[Video shows Tim sitting on the floor in one of the living spaces next to a fireplace. He's got his legs stretched out in front of him and he's barefoot. He's also got a football in one hand, twirling it a bit as he talks.]

So I know America sorta talked a little 'bout Christmas and some decorating and stuff. Christmas Day was always sorta spent at the Landing Strip with my brother but can't do that this year so I was sorta wonderin' if there's a plan for Christmas or are we jus' sorta on our own here?

[Here, have a drunk Tim. While that's not any different, there's a more somber, thoroughly trashed and defeated tone to his voice that's not normal. Not to mention he's not putting this all on video. Generally, Tim thinks he's entirely too pretty to waste it.]

So that pit thing...with the stairs? What was it? Is all that shit going to happen?

[He'll expound on what he saw if asked. Right now he's a pretty scared kid that has just seen a nightmare 'future' for himself]

[Tim is sitting in a chair in the kitchen. He's got a beer in hand. His shirt is plaid and unbuttoned. He is obviously missing pants but his boxer shorts have the University of Texas logo all over them]

So...when do we all get nekkid? 'Cause this porn has more plot and more clothes then I ever seen in a porno.

[ooc: When Faith greeted Tim, she told him it was Wonderland which he mistakenly thought was the porn film Wonderland (I don't know if there's a real one but you KNOW there is). She never corrected him. Yeah he can be that dumb]

[There’s a man, kid really, sprawled out on the snow. He’s got torn blue jeans, an old Panthers Football tee shirt, a worn denim jacket and a pair of cowboy boots on. He sits up with a groan and looks around, raking a head through his long hair.]

Seven!

[He winces then looks confused because he doesn’t have a hangover…in fact he still feels pretty drunk. He rolls to his feet, glancing around.]

What the hell?

[He’s damn sure the last thing he remembers was drinking on the Panther’s field then he’d had the bright idea of breaking into the funeral home so Seven could see his dad’s body. This wasn’t the Panther’s field and it sure as hell weren’t the funeral home. Fact, near as he could tell this wasn’t anywhere close to Dillon, Texas]

Seven…we gotta quit drinkin’ like this…

[Communicate]

“Y’know, it might help if you didn’t show up to practice hung over,” Tyra comments from where she’s sitting at the kitchen table. Tim is currently dying on the couch in his boxer shorts, a cold bottle of beer pressed to his forehead. His body is covered in bruises and he keeps making these annoying noises of pain that send jolts of worry through Tyra; worry she covers with scowls and smart ass remarks.

“Weren’t hung over today,” Tim growls, his voice ridiculously exhausted.

“Oh right, today was one of those days you were still drunk from last night.” Her words are accompanied by an eyeroll that Tim can practically hear.

There’s a bout of relative silence punctuated by Tim’s groans of pain and Tyra’s sighs of irritation before she strikes again.

“Hey Asshole,” she poking the heel of her foot into his shoulder. “Drink this.” She shoves an ice cold bottle of water into his gut making him shoot up off the couch like a jack-in-the-box.

“Holy Hell, Tyra! What the hell are you doing?” Tim shouts.

“Don’t be a baby. You’re going to get dehydrated if you keep up like this asshole. You’ll end up in the fucking hospital and we don’t have the money for the hospital bill. Drink your damn water.”

“I don’t want any damn water. I wanna drink my beer so my whole fucking body doesn’t hurt so much!” Tim yells at her but his yell is losing steam. He doesn’t have the energy for it.
“What the hell happened, Tim? Last year at Dillon you were doing good. You showed up to practice sober and you worked your ass off.”

“You don’t think I’m workin’ my ass off right now? Tyra, don’t this look like I’m workin’ my ass off?” he points to his black and blue torso. There are older bruises showing green and yellow underneath fresh ones.

“What have you got against making this easier on yourself?” Tyra asks. “I didn’t move up here towing your ass with me just so I could play nursemaid to some idiot who’s too stupid to realize he’d play a game better if he weren’t drunk and hungover.”

Tim rakes a hand through his hair and takes a swig of beer. “This ain’t about me, Tyra. It’s hard. Them guys out there hit like fuckin’ trucks and I’m the damn tacklin’ dummy. I don’t need this shit when I come home.”

“And I’m out there supporting your lazy ass waitin’ tables while you play football and work a couple of hours at a garage so don’t give me that bullshit about you don’t this when you come home. Get some damn sleep, Tim. Try being sober for at least twenty four hours at a time and maybe college ball will get a hellva lot easier.”

“I can’t!” Tim yells and it’s not his words or his tone that brings about the silence that follows. It’s the way his shoulders slump and the defeated look on his face.

“You know…Momma had a boyfriend that did the AA thing…” Tyra starts.

“Oh hell, Tyra. I ain’t an alcoholic,,,okay I prolly am but I can stop drinkin’ if I want. It ain’t about the beer and it’s not about me.”

“Then tell me. Fill me in on the great puzzle that is Tim Riggins. What the hell is this about?” Tyra’s standing over him, hands on her hips and giving him that glare that usually makes him pause a heartbeat or two.

“Member how you said I stopped goin’ to practice in Dillon hung over or drunk?” His eyes flick up to hers and then back down to the bottle of water he’s still holding. He screws the top off, takes a sip of water and then goes on once Tyra nods. “Coach Taylor earned it. He went through the personal hell that is coachin’ me. This guy…he ain’t earned that yet.”

Tyra rolls her eyes, smacks him in the back of the head and then goes to get a fresh beer from the fridge. By the time she gets back, Tim is draped across the couch again. She thumps the bottle on the coffee table in front of him. “You drink a bottle of water, I’ll get you a bottle of beer for every bottle of water you drink.”

A grin quirks up the corner of Tim’s lips and starts guzzling the bottle of water. Some people just know how to communicate better.

[What do you have to lose?]

He’d noticed the way she looked at him, but even if he hadn’t he would have gone over to check on her. Tim had a buried white knight streak that surprised some people. Mrs. McCoy didn’t get drunk in bars and especially not bars like Charlie’s. Tim had heard the gossip, figured there was some truth to it; this just confirmed it for him.

“Mrs. McCoy, you alright?” Tim asked as he sat down across the table from her.

“Of course I am, Tim. It is Tim isn’t it?”

Tim grinned, that slow almost bashful grin and nodded. “Yeah, it’s Tim. Thing is—you don’t look alright.” He glanced around the bar. “This ain’t s’xactly your sorta place.”

“You’re here,” she pointed out as she picked up the tequila shot in front of her and started to knock it back. Tim snagged it from her fingers at the last minute and drank it himself. She gave him a shocked, pouty look that he’d expect on a rally girl or a cheerleader instead of a mother.

“Sorta my point,” Tim drawled. He stood up and held his hand out for her. “Come on, let’s get you home. You got no place in a bar like this.” She put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet, his arm going around her shoulder. “Charlie! Whatever she ain’t paid you for, put it on Billy’s tab.”

Because he was a white knight but not that white.

The plan was to drop off at home, make sure she got settled with Gatorade and a couple of aspirin. Plans never worked out that well for Tim—or maybe they always worked out better for him.

“M’just gonna get you on the couch. J.D gonna be home later?” Tim asked as he guided her into the house, putting the keys to her car on the end table.

“No, upstairs. I don’t want him to see me this way,” Mrs. McCoy said, waving a hand toward the stairs.

Stairs were tricky for drunk people, even moderately drunk people but Tim should have wondered when Mrs. McCoy leaned on him so much, he was practically carrying her upstairs. His hand was on the doorknob when she grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him inside the bedroom. Her mouth was on his neck as she pulled at his shirt, popping buttons off. The word cougar was made for Katie McCoy.

“Mrs. McCoy-“

“Call me Katie.” The words were muffled on account of her face buried in his chest.

“Katie, do you really think we oughta-“

“I definitely think we ought to,” she responded as she undid the last two buttons on his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders.

Tim had never been one to really think things out and her hands were down his pants. Thinking wasn’t happening so he gave up, one hand messing up that perfect PTA hair while he unbuttoned her shirt with the other hand. Once he had that off, his hand strayed down her back, over her ass. He wasn’t sure if she was the one that jumped on him or if he picked her up but either way, her legs were wrapped around his waist, her nails were scraping over his back and holy blue hell there was something to be said for the enthusiasm older women showed.

Tim woke up when the front door slammed shut.

“Katie!”

He looked to Mrs. McCoy who has pushed herself half up on her elbows, eyes wide. “Thought you two were separated.”

“We are. He’s supposed to call before he comes over,” she said as she scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe and attempting to smooth her hair down. Joe was already in the hallway when she emerged, pulling the door shut behind her. Tim listened as they argued and a cocky smirk spread over his face. He dipped at the waist, snagged his jeans and pulled them on. The decision to leave his shirt on the floor was as calculated as Tim Riggins ever got. He strolled through the bedroom door all boneless grace and cocky smiles.

“Mrs. McCoy, m’gonna take a shower ‘fore I get out of here,” he said as he walked down the hall toward the bathroom. He could have taken a shower in the master bath attached to the bedroom but then he wouldn’t have gotten to see the stunned look on Joe McCoy’s face.

[All my girls]

**this list is a combination of canon and rp obviously

M’gonna organize ‘em into teams. Mostly ‘cause it’s a fantasy I have (Yeah, Tyra I know what fantasy means) ‘bout gettin’ ‘em on a football field in jerseys and lettin’ go.

Rally Team (This team’s bigger and is pretty much what you think it is)
Heather
Jenny (think she goes by Jennifer now. Some shit ‘bout it bein’ more sophisticated)
DeeDee
Nicki & Cindy (sisters but not twins. We don't got any of those in Dillon. Ought to fix that)
Dallas
Scarlett
Susie
The Blonde in Charlie’s bar. I still don’t know her name.

[Locked from J.D ‘cause I don’t wanna break his baby Quarterback heart]
Mrs. McCoy (she and her husband were separated. I was boosting her ego)

Home Team (These are the girls I actually dated or talked to beyond the bathroom/bedroom/back of my truck)

Lyla Garrity
Jackie
Blair Waldorf
Tyra Collette (**gets a defense bonus 'cause she was the first and the most recent last)

Pretty sure the Home Team’ll give the Rally Team run for their money. Now M'horny. Tyra, where the hell you at?

[How Hard Did You Try?]

“Riggins!”

Coach’s voice has that gravel to it that makes Tim’s day.

“Coach?” Tim says as he takes his helmet off and walks up to Coach Taylor. He’s already got that cocky grin on his face that is trademark Riggins.

“Want to tell me what that says on the back of your jersey?”

“Well, Coach, last time I looked it said God.”

Coach gets real quiet and the vein in his temple stands out. Holy shit…Tim can actually see Coach’s blood pulsing in that vein. He’s kind of afraid he might have a stroke and then Mrs. Taylor will kill him.

“Coach, think I’m gonna go ‘head and hit the bleachers,” Tim says, dropping his helmet and jogging toward the metal bleachers.

Coach can’t even talk he’s so furious, flustered and Tim knows…just a little bit amused. He can see it in the tug at the corner of his lips. Or that could be another sign of a stroke. Tim’s cleats hit the metal of the bleachers with a familiar metallic ring-clack. It doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm. Bleachers are old hat to him by now. The truth is, one way or another he was going to be running bleachers for something. He just tried harder for today’s punishment.

[Heart]

“What the hell, Tim?” Billy asked as he walked into the living room. Tim was draped across the couch wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He was covered in black and blue bruises. They were littered across his torso, scattered down his arms along with a few blooming on his legs.

“Shitty practice,” Tim responded without moving. There wasn’t an inch on him that didn’t hurt. He’d shown up to practice hung over and Coach had made him pay for it. The entire team, Coach included, thought he was some damn impenetrable wall and he’s happy letting them think that, even if he has to pay for it later.

Billy rolled his eyes and got the tequila down from above the sink. He brought two shot glasses and the bottle over, sitting one in front of Tim. He poured the glasses full and nudged Tim’s toward him again. “Hey Dipshit, wake up.”

Tim grumbled, wincing and cursing as he sat up to grab the shot. He tossed it back, noticing that Billy didn’t take his until Tim’s was already tilted back. He slammed his shot glass back down on the table and Billy refilled it. Three shots later, pain was a fuzzy memory.

“Ready to hit the Landing Strip?” Billy asked as he got to his feet and grabbed a mostly clean shirt off the back of the couch.

“Shit…yeah,” Tim agreed a bit reluctantly. He wasn’t sure he felt like the landing strip but another two or three tequila shots and he would. He grabbed a plaid button shirt hanging from the back of a kitchen chair. “Where’n the hell my pants?” he grumbled.

“Kitchen,” Billy answered.

Tim stumbled into the kitchen to find his jeans exactly where he’d left them, crumpled on the floor in front of the fridge. He remembered taking them off now. He’d come home from practice, grabbed and chugged a bottle of water then took a long swig of the vodka they kept in the freezer. After that he’d stripped off his jeans, discarded his shirt and collapsed on the couch until Billy found him.

Tomorrow, he’d pay for it again by serving as Coach’s human tackle dummy. He’d have bruises on top of bruises but every time they hit him, he’d get back up. Tim Riggins was lacking in a lot of things. Heart was never one of them.

[People I need to Get Away From]

-Lyla Garrity
M'not what she wants or what she needs. And she's just somethin' I was never gonna really get.

-Billy Riggins
I love my brother and I think he did the best he could by me but I can't live his dreams for him. That's sorta his job. Not mine

-Rally Girls
It ain't like it's their fault but I gotta start doin' my work I guess and that ain't ever gonna happen when I got a pretty blonde sidlin' up to me and askin' if there's anything she can do for me. Anything at all. 'Course might not hurt if I jus' let 'em finish out the senior year for me

-Buddy Garrity
Man hates me. Pure and simple. Hated me even 'fore I dated his daughter. 'Course if m'on the football field he thinks I'm a damn hero

-Dillon, Texas
I love this place. And one of these days, I'll probably come back but I don't wanna be one of those guys like every other guy here. Biggest, best thing they ever did was Dillon Panthers State Championship. I'll always be proud of this ring and where I come from but I got this chance to be somethin' besides #33. Think m'gonna take it

RP in googledocs with dillonmilkshake

When you panic, you do some stupid things. Tyra was dazed, stupid thing number one. She couldn't think about much beyond how bad the seats in her truck smelled, and then there was a warm presence behind her. Number two - she kicked her legs but it only served to splash more water and mud into her shoes and make him laugh. She gripped behind her for anything: clothing, hair, his eyes, and found nothing to dig into, make him stop. Tyra was acting stupid tonight, and she couldn't imagine that it would get any better.

This was it; she'd heard stories about girls being attacked and always laughed them off because Tyra Collette was five-foot-eleven and knew how to handle herself. Tyra Collette had run off abusive boyfriends before with no problem but then again they never actually intended to hurt her this badly. Now Tyra Collette was just a seventeen-year-old girl who wished she hadn't left the house early. She wished Tim hadn't stood her up and she really wished she could just disappear, right down into the polyester of the seat her face was being pressed into.

His hand started on her hips, dug into the denim there and began to tug while the other one held her arms above her head. It seemed to her that the more she wriggled, the more he laughed, so she stilled herself, trying to think or see or something. There had been no one in the diner to hear her screaming, Tim was already an hour late and she was on her own. Her eye caught a glowing low on the dashboard and a surge of hope wrenched her arm from his grip and reached out to grab the lighter. He wailed as she pressed it back into some part of his face - she hoped it was his eye - and she managed to rear up and knock him back enough to climb through to the driver's side doorway. She turned around to see him coming toward her still, the burn mark on his cheek and not his eye pissing her off enough to wait until his arm reached out toward her.

She slammed the truck door with her entire body behind the force, opened it up - and slammed again. On her third attempt to break the arm, he pulled it in. Panic made her pull her hand from the handle when she saw through the window that her attacker - her rapist, was no longer inside. Before she could rationalize what to do, she was slammed face first into the window and crumpled into the mud. He pulled back a leg and planted a vicious kick into her side, and Tyra curled up on herself to protect her ribs. He wouldn't stop kicking, and blood was clogging her probably-broken nose.

Tim was late. He knew he was late. They'd gotten back from the game in plenty of time. Of course the rain was already pouring down when his truck broke down. He was pretty good with the truck but it still took him a little while to get it started back up. His hands were smudged with grease and he was soaked to the skin when he finally turned the truck into the parking lot of a diner that was deserted. His headlights washed over some guy wailing on someone. Tim's brow furrowed because whatever fight was going on, it was long over. The guy was just beating at this point. He turned the truck, headlights on the road instead of the fight and got out. He didn't say anything, just grabbed the guy by the shirt and hauled him off...Tyra. The guy was beating Tyra. Everything Tim saw after that was red. Rage took over and propelled him forward. He remembered his first punch, and the way the force of it shuddered up his arm when his knuckles caught the guy solidly in the jaw. He remembered going to the ground, the guy writhing and bucking underneath him, throwing wild hits that, for the most part, glanced off Tim's cheekbone or jaw. And then he just stopped moving and Tim was still hitting, fists colliding with flesh that was turning into bloody meat. He could feel the grind of facial bones gravelling against his knuckles. Even though he could feel and smell the guy underneath him, the only thing he saw was Tyra curled up in a ball and this guy kicking her. He didn't have any plans to stop hitting until that image had been knocked out of his mind.

( Read more... )

[Performance]

“Tim…hon, you listenin’ to me?” Tami asked the boy draped across the end of the couch in her office.

“Huh?” Tim asked, jerking awake. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “Yeah, m’listenin’. You’re worried.”

“About your academic performance,” Tami clarified.

Tim nodded and raked a hand back through his hair. “M’pretty sure m’gonna graduate.” He had two Rally girls working on that. He’d given them pretty detailed instructions. He needed to do about average, nothing great but nothing so bad that UT would change their minds.

“Sweetheart, that is the least of my worries,” Tami assured him. There was just a hint of frustration under her words. “You know they don’t have Rally girls in college.” The education of Tim Riggins was one of Tami’s personal, pet projects.

The look Tim gave her was classic deer in headlights. He’d thought about that, worried about it and it had been the chief reason he’d taken so long to actually make college plans. “I got a scholarship though.” It didn’t make much sense in the context of the conversation but in Tim’s mind it made perfect sense.

“Tim, I’m not worried about how you’re going to pay for classes. I’m worried about how you’re going to pass them,” Tami told him. “Texas still has the no pass, no play rule. That applies to college too.”

“Uhm…yeah. I’m-workin’ on that,” Tim answered. He didn’t have any solutions to the problem yet. He was kind of hoping he’d show up and the football team would give him whatever their equivalent of a rally girl was. The idea that they might expect him to actually do the work himself scared the shit out of him.

Tami sighed and gathered her hair up off her neck in both hands before letting it drop back to her shoulders. “Well you’re goin’ to college with Tyra. She’s a smart girl and you might be able to get her to help you.”

They both knew there was no way Tyra would do his work for him though. The cold and very hard truth was that Tim was going to have to figure this out himself. For the first time in…ever…Tim was going to have to do homework, study and read. Showing up to class would also be counted as a bonus.

Tami sat back in her chair, watching him for a moment. Tim sat up straighter because he knew that look. Coach got that look often enough and right now, he was beginning to suspect Coach’d learned it from Mrs. Taylor.

“On a scale from one to ten, how hungover are you right now?” Tami asked him. It wasn’t any secret that Tim spent much of his life either in a drunken stupor or a hangover haze.

“Ten bein’ the worst?” Tim asked, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was smart enough to know to keep it under wraps though. Mrs. Taylor was way scarier than Coach. “M’guessin’ a seven.”

Tami sighed and shook her head. “Timothy Riggins, you knew we had this meeting today a week ago. I expect you to have enough respect for me, if not yourself, that you come in here able to concentrate and focus. You may get away with this with my husband but you are not goin’ to get away with it with me.”
And now he was sitting up straight on the couch, posture even decent, hands together in his lap and head bowed in an expression that hinted at contrition. “Yes Ma’am.”

“We’re going to reschedule this meeting for next week. Tuesday ten o’ clock. You’ll come in sober without a hangover. You’re a good kid, Tim. I know that and I expect you to act like it,” Tami dictated. She’d found if she took the same tone with Tim that she did with Eric, it usually had the same effect. Authority didn’t usually work with Tim; it just gave him more reason to rebel. The short time Tim had lived with the Taylors, she’d figured out a lot about him and gotten a little attached.

“Yes Ma’am,” Tim nodded and started to stand up.

“Sit down,” Tami told him. “I want an honest answer.” She leveled a gaze at him then softened as she took a breath and asked her question. “When did you stop doing your own homework? Stop readin’?”

Tim shrugged. “Sixth grade,” he answered. “Started JV and they gave me my first rally girl.”

Tami sighed and looked up to the ceiling, turning that over in her head. “Alright. How’d you do in school before that?”

He shrugged. “Not so great. Didn’t have to. Everyone figured out I could hit hard ‘bout the time I turned nine. Just sorta got pushed ‘long through school after that.”

Tami nodded. “Alright. We’ll see about fixing that. You better get to class.”

Tim nodded and got up from the couch, almost boneless grace as he strolled to the door. He stopped and looked back over his shoulders. “You think I can pass? College I mean.”

Tami smiled, her heart aching for what amounted to a little boy asking someone to believe in him. “Hon, I know you can and I’m going to make sure of it.”

[Destroy It]

Coach’s hands are heavy on his shoulders, the sun’s hot, his hair is sticking to his forehead and he’s tired. He wants to wiggle out from underneath Coach’s hands, go home and stand underneath the sprinkler. He’s got on a pair of cheap shoulder pads, a helmet that’s heavy and a pair of cleats that were Billy’s; they’re half a size too small so his toes hurt. When Coach leans down to whisper in his ear he wants to ask if it he can go home.

“See that boy over there,” Coach says, pointing over his shoulder at Jake Moss. Tim nods in response because his dad’s standing on the sidelines watching. “Alright, I want you to destroy him.”

He’s been carrying around a Dillon Panthers football since he could walk and going to Friday night games even before then. His parents miss a lot of things, even before his Mom left. They never miss a Friday night Panthers game. Never. He had chicken pox when he was six. Dad bundled him up and told him not to touch anyone.

“You hear me, Timmy? I want you to destroy that boy.”

Tim nods and pushes off his toes. He catches Jake in the chest with his shoulder and Jake goes down. His shoulder hurts like fire, Jake can’t breathe and Tim gets all tangled up in his arms so that both boys are sprawled out on the dry, dusty ground. Coach is clapping and laughing as he holds a hand out to Tim. Jake’s left to get up on his own.

“Timmy Riggins, I think we got ourselves a full back.”

Tim looks over and his Dad is grinning, not one of the fake smiles he gives the teachers when they tell him Tim’s doing well. It’s a real smile, full-fledged-make-your-eyes-twinkle smile.

“Good job Timmy!” he yells across the field. It doesn’t matter that his toes hurt, or he’s hot or that his shoulder is on fire. His helmet isn’t heavy anymore and he doesn’t care if Jake’s his friend and his friend is just now getting up from the grass, struggling to breathe.

“Ready to go again, Son?” Coach asks.

“Yeah,” Tim nods, still watching his dad. “Ready to go again.”

[A list of Tim]

-I’m a tailback for the Dillon Panthers

-I was born and raised in Dillon, Texas.

-My dad left when I was twelve, my mom a whole hellva lot sooner. I live with my brother Billy, most of the time.

-I’ve got an ID that says I’m 26 and retired military. Sergeant Riggins at your service.

-I’ve been #33 since I started pee wee football when I was ten.

-I love football.

-And beer.

-And women.

-I lose my pants. A lot.

-My best friend is Jason Street. He lives in New York City now but we’ve been friend since Pee Wee.

- I’m actually goin’ to college. On a football scholarship Yeah I don’t know how the hell I pulled it off either

Takes place immediately after this


Tim was sitting on the cot in his cell staring across through the bars at Tyra who was sitting in her own cell. All the tequila and beer was quickly catching up to him and he could tell it was catching up to Tyra, who was swaying a bit.

"Dammit, Leroy! This really necessary?" he yelled then went back to looking across his cell at Tyra.

"Man that was just fun. I gave him a chance, Tyra. Didn't hit him when he walked up and the little asshole thought it'd be smart to talk back to me."

Follows this

[Misinterpret]

He’d been to eight houses. Eight houses with people he didn’t know living in them. Three of them had blondes, but not the blonde he was looking for. The other five varied from brunettes to redheads to single men. This was the ninth house and he was pretty sure he recognized the silver Camry in the driveway. That could be just out right frustration and sheer hope that he can put an end to this torment and find those damn pants. Of course he could give up on the pants but he still liked those pants a lot.

He pressed the doorbell and rocked back on the heels of his cowboy boots as he peered through the frosted glass panes. “Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered when he recognized the tall blonde walking to the door. She looked surprised when she swung the door open, speechless for a moment. She looked over her shoulder and back at Tim.

“Tim Riggins,” she started.

“Yeah,” he grinned, ducking his head. “Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.” She was a little older than he remembered, probably her late twenties, maybe early thirties.

“N-no, I-I remember,” she assured him, twisting one hand on the doorknob. She hadn’t stepped all the way outside yet, still clinging to the door like she was half afraid to let go.

“Uhm…yeah,” he stalled, raking a hand through his hair and scuffing the toe of his boot across the porch. “Uhm…you know those pants I let you borrow…you happen to have them. I mean-I’d like to have ‘em back.”

Her face went pale and her eyes went wide. She cleared her throat and nodded quickly. “Yeah…I’ll-just a minute.”

She turned and fled like he’d threatened her bodily harm instead of asking about a pair of pants. Tim was left standing on the porch, confused as all hell and trying to figure out what was going on. She returned a few minutes later, the door clicking shut behind her as she stepped all the way out onto the porch. She had the jeans in her hands. They’d been washed and more neatly folded then he’d ever managed.

“I’ll talk to you later,” she said in a rush of words. She was just reaching her hand back to turn the door knob and duck inside when the door opened and a man a few years older than her stepped out onto the porch.

“There a problem here?” he asked.

Tim was still confused as all hell but he was figuring it out fast. “No, Sir,” he answered.

The man looked a little confused and the woman (he still didn’t know her name) looked like she wanted to shrink into the porch. Tim took a step back, figuring how fast he could run down the sidewalk where he’d parked the truck, when he saw the man’s face go from confused to infuriated.

“This him, Susan?”

Susan never answered, at least not that Tim saw but then the only thing he saw was the man’s fist coming down toward his face. Tim stumbled but he held his ground, fists curling at his side. He didn’t throw a punch and he took the next one. Pain shot through his cheekbone then through his eye. He heard Susan yelling and looked up at the guy. His vision was blurry red but he could see she was trying to pull him back. He took another hit to the face and he went down to the ground. There was a sharp kick to his ribs and he curled up on himself involuntarily. There was another sharp kick that him in the shoulder and then it all stopped. He heard the door slam shut and Susan crouched down next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered then stood up and ducked into the house.

It took Tim a few minutes to stand up, grab the jeans lying next to him and drag himself down the sidewalk to his truck. Everything hurt so damn much. He started the truck and just drove, not surprised when he ended up at Tyra’s house. She answered the door pretty quickly, the horror on her face letting him know just how bad he looked.

“Damn, Tim…who the hell ran over your face?”

In answer he held up his pants. Tyra rolled her eyes and stepped back.

“That don’t explain you lookin’ like you went a few rounds with Charlie’s entire bar,” she told him as he stepped over the threshold.

“She was married. Her husband was home,” Tim slurred between split lips.

“And you didn’t fight back?”

“It was her husband,” he stressed. Blood dripped down his cheek, either off his eye or his cheekbone and landed in a fat drip on the jeans. That was when he noticed that for some damn reason that night, he’d felt the need to sign the pants. Right across the ass. In black marker. Tim Riggins #33.

No wonder the husband had been pissed off.