Page 3 of Game Changer
I have a son. I still can’t believe it.
Mia moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, I remember the man you were before football became everything. That man would have been an amazing father."
The door clicks shut behind her, and I'm alone again with the photograph in my hand and the weight of a responsibility I never knew I had crushing down on me.
I stare at Tyler's face: my eyes, my chin, Mia's smile, and something stirs inside me. Something I thought died the day the doctors told me I might never play again.
Hope.
Not hope for a comeback or for glory on the field, but for something I never knew I wanted until this moment. A chance to be more than just number 18. A chance to be Dad.
I reach for my phone instead of the bourbon bottle. For the first time in months, I have a reason to be better than I am. I just don't know if I remember how.
Chapter 2 - Mia
I make it all the way to the elevator before the tears come.
Pressing my forehead against the cool metal wall, I let them fall silently, trying my best not to smudge my mascara. I can't afford to look like I've been crying when I pick up Tyler from Mrs. Naomi's apartment downstairs.
The elevator dings and I straighten, wiping my cheeks quickly as the doors slide open. Empty, thank God. I step in and press the lobby button, trying to process what just happened.
David Morrison. The man I once loved. The father of my child. A ghost from my past who now looks like a ghost himself.
When I imagined this moment, and I have, countless times over the years, I pictured anger, accusations, maybe even joy. I never pictured... defeat. The David I knew was vibrant, determined, his eyes always focused on the horizon, on his dreams. The man I just left has eyes that don't seem to focus on anything at all.
I pull out my phone and check the time. I told Mrs. Naomi I'd be back within the hour. Tyler will be getting antsy, asking for his afternoon snack and his favorite cartoon. My sweet, energetic boy who has no idea his whole world might be about to change.
The lobby is mercifully quiet as I cross to the main entrance. Outside, the spring air feels good against my flushed skin. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself before facing Tyler with what I hope is a reassuring smile.
David's building is in the expensive part of town, all gleaming glass and doormen in pressed uniforms. A far cry from our motel room with its musty carpet and flickering bathroom light. I walk the three blocks to the bus stop, each step taking me further from David's world and back toward my reality.
"Mom!" Tyler shouts as soon as I arrive and Mrs. Naomi opens her door. He launches himself at me, all gangly limbs and sticky fingers, and I catch him, lifting him up despite my exhaustion.
"Hey, buddy," I say, burying my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of apple juice and play-dough. "Were you good for Mrs. G?"
"He's always an angel," Mrs. Naomi says with a wink that tells me otherwise. The older woman has been a godsend since we arrived in town, watching Tyler for a fraction of what daycare would cost while I try to scrape together enough money to get us home.
"We made cookies!" Tyler announces proudly, wriggling out of my arms to retrieve a paper plate covered in plastic wrap. "I saved you two!"
"Thank you," I say, accepting the slightly misshapen chocolate chip cookies. "That was very thoughtful."
Mrs. Naomi gives me a searching look. "Everything okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only she knew how accurate that description is.
"Just tired," I lie, fishing in my purse for my wallet. "How much do I owe you for today?"
She waves me off. "We'll settle up Friday. Go get some rest."
I want to protest. I hate owing people, but I'm too emotionally drained to argue. "Thank you," I say instead, taking Tyler's hand. "Say thank you to Mrs. Naomi."
"Thank you!" Tyler chirps, already pulling me toward the door, eager to show me something in our room.
As we walk the short distance to our motel, Tyler chatters about his day—the cookies they baked, the cartoon they watched, thepicture he drew of a dinosaur playing football. I make the appropriate sounds of interest, but my mind keeps drifting back to David's apartment, to the empty bottles, to his bloodshot eyes.
"Mom, you're not listening," Tyler complains, tugging in my hand.
"I'm sorry, baby," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. "I've got a lot on my mind."
