Page 7 of Game Changer
In the end, I leave empty-handed. Better to be honest about who I am than to try to buy his affection right out of the gate.
The elevator seems to take forever. Each floor ticks by with excruciating slowness while my anxiety builds. What if he hates me? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I'm not cut out for this?
The lobby is busy with morning commuters. I keep my head down, not wanting to be recognized. The last thing I need today is someone asking for an autograph or, worse, offering condolences about my career.
Outside, the spring air hits me. Has it always smelled this good? The three-block walk to the park helps settle my nerves, the movement a comfort even with my damaged knee. I focus on mybreathing, on putting one foot in front of the other, on anything but the momentous meeting ahead.
The park comes into view, a green oasis amid concrete and glass. The red playground equipment stands out against the landscape, and even from a distance, I can see children climbing, swinging, running with the boundless energy of youth.
And then I see them. Mia sitting on a bench, watching a small boy—Tyler—hanging upside down from the monkey bars, his face red with exertion and joy. My son. My heart stutters in my chest.
I approach slowly, not wanting to intrude on their moment. Mia spots me first, her expression guarded but not unwelcoming. She leans forward and says something to Tyler, who immediately drops from the bars and whips around to look in my direction.
Even from twenty feet away, I can see myself in him. The shape of his eyes, the set of his jaw. He stands perfectly still for a moment, staring at me with the left eyebrow arched.
Then he's running, full-speed, straight at me.
I freeze, unsure what to do. Should I kneel down? Open my arms? Stay where I am?
Before I can decide, he's skidding to a stop in front of me, looking up with eyes that mirror my own.
"Are you my dad?" he asks, direct and unflinching.
I swallow hard, nodding. "Yeah, buddy. I'm your dad."
He looks at me with a seriousness that seems beyond his years, taking in every detail of my face.
"You look like me," he announces, satisfied with his assessment.
"Actually," I say, finding my voice and smiling, "you look like me. I was here first."
A grin breaks across his face, Mia's smile, and something inside me cracks open. I've seen thousands of fans cheer for me, but nothing has ever felt like this smile directed at me.
"Mom says you play football," he says, bouncing slightly on his toes.
"I used to," I correct gently, gesturing to my knee. "I got hurt."
His face falls. "So, you can't play with me?"
The disappointment in his voice cuts deep. I look at Mia, who has approached but is hanging back, giving us space. She raises an eyebrow, challenging me.
"I can still play," I say, making a decision. "Maybe not professionally anymore, but I can definitely play with you."
Tyler's face lights up again. "Really? Right now?"
I laugh, actually laugh, a sound I haven't heard from myself in months. "Sure, why not? Do you have a ball?"
He nods eagerly and runs back to Mia, who produces a small foam football from her bag. Tyler returns, holding it like it's made of gold.
"Mom says I have a good arm," he informs me seriously. "Like you."
Pride swells in my chest, unexpected and overwhelming. "Let's see what you've got," I say, taking a few steps back, ignoring the twinge in my knee.
Tyler sets his feet, his tongue poking out in concentration, and throws a wobbly but surprisingly strong pass. I catch it easily, grinning.
"Not bad," I say. "Want to see how the pros do it?"
He nods eagerly, and I demonstrate the proper grip, the stance, the follow-through. He watches with rapt attention, absorbing every word. When I toss the ball back, he mimics my technique perfectly.
