Page 14 of Game Changer
"I can do this," I whisper to his image. "I can be the dad you deserve."
The shaking doesn't stop, the craving doesn't ease, but somehow, looking at his face gives me the strength to endure one more hour. And then another. And another.
Next Day
"David? David, are you there?"
I jolt awake, disoriented and groggy. My phone is pressed against my ear, though I have no memory of answering it. Sunlight streams through the windows, painfully bright.
"Hello?" I croak, my throat desert-dry.
"Finally," Michael's voice comes through clearly. "I've been calling for ten minutes. Are you okay?"
I blink, trying to piece together what's happening. I'm still on the couch, still in just my jeans. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes foul, but the worst of last night's torment seems to have passed. Somehow, I fell asleep.
"Yeah," I manage. "I'm here. What time is it?"
"Nine-thirty," Michael says, concern evident in his voice. "Did I wake you?”
I sit up slowly, wincing as my stiff muscles protest. "Rough night," I say, which might be the understatement of the century.
"Drinking?" he asks bluntly. My brother has never been one to dance around a subject.
"The opposite, actually," I admit. "I'm trying to stop."
There's a brief silence on the other end of the line. "That's... unexpected. Good, but unexpected. What brought this on?"
I run a hand through my hair, grimacing at how greasy it feels. I need a shower desperately, but first, I need to tell someone about the seismic shift in my life.
"I have a son," I say, the words still strange and wonderful on my tongue.
"I'm sorry, what?" Michael's normally composed voice rises an octave.
"A son. His name is Tyler. He's four." The facts spill out, followed by the whole story. Mia showing up at my door, the revelation, meeting Tyler at the park, the ice cream, the football, the way he called me Dad without hesitation.
Michael listens without interrupting, a rarity for him. When I finally finish, there's a long pause before he speaks.
"Well, that explains the sobriety attempt," he says finally. "How are you handling it? Both the dad thing and the not drinking thing?"
"The dad thing? Terrified but... happy. Really happy," I say, surprised at the truth of it. "The not drinking thing? It's hell, Michael. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until I tried to stop."
"Do you need help?" he asks, direct as always. "I can arrange for a private rehab facility. Discreet, top-notch care. Or hire a live-in nurse to help you through the worst of it. Whatever you need."
The offer is tempting. The thought of facing another night like the last one makes my stomach turn. But something in me resists.
"I need to do this on my own," I say. "At least try to. I promised Tyler I'd see him today. I can't disappear into rehab right when he's found me."
"Understandable," Michael says. "But the offer stands if you change your mind. And David?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you," he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "For wanting to be there for your son. For trying to get sober for him. That takes real courage."
Proud. When was the last time anyone said they were proud of me? Not since the injury, certainly. Maybe not even before that, when praise was always about my performance on the field, never about who I was as a person.
"Thanks," I say. "That means a lot."
"I mean it," Michael insists. "And if you need anything, anything at all, just ask. That's what family is for."
