can't say that. I shouldn't even be thinking it. Not when everything is so complicated, not when my son—our son—is asleep in the next room.
He leans forward slightly, his lips now just inches from mine. I could close that distance so easily. One small movement and I'd know if he tastes the same as he did five years ago. But no. If this is going to happen, and it shouldn't, I'm not taking that first step. He left me. If he wants this, he has to show it.
