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Entry tags:
texas forever
Texas Forever
Friday Night Lights
Gen; Future fic
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: No specific spoilers, but takes everything through 1x19 into account (and if I get jossed by the last three, um, whoops?)
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.
Notes and thanks at the end...
Texas Forever
***
Jay only called late at night. "You quit yet, Riggins?" he hissed, when Tim answered the phone. "That's what you're good at, isn't it? Sliding by, not caring. Just like your daddy, running off when anything gets too tough." Tim never answered, just lay in the dark, letting the hoarse voice wash over him. It wasn't much but it was better than not having any contact at all.
***
***
The kitchen was too small for all of them, but there was something going on at Landry's house and no way in hell Tim was doing any of this at home. Landry apparently used the Saracens' place as easily as his own, and wherever Saracen was these days, Julie Taylor wasn't far behind and so there they all were, tripping over each other while Tim tried his damnedest to make sense of Willy Loman and Hester Prynne.
"My God," Landry said, shaking his head and scribbling fiercely. "Have you ever heard of punctuation? Just the basics, like commas and periods."
Tim looked at him, the look that generally got people moving in the other direction, fast, but Landry wasn't paying attention.
"Okay, see, and here, you could use a semi-colon--"
"Let's not get crazy," Julie said, picking her head up off the table and squinting at the clock on the opposite wall. "Okay, I should probably be going home, because if I miss curfew, there is no way my dad is going to believe this scenario."
"Yeah," Saracen said, jumping up. "Good idea."
Tim thought about mentioning how very whipped he was, but Julie was standing right there, getting her stuff together, and Tim really didn't need anyone named Taylor riding his ass any more than they already were.
"Landry, man, can I ...?" Saracen gestured toward the keys to the traveling junk heap that was parked behind Tim's truck.
"Not a problem, not a problem," Landry answered, grabbing them off the table and handing them over. "Be smooth, children."
Saracen at least had the style to roll his eyes at the advice; there was hope for him yet, Tim thought, staring at the books stacked up next to Landry's elbow. Julie ran into the other room to say good-bye to Saracen's grandma. Matt tossed the keys from one hand to the other. Landry muttered and kept making notes on the paper Tim had given him, one red mark after another on stuff that had taken Tim days to write and Tim had fucking asked for this shit, had sat in his truck for close to an hour before he'd grown the balls to stuff his books in with his practice gear and go find Landry.
"Wait, wait," Landry said, slapping his hand down on the table, and Tim almost jumped at the sudden noise. "Right here, on page 3, it's an actual original thought, supported with examples and logic, and Riggins, seriously, this is a thing of beauty." He smiled at Tim, with a goofy proud look on his face, but it didn't stop him from making another damn note. "Really creative spelling, too, but we're not reaching for the stars just yet."
"This is good," Julie said from behind him, and it took him a second to realize she was talking to him, because as far as he knew, Julie Taylor didn't bother with people she didn't have a use for, and football players were pretty high on her useless list, even before you added in the whole Tyra thing.
"What you're doing here; it's good." She gave him a funny half-smile, shrugging as she followed Saracen out the door. "I just thought you should know."
"That girl," Landry said. "You ever notice how she's got her mother's eyes?" He shook his head. "I keep tellin' Matt, she's not just a pretty face, she looks straight through you, but he just gives me that 'dude, I really like her' line and man, he has it bad, to be puttin' himself in that line of fire." He looked back down at the paper. "Okay, look, see here? That's, no, this whole part, it's, like, what were you thinking?"
Tim pretty much thought there was more than one idiot on the Panther offense, and hell, at least Saracen was getting something out of his stupidity, something other than passing grades, but Tim had asked for this and he wasn't going to stop now.
***
***
The locker room was quiet, empty, but Tim couldn't quite make himself shower and change. Smash was the first one out to the bus, Saracen the last, but Tim stayed. He waved off Coach, told him Billy was there and he'd get home that way and everyone finally left him alone to try to make sense of one more thing he'd wanted and not gotten.
The solid mass of hurt that was his body settled and separated out into individual aches: the bruise on his thigh from going over the line for his first touchdown, the sharper burn where the scab on his forearm had been torn away when he threw one final desperate block. The room was quiet, just a slow drip from one of the showers, so he couldn't help but hear the shhhshhh of Jason's chair as he moved across the tile floor, but it didn't mean he had to look up.
Jason didn't leave and they sat there together until the janitor came to turn out the lights and Tim finally stood to pull off his shoulder pads.
"Good game, Thirty-three," Jay said, soft and quiet, and Tim didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
***
***
"Goddammit, Tim," Billy shouted. "What the hell do you think this'll change?"
Tim looked up from watching Mac tape his ankle. "Man, c'mon, not in the locker room."
Billy closed his mouth with an almost audible snap, just like Tim knew he would once the untouchable pre-game ritual was mentioned.
"Timmy," Billy said, and Tim couldn't ignore the quiet panic in his voice. "He's dicking you over again, using you."
Mac smoothed on the last piece of tape and left them with a curt, "Ten minutes, boys." Tim could see him talking to Coach Taylor, could see the way Coach was looking out at Billy and Tim, eyes narrowed. He nodded once to Tim and then turned back to the whiteboard in his office.
"Yeah," Tim finally said to Billy. "I know he is--" He caught Billy's arm as he made an exasperated sound and started to turn away. "No, Billy, really. I know, but... He called and I..."
Billy knew; Tim could see it in his eyes. Billy knew and he didn't want to have to tell Tim Walt was betting on them and the only reason Tim was getting calls was to try to get an edge with the bookies. Tim knew, had known right from the start, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it.
Coach knew, too; Tim had waited until everyone had cleared out, until the locker room was dark and he could stand just outside the office door when he told him.
Tim wasn't talking; it was only a matter of time before his dad would figure that out and the calls would stop.
Billy looked at him for a long minute and then shook his head. "Right."
Someday Tim was going to tell Billy that he sighed like a little old lady, but since he was mostly just grateful Billy got it, got that Tim couldn't not try, no matter what, today probably wasn't going to be that day.
"Don't go fucking yourself up when he does it this time," Billy said, turning to leave for real this time. "Clear eyes," he added over his shoulder.
Tim nodded. "Can't lose," he answered, and wished he believed it for anything but football.
***
***
He didn't really see why he needed to hang around for the actual ceremony. Billy wouldn't get on a plane, not even to see Tim get an honest-to-God Bachelor of Arts degree, but he raised such holy hell when Tim said he was going to skip out on the cap and gown that Tim hung up on him, twice. Billy kept calling back, though, wouldn't shut up about it until Tim finally agreed, just to get a little peace.
Billy was right--not that Tim ever planned on telling him that. Maybe it was just a dime-a-dozen BA in Recreation Management from the University of Wyoming, no big deal, but it was his and there were a hell of a lot of people who'd have bet cold, hard cash that Tim Riggins wouldn't have ever gotten that piece of paper.
He stood in what passed for the sun that far north, with a couple of frat brothers and their families, not really even noticing that he was alone, until he turned around and saw Coach Taylor walking toward him.
"My wife keeps track of a lot of things," Coach said, shaking his hand, his grip firm and sure. "But she didn't have to tell me about this. Congratulations, son." He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons on his dress shirt. "Let me buy you a beer?"
"Yes, sir," Tim answered, glad he hadn't worn jeans under the cap and gown.
***
***
"What do you want to do, Tyra?" Tim opened the door of Tyra's old pick-up, the better to let the sun soak into him.
"Jesus, Tim, you're like a lizard baking on a rock," Tyra said, following him out.
"Too much Texas in me to get used to winter in Laramie." He shrugged, leaning against the sun-heated metal. "Doesn't answer my question."
"I know what I should do," Tyra said, after a long time.
"Yeah." Tim narrowed his eyes so he could watch her without turning away from the sun. "What does Billy say?"
"Do what I want." Tyra shrugged. "He'll drive me to Austin if I want to take care of it there. He'll help out as much as he can if I want to keep it. Him. Her. Whatever."
"Yeah." That was Billy, for sure.
"It's just..." Tyra had her eyes on the ground, watching the patterns she was scraping in the dust with the pointed toe of her boot.
"Just?"
"Nobody ever wanted me, Tim. Mama… she loves me, but she can barely take care of herself." She looked up and he didn't see any accusation in her eyes, but he didn't see much forgiveness either. "Maybe I want to see if I could do better."
***
***
Tim wasn't sure what the hell he was doing, standing in the Century Ballroom of the Hotel Adolphus in a suit and tie with a glass of champagne going warm in his hand, except it was Lyla and he guessed that would always explain things. She smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek before she turned to introduce him to her brand-new father-in-law, who shook his hand and congratulated him on going in the third round. Buddy butted in to make sure everyone knew that little ol' Dillon--and by extension, Buddy--was responsible for everything. Tim managed to not punch the guy right there in the receiving line, but it was a near thing, and he figured it was about time for something a whole lot stronger and less bubbly in his glass.
Tim wasn't the only person who felt like hard liquor was going to be needed to get through dinner and dancing and cake-cutting and whatever the hell else was in the works for the night; the line for the bar was ten deep by the time he got to it. He didn't blame Jason for working the chair-vibe and cutting up to where Tim had finally made it to the bartender.
It still wasn't like it used to be, easy silences and sure footing, but that was so long ago, Tim only remembered it in how the friends he had now didn't quite fill the emptiness. He started to order a Jack and Coke, and one for Jay, too, but Jason had them handing over the whole fifth, so he just grabbed the glasses and followed, people clearing away from the chair like magic.
"Did the whole damn town decide to crash?" Tim said when they finally found enough space to talk.
"Hell, no," Jason laughed. "She's Lyla Garrity. She took the damn Dillon phone book, drew lines through the three people she didn't know and had that wedding planner of hers send everyone else an invitation, just so Buddy'd have to cough up the cash." He took the drink Tim held out to him and looked at it thoughtfully. "And maybe a little to make good and sure that every single person who ever said anything behind her back, anyone who ever talked dirt about her is here for a front-row seat to see just how perfect her life turned out. She's in Highland Park with her surgeon and they're all still in good ol' Dillon."
Tim listened hard for any bitterness in Jason's voice, but there was only amusement and a fond pride. Six years and a hell of a lot of water under the bridge and maybe, just maybe it was going to be okay.
***
***
The best part about getting signed, Tim thought, was being able to have a lawyer do all your talking for you. The guy the front office referred him to was all business. Tim explained the situation, faxed over the last address he had for Walt. A week later it was done, and if Tim thought the signature on the quit-claim deed looked a little shaky, well, when the hell was the last time his dad had been sober? One more meeting and there was a wire transfer--whatever the hell that really meant anyway--on the way to First Security Bank of Dillon and a second quit-claim in a FedEx envelope addressed to William J. Riggins.
Tim expected the call, he just didn't expect the volume of it to be so low. Billy cussing him out--that was normal. The quiet on the other end of the line made him have to stop and think what to say, and in the end he couldn't come up with anything better than, "C'mon, Billy, you think I don't know? Man, you didn't have to stay when everybody else left." He paused for a second, then added, "Sell it, buy someplace that doesn't come with ghosts on the porch or plastered-over holes in the walls where you ducked shit that he threw at you. Deed it over to Tyra and Will; I don't care. Just… let me do this, okay?"
Billy was quiet a long time. "Don't kill yourself during two-a-days."
"Nah," Tim said. "I still owe you for the back nine at Turtle Creek. You're not getting out of a rematch that easy."
***
***
When he flew down for the closing, he ended up borrowing Billy's old truck so he could drive the property line before he did anything else. It was late afternoon when he started, almost full night when he was done. He had a sleeping bag in the back and a thermos of coffee; he parked next to the lake and watched the stars rise alone.
The legal stuff took up the whole next morning but when it was done and he'd shaken hands with everyone, especially the ones who were choking on a Riggins buying that much land, he got back in the truck and headed into town to buy a cooler and some Lone Star. When he arrived to pick Jay up, the team still had an hour of workout left, but Tim wasn't in a hurry.
He took the truck around the perimeter again, conscious now, especially with Jay riding shotgun, that it was his, before looping back around to follow the edge of the lake. The four-wheel drive crawled sure and steady along the curve of the water until Jason said, "Here." Tim stopped the truck and locked the coordinates on the GPS he'd brought along.
The wheelchair was pretty much useless in the loose, sandy dirt right close to the lake, but Jay didn't weigh that much, even as ripped as he kept his upper body. They killed the beer watching the sun on the water and Tim called the architect on his way to the airport the next morning.
***
***
Even after fifteen years, after seeing him every day in the off-season, Tim had never quite gotten used to Jason not being at eye-level. In his head, Jay was taller than him, always; turning around and looking down still didn't feel right. The weight room evened things out, though, especially after the physical therapists left for the day and it was just the two of them with Tim's off-season workout and Jay's upper body routine.
"I never apologized," Jason said, between sets on the lat machine.
"For?" Tim stayed on his back after he set the bar in the groove. He had at least four more sets to press.
"I... it was like I had all this shit inside and there wasn't any place I could let it out and the phone would be in my hand and your number would be ringing before I could stop myself," Jason said, low and hoarse.
If Tim closed his eyes, he'd be seventeen again, back in his bedroom with Billy passed out and snoring in the living room, loud enough to be heard over the first replay of SportsCenter--so he kept them open and stayed there, in the weight room of his ranch, with Jay right next to him, not on the other end of a bad phone connection.
"'Sokay, Six," he finally said, wrapping his hands around the bar again. "You weren't sayin' anything that wasn't true."
***
***
***
A/N: So, here's where I do my song and dance about how cagey they are at giving actual grades for most of the characters. They don't say, not that I can find/remember, so I made it fit my own timeline. YMMV. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
without_me for getting me hooked in the first place and for making me sound like the college graduate that I'm supposed to be, not the geek engineer that I am; to kaelie for reassurances and cheerleading; and to geneli4 for wanting this one as much as I did.
I started this one back in November, after mainlining the first 6 episodes in a weekend and absolutely getting way too invested in one or two characters. *koff* This is pure wish fulfillment on my part, what I desperately want to happen. I hope you like it, too.
Friday Night Lights
Gen; Future fic
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: No specific spoilers, but takes everything through 1x19 into account (and if I get jossed by the last three, um, whoops?)
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.
Notes and thanks at the end...
Texas Forever
The first thing anyone will tell you about Tim Riggins is that he's a stubborn son of a bitch. And then they'll laugh. The longer they've known him, the harder they'll laugh.
Pay attention to that, because it's the understatement of the year, possibly the decade. There's a very strong chance that the next revision of Webster's dictionary will include a picture of Riggins as part of the definition.
Repeat it to him, though, and he only shrugs. "They could say a hell of a lot worse," he says, with a ghost of a smile. "They probably are."
Jay only called late at night. "You quit yet, Riggins?" he hissed, when Tim answered the phone. "That's what you're good at, isn't it? Sliding by, not caring. Just like your daddy, running off when anything gets too tough." Tim never answered, just lay in the dark, letting the hoarse voice wash over him. It wasn't much but it was better than not having any contact at all.
The Browns' defense definitely has a few choice names. Last weekend they played it right, had people in the right place at the right time and Riggins ran over them all. "I had good blocking," he says. "My guys are the hardest-working offensive line in the league."
Not to dismiss the statement out of hand, but there's a highlight reel of the last two yards of virtually every carry, showing Riggins going down only with three or four defenders dragging him.
"Too dumb to know when to quit," he says, and that's the end of that.
The kitchen was too small for all of them, but there was something going on at Landry's house and no way in hell Tim was doing any of this at home. Landry apparently used the Saracens' place as easily as his own, and wherever Saracen was these days, Julie Taylor wasn't far behind and so there they all were, tripping over each other while Tim tried his damnedest to make sense of Willy Loman and Hester Prynne.
"My God," Landry said, shaking his head and scribbling fiercely. "Have you ever heard of punctuation? Just the basics, like commas and periods."
Tim looked at him, the look that generally got people moving in the other direction, fast, but Landry wasn't paying attention.
"Okay, see, and here, you could use a semi-colon--"
"Let's not get crazy," Julie said, picking her head up off the table and squinting at the clock on the opposite wall. "Okay, I should probably be going home, because if I miss curfew, there is no way my dad is going to believe this scenario."
"Yeah," Saracen said, jumping up. "Good idea."
Tim thought about mentioning how very whipped he was, but Julie was standing right there, getting her stuff together, and Tim really didn't need anyone named Taylor riding his ass any more than they already were.
"Landry, man, can I ...?" Saracen gestured toward the keys to the traveling junk heap that was parked behind Tim's truck.
"Not a problem, not a problem," Landry answered, grabbing them off the table and handing them over. "Be smooth, children."
Saracen at least had the style to roll his eyes at the advice; there was hope for him yet, Tim thought, staring at the books stacked up next to Landry's elbow. Julie ran into the other room to say good-bye to Saracen's grandma. Matt tossed the keys from one hand to the other. Landry muttered and kept making notes on the paper Tim had given him, one red mark after another on stuff that had taken Tim days to write and Tim had fucking asked for this shit, had sat in his truck for close to an hour before he'd grown the balls to stuff his books in with his practice gear and go find Landry.
"Wait, wait," Landry said, slapping his hand down on the table, and Tim almost jumped at the sudden noise. "Right here, on page 3, it's an actual original thought, supported with examples and logic, and Riggins, seriously, this is a thing of beauty." He smiled at Tim, with a goofy proud look on his face, but it didn't stop him from making another damn note. "Really creative spelling, too, but we're not reaching for the stars just yet."
"This is good," Julie said from behind him, and it took him a second to realize she was talking to him, because as far as he knew, Julie Taylor didn't bother with people she didn't have a use for, and football players were pretty high on her useless list, even before you added in the whole Tyra thing.
"What you're doing here; it's good." She gave him a funny half-smile, shrugging as she followed Saracen out the door. "I just thought you should know."
"That girl," Landry said. "You ever notice how she's got her mother's eyes?" He shook his head. "I keep tellin' Matt, she's not just a pretty face, she looks straight through you, but he just gives me that 'dude, I really like her' line and man, he has it bad, to be puttin' himself in that line of fire." He looked back down at the paper. "Okay, look, see here? That's, no, this whole part, it's, like, what were you thinking?"
Tim pretty much thought there was more than one idiot on the Panther offense, and hell, at least Saracen was getting something out of his stupidity, something other than passing grades, but Tim had asked for this and he wasn't going to stop now.
There's a certain energy that floods a city when a sports team unexpectedly makes it to the championship game. Total strangers hug in the streets; people from all walks of life strike up conversations with each other in elevators and standing in line for lunch.
It's giddy and breathless, utterly addicting, and in the two weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, this city has wholeheartedly embraced the excitement. Every bar and every restaurant, from the local pizza joints to the four-star places, is draped with pennants and flags. High-powered executives, male and female, unselfconsciously wear team colors and even the second- and third-string players are treated like royalty.
Riggins is no stranger to the part of the underdog, having played on a high school team that gutted its way to the Texas state championship after suffering the loss of their star quarterback in the opening game of the season, but he knows the down-side of it, as well. The Dillon Panthers lost that championship, but not because Tim Riggins didn't half kill himself on the field that night.
The locker room was quiet, empty, but Tim couldn't quite make himself shower and change. Smash was the first one out to the bus, Saracen the last, but Tim stayed. He waved off Coach, told him Billy was there and he'd get home that way and everyone finally left him alone to try to make sense of one more thing he'd wanted and not gotten.
The solid mass of hurt that was his body settled and separated out into individual aches: the bruise on his thigh from going over the line for his first touchdown, the sharper burn where the scab on his forearm had been torn away when he threw one final desperate block. The room was quiet, just a slow drip from one of the showers, so he couldn't help but hear the shhhshhh of Jason's chair as he moved across the tile floor, but it didn't mean he had to look up.
Jason didn't leave and they sat there together until the janitor came to turn out the lights and Tim finally stood to pull off his shoulder pads.
"Good game, Thirty-three," Jay said, soft and quiet, and Tim didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
ESPN's Brian Williams co-captained that Dillon (TX) Panther team with Riggins. "Me and Riggs," Williams says, laughing. "We didn't get along back in the day."
"Still don't," Riggins deadpans, but he's a regular at Williams' annual charity weekend and the two of them spend a good portion of the off-season visiting college programs all over the country, a two-man tag-team of uncompromising and oftentimes uncomfortable honesty.
Williams describes their informal sessions as "the ten stupidest things we did that you don't need to repeat." No topic off-limits, no punches pulled. Steroids, academics, and the shades of gray between taking a gift-job to support your family and shaving points to make few extra bucks from the bookies--whatever the issue, they'll take it on and every AD asks them back when they're finished.
"Goddammit, Tim," Billy shouted. "What the hell do you think this'll change?"
Tim looked up from watching Mac tape his ankle. "Man, c'mon, not in the locker room."
Billy closed his mouth with an almost audible snap, just like Tim knew he would once the untouchable pre-game ritual was mentioned.
"Timmy," Billy said, and Tim couldn't ignore the quiet panic in his voice. "He's dicking you over again, using you."
Mac smoothed on the last piece of tape and left them with a curt, "Ten minutes, boys." Tim could see him talking to Coach Taylor, could see the way Coach was looking out at Billy and Tim, eyes narrowed. He nodded once to Tim and then turned back to the whiteboard in his office.
"Yeah," Tim finally said to Billy. "I know he is--" He caught Billy's arm as he made an exasperated sound and started to turn away. "No, Billy, really. I know, but... He called and I..."
Billy knew; Tim could see it in his eyes. Billy knew and he didn't want to have to tell Tim Walt was betting on them and the only reason Tim was getting calls was to try to get an edge with the bookies. Tim knew, had known right from the start, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it.
Coach knew, too; Tim had waited until everyone had cleared out, until the locker room was dark and he could stand just outside the office door when he told him.
Tim wasn't talking; it was only a matter of time before his dad would figure that out and the calls would stop.
Billy looked at him for a long minute and then shook his head. "Right."
Someday Tim was going to tell Billy that he sighed like a little old lady, but since he was mostly just grateful Billy got it, got that Tim couldn't not try, no matter what, today probably wasn't going to be that day.
"Don't go fucking yourself up when he does it this time," Billy said, turning to leave for real this time. "Clear eyes," he added over his shoulder.
Tim nodded. "Can't lose," he answered, and wished he believed it for anything but football.
After a long period of indecision, the NCAA has decided it loves what Riggins and Williams are doing and that, Riggins says, is quite a change from his standing with that same body while he played for the University of Wyoming.
"Yeah, I was real good friends with the tutors in the Office of Academic Affairs," he says, leaning on a table in front of a group of varsity athletes from assorted southern Florida schools. The NFL and ESPN are co-sponsoring this go-round, and the NCAA, always eager to prove how much importance it places on the student part of student-athlete, has wasted no time in promoting the session. "Had a standing appointment with the Dean every quarter to be talking about academic probation."
"Anybody know the only damn thing Tim Riggins and I have in common?" Williams asks the crowd.
"Other than busting our asses on the same field fifteen years ago," Riggins drawls. "And pretty much hating each other's guts."
"Come on, now, no guesses?" Williams lets the silence spin out before he says, "Riggs and me, we're both the first people in our families to get a college degree. And if you're sitting there thinking that's not worth your time and effort, Smash is here to tell you that you are as flat-out stupid as the media likes to say you are."
With that, anyone who isn't a student-athlete is escorted out of the room and the real session begins.
He didn't really see why he needed to hang around for the actual ceremony. Billy wouldn't get on a plane, not even to see Tim get an honest-to-God Bachelor of Arts degree, but he raised such holy hell when Tim said he was going to skip out on the cap and gown that Tim hung up on him, twice. Billy kept calling back, though, wouldn't shut up about it until Tim finally agreed, just to get a little peace.
Billy was right--not that Tim ever planned on telling him that. Maybe it was just a dime-a-dozen BA in Recreation Management from the University of Wyoming, no big deal, but it was his and there were a hell of a lot of people who'd have bet cold, hard cash that Tim Riggins wouldn't have ever gotten that piece of paper.
He stood in what passed for the sun that far north, with a couple of frat brothers and their families, not really even noticing that he was alone, until he turned around and saw Coach Taylor walking toward him.
"My wife keeps track of a lot of things," Coach said, shaking his hand, his grip firm and sure. "But she didn't have to tell me about this. Congratulations, son." He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons on his dress shirt. "Let me buy you a beer?"
"Yes, sir," Tim answered, glad he hadn't worn jeans under the cap and gown.
Ask him about his teammates and Tim Riggins can, well, not talk your ear off, but he'll at least carry on a conversation. Turn the topic to something more personal and you're lucky to get two words. He'd much rather let his stats do his talking on the field; for everything else he's got an all-purpose half-smile and an unblinking stare that strangles questions in mid-word.
"Nothing to tell," he'll say. Ask about the full schedule of charitable events he participates in and he'll shrug. "My brother and me, we play a little golf. Might as well raise some money while we do it."
While most of his teammates are scrambling for tickets, with family and friends coming out of the woodwork, Riggins has only kept a few: his brother's family are flying into Miami as soon as he can find time to book them flights. "My brother isn't real good with flying," he says. "The fewer take-offs and landings we can do, the less bitching I have to listen to when he gets here."
"What do you want to do, Tyra?" Tim opened the door of Tyra's old pick-up, the better to let the sun soak into him.
"Jesus, Tim, you're like a lizard baking on a rock," Tyra said, following him out.
"Too much Texas in me to get used to winter in Laramie." He shrugged, leaning against the sun-heated metal. "Doesn't answer my question."
"I know what I should do," Tyra said, after a long time.
"Yeah." Tim narrowed his eyes so he could watch her without turning away from the sun. "What does Billy say?"
"Do what I want." Tyra shrugged. "He'll drive me to Austin if I want to take care of it there. He'll help out as much as he can if I want to keep it. Him. Her. Whatever."
"Yeah." That was Billy, for sure.
"It's just..." Tyra had her eyes on the ground, watching the patterns she was scraping in the dust with the pointed toe of her boot.
"Just?"
"Nobody ever wanted me, Tim. Mama… she loves me, but she can barely take care of herself." She looked up and he didn't see any accusation in her eyes, but he didn't see much forgiveness either. "Maybe I want to see if I could do better."
Dillon is oil country, that part of Texas that boomed and then, just as quickly, went bust. Flat, dry and dusty, struggling to stay alive as the best and brightest set their sights on Austin or Dallas or anyplace that isn't Dillon.
Riggins left Dillon for Laramie, with nothing more than a handshake agreement between his high school coach, Eric Taylor, and the backfield coach of the UW Cowboys to give the kid a walk-on tryout. Ten years later, the Wyoming trainers still use Riggins as their poster boy. "We had a corner set up just for him," they say. "It kept him from pissing off the rest of the backfield who were getting in his way when he wanted to lift."
"I sure as hell wasn't getting anywhere on my speed," Riggins says. "I got ex-girlfriends that run faster than me. I had to be the one they couldn't stop even if they had their hands on me."
Riggins got plenty far on that philosophy, but he's one of the ones who went back, one of the few who went back by choice, not because there was nowhere else to go.
Tim wasn't sure what the hell he was doing, standing in the Century Ballroom of the Hotel Adolphus in a suit and tie with a glass of champagne going warm in his hand, except it was Lyla and he guessed that would always explain things. She smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek before she turned to introduce him to her brand-new father-in-law, who shook his hand and congratulated him on going in the third round. Buddy butted in to make sure everyone knew that little ol' Dillon--and by extension, Buddy--was responsible for everything. Tim managed to not punch the guy right there in the receiving line, but it was a near thing, and he figured it was about time for something a whole lot stronger and less bubbly in his glass.
Tim wasn't the only person who felt like hard liquor was going to be needed to get through dinner and dancing and cake-cutting and whatever the hell else was in the works for the night; the line for the bar was ten deep by the time he got to it. He didn't blame Jason for working the chair-vibe and cutting up to where Tim had finally made it to the bartender.
It still wasn't like it used to be, easy silences and sure footing, but that was so long ago, Tim only remembered it in how the friends he had now didn't quite fill the emptiness. He started to order a Jack and Coke, and one for Jay, too, but Jason had them handing over the whole fifth, so he just grabbed the glasses and followed, people clearing away from the chair like magic.
"Did the whole damn town decide to crash?" Tim said when they finally found enough space to talk.
"Hell, no," Jason laughed. "She's Lyla Garrity. She took the damn Dillon phone book, drew lines through the three people she didn't know and had that wedding planner of hers send everyone else an invitation, just so Buddy'd have to cough up the cash." He took the drink Tim held out to him and looked at it thoughtfully. "And maybe a little to make good and sure that every single person who ever said anything behind her back, anyone who ever talked dirt about her is here for a front-row seat to see just how perfect her life turned out. She's in Highland Park with her surgeon and they're all still in good ol' Dillon."
Tim listened hard for any bitterness in Jason's voice, but there was only amusement and a fond pride. Six years and a hell of a lot of water under the bridge and maybe, just maybe it was going to be okay.
If the first thing you figure out about Tim Riggins is that he's as stubborn as they come, the second thing is that he knows, with a stark clarity, exactly where he comes from, both the good and the bad. There's no wall of trophies in his house and there's sure as hell no discussion of Super Bowl rings when he's around.
"That's for later," he says and every teammate takes note of the steel under the quiet tone. "You pony up and pay your dues, and maybe you get a chance at making it happen. You do all that, then you can talk about it."
The best part about getting signed, Tim thought, was being able to have a lawyer do all your talking for you. The guy the front office referred him to was all business. Tim explained the situation, faxed over the last address he had for Walt. A week later it was done, and if Tim thought the signature on the quit-claim deed looked a little shaky, well, when the hell was the last time his dad had been sober? One more meeting and there was a wire transfer--whatever the hell that really meant anyway--on the way to First Security Bank of Dillon and a second quit-claim in a FedEx envelope addressed to William J. Riggins.
Tim expected the call, he just didn't expect the volume of it to be so low. Billy cussing him out--that was normal. The quiet on the other end of the line made him have to stop and think what to say, and in the end he couldn't come up with anything better than, "C'mon, Billy, you think I don't know? Man, you didn't have to stay when everybody else left." He paused for a second, then added, "Sell it, buy someplace that doesn't come with ghosts on the porch or plastered-over holes in the walls where you ducked shit that he threw at you. Deed it over to Tyra and Will; I don't care. Just… let me do this, okay?"
Billy was quiet a long time. "Don't kill yourself during two-a-days."
"Nah," Tim said. "I still owe you for the back nine at Turtle Creek. You're not getting out of a rematch that easy."
The NFL and the networks love it when they get to play up the human interest angle come Super Bowl Sunday; Riggins isn't the type who takes well to having a camera crew on his heels. It's the proverbial rock and hard place, into which Williams has stepped, claiming the convergence of friendship and professional courtesy.
"Guy just likes to dog me," Riggins says through gritted teeth as people crane their heads to watch the entourage go by.
"Ratings, baby," Williams answers. "Smile for the camera."
Riggins answers non-verbally, and not particularly appropriately for a family publication; Williams threatens to use the footage in a highlight reel; his cameraman rolls his eyes, but everyone's dead serious about the afternoon, a regional qualifier for the U.S. national wheelchair rugby team and the accompanying fundraiser being held at Riggins's ranch. You don't have to be a genius to figure out that getting network coverage of Team USA is the only reason Riggins ever gave in and let a camera even come near him.
"Thirty seconds is worth a million bucks, right?" he says. "I can suck it up for that."
When he flew down for the closing, he ended up borrowing Billy's old truck so he could drive the property line before he did anything else. It was late afternoon when he started, almost full night when he was done. He had a sleeping bag in the back and a thermos of coffee; he parked next to the lake and watched the stars rise alone.
The legal stuff took up the whole next morning but when it was done and he'd shaken hands with everyone, especially the ones who were choking on a Riggins buying that much land, he got back in the truck and headed into town to buy a cooler and some Lone Star. When he arrived to pick Jay up, the team still had an hour of workout left, but Tim wasn't in a hurry.
He took the truck around the perimeter again, conscious now, especially with Jay riding shotgun, that it was his, before looping back around to follow the edge of the lake. The four-wheel drive crawled sure and steady along the curve of the water until Jason said, "Here." Tim stopped the truck and locked the coordinates on the GPS he'd brought along.
The wheelchair was pretty much useless in the loose, sandy dirt right close to the lake, but Jay didn't weigh that much, even as ripped as he kept his upper body. They killed the beer watching the sun on the water and Tim called the architect on his way to the airport the next morning.
Leading hasn't come easy to Riggins. In high school, he left it to the other captains to pull the team together. In Laramie, he says, it was all he could do to make his grades and stay in the hunt for a scholarship. During his first few years in the NFL, he kept his head down and just did his job.
So, what changed?
"Nothing much," Riggins says, shrugging. "Everything." There's a band set up by the pool and a couple hundred people wandering in and out of the low, sprawling house built along the lake. Another dozen or so are hanging out in the state-of-the-art gym that's connected by breezeway to the main house. Friends, mostly, but a healthy scattering of corporate types with their checkbooks open. Team USA is well-launched; Riggins is almost mellow.
"This place was a reality," he says. "And that..." He squints into the setting sun. "It made room for a lot of stuff I never expected to have. The rest of it just… happened."
Even after fifteen years, after seeing him every day in the off-season, Tim had never quite gotten used to Jason not being at eye-level. In his head, Jay was taller than him, always; turning around and looking down still didn't feel right. The weight room evened things out, though, especially after the physical therapists left for the day and it was just the two of them with Tim's off-season workout and Jay's upper body routine.
"I never apologized," Jason said, between sets on the lat machine.
"For?" Tim stayed on his back after he set the bar in the groove. He had at least four more sets to press.
"I... it was like I had all this shit inside and there wasn't any place I could let it out and the phone would be in my hand and your number would be ringing before I could stop myself," Jason said, low and hoarse.
If Tim closed his eyes, he'd be seventeen again, back in his bedroom with Billy passed out and snoring in the living room, loud enough to be heard over the first replay of SportsCenter--so he kept them open and stayed there, in the weight room of his ranch, with Jay right next to him, not on the other end of a bad phone connection.
"'Sokay, Six," he finally said, wrapping his hands around the bar again. "You weren't sayin' anything that wasn't true."
"I just play football," Riggins says. "Nothing special about that."
A/N: So, here's where I do my song and dance about how cagey they are at giving actual grades for most of the characters. They don't say, not that I can find/remember, so I made it fit my own timeline. YMMV. Thanks to
without_me for getting me hooked in the first place and for making me sound like the college graduate that I'm supposed to be, not the geek engineer that I am; to kaelie for reassurances and cheerleading; and to geneli4 for wanting this one as much as I did. I started this one back in November, after mainlining the first 6 episodes in a weekend and absolutely getting way too invested in one or two characters. *koff* This is pure wish fulfillment on my part, what I desperately want to happen. I hope you like it, too.
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