Page 1 of Game Changer
Chapter 1 - David
I stare at the half-empty bottle of bourbon on my coffee table, trying to decide if I should finish it now or save some for when the sun goes down.
The blinds are drawn, but I can tell it's mid-afternoon by the sliver of light cutting through the darkness of my apartment. Not that time matters anymore. Days blur together when you've got nowhere to be, no one waiting, nothing but the silence and the steady throb of a knee that betrayed me.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Probably Ethan checking in. Or Michael with another "opportunity" he thinks will give me purpose. Or Jack sending photos from whatever rodeo he's conquering this week. My brothers mean well, but they don't understand. How could they? Ethan has his forge and his girlfriend. Michael has his empire and his new girlfriend. Jack has the whole damn rodeo circuit at his feet.
I had football. And now I have nothing.
The phone buzzes again. Persistent. I grab it, squinting at the screen. A text from an unknown number.
*I need to see you. I'm outside your building. Please.*
Probably another reporter. They've mostly given up after months of "Former Star Quarterback David Morrison's Spectacular Fall from Grace" stories, but occasionally one gets ambitious, hoping to catch me at my worst. I'm not giving them the satisfaction.
I toss the phone aside and reach for the bottle, but before my fingers close around it, there's a knock at my door. Sharp. Determined.
"Go away," I call out, my voice rough from disuse.
"David, please. It's Mia."
The name hits me like a rival linebacker. Unexpected, jarring, knocking the breath from my lungs. Mia. A ghost from before. Before the big leagues. Before the fame. Before the fall.
"Mia?" I say, more to myself than to her.
"Please open the door. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."
I push myself up from the couch, wincing as my knee protests. The doctors just yesterday told me about an experimental surgery that might fix it enough for me to play again. One last shot at redemption. But that's next month, and right now, I'm still broken. In every way that matters.
I glance at my reflection in the darkened TV screen. Unshaven, hair too long, wearing the same sweatpants and T-shirt I've had on for three days. I look exactly like what I am: a man who's lost everything.
I open the door, and there she is. Mia. Five years older than when I last saw her, but still beautiful in that way that always made me want to rip off her clothes. Dark hair pulled back, those deep brown eyes that see too much. She's thinner, though. Tired-looking.
"You look like hell," she says, not unkindly.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe for support, both physical and emotional.
"Can I come in?"
I hesitate, suddenly aware of what she'll see. The empty bottles. The takeout containers. The evidence of a life in ruins.
"It's not a good time," I say.
"It's never going to be a good time, David." She clutches her purse tighter. "But this can't wait."
I step back, gesturing her inside with a half-hearted wave. She enters cautiously, like she's walking into a lion's den. I can't blame her. I'm not the same man she knew.
"Do you want something to drink?" I offer, then realize the absurdity of it as her eyes take in the state of my living room.
"No," she says, remaining standing though I collapse back onto the couch. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to be sober enough to hear it."
"I'm sober enough," I lie. I'm never truly sober these days.
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders. "You have a son."
The words don't register at first. They float in the air between us, disconnected from meaning.
"What?"
