A/N: I love pre-series fics, always, and I wanted to give a little insight into what came before the first big game of the season. There is lots and lots of Riggins, because I love him more than life. You will see no mention of Julie Taylor's thoughts here, because honestly I cannot stand her.
Reviews are love. Thanks to all who have been supportive of my FNL fanfic. =) In the words of Tami Taylor, "I appreciate that."
i.
"Estival weather," Landry says, rolling the word around like he's enjoying it.
Matt stares at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Summerlike." Landry's pale eyebrows lift. He's flushed red, partly from the exertion of their game of catch and partly because he's one of those people who has a ten-month sunburn. "Haven't you been prepping for the PSAT?"
Matt launches the football at his head. "It's still summer, stupid."
"Hurtful," Landry says, fumbling the catch. "And inaccurate, considering my academic prowess."
They toss it around for a few more minutes. Then Matt smacks the old tire that hangs from the tree. "You hungry?"
"I'm good." Landry's known him since they were five, and he's still freaked out by Matt's grandma. Landry's a weird dude. Matt sighs. "OK. Well, I smell fried chicken, and I'm kind of starving."
"I'll see you on Monday if not before," Landry says brightly. "Here's to an excellent, surprising year." Nothing excites Landry like the prospect of school. Matt likes school well enough, but it always brings complications with it. Sometimes he thinks it might have been better to not join the football team at all, because that way he could just be a PSAT-prepping nerd alongside his best friend and he wouldn't have to be caught forever in between, different from his own kind and not good enough to ever do anything on the field.
He isn't one of the titans—Street the golden quarterback; Riggins, too cool for school; Smash, charming and charismatic. He's just Matt Saracen. Awkward. Wide-eyed and looking like something scared him in every one of his school pictures, all of which Grandma feels the need to hang up.
"See you on Monday," he tells Landry, and his voice sounds weary, even to his own ears.
No, Matt's certain. This year holds no surprises.
ii.
She's awful proud of her new truck. Well, it's new to her, anyway. She bought it with her own money, and a little help from Mindy that she swears she'll pay back. It makes her feel well and truly grown-up, in control.
She likes the feeling a lot.
It makes her doubly mad, then, when Mama suggests that she got it to impress Tim.
What the hell? She never does anything to impress Tim, he never does anything to impress her, and it's about time Mama understood that. They try and piss each other off all the time, and they're very good at it. It's the most consistent part of their relationship, actually.
Tyra scowls, her good humor washed away by the memory. School starts on Monday, and the game season will be underway. Tim's at his best and his worst when he's playing football, cocky but focused, and she knows this.
Overall, it'll be an improvement. He's been drinking so much lately.
Guess that's what happens, when you try your first beer at ten and are sneaking them steadily by twelve.
She doesn't expect Tim to impress her; that's not what this is about. She's just—he's harder and harder for her to read, brooding and sarcastic and inattentive. More so than usual. She can't decide if it's a short-term thing or a downward spiral.
She bangs the screen door behind her and heads out to the truck, yelling over her shoulder that she's going out.
The Riggins' windows are dark, unsurprisingly, but she catches the glow of the TV through one of them. Somebody's home.
She bangs on the door. "Tim! It's me."
He opens the door, bleary-eyed. She can't tell if he's drunk or hungover in the half-light; probably one leading into the other. He's also not wearing a shirt, so…there's that.
"We should go out somewhere," she suggests, hands on her hips.
He blinks. "Why?"
"It's summer," she says defiantly. That's reason enough.
Tim pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Why are you so…revved up about this?"
"Because it's not even seven at night and you're just…drunk as a skunk."
He lifts an eyebrow. "It's summer," he returns glibly, and then, "And skunks aren't drunk, Tyra. They're just stupid."
"Guess the shoe still fits, Riggins."
"Cruel." He puts a hand over his heart. "Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know. Somewhere."
"Real enticing," he says, dragging the word out like she should proud of him for using something that has three syllables. "Or you could just…you know. Come in…"
Tyra knows who she is, who they are. It's always going to come back to that eventually. But she wants something more today. "Come on, Tim," she says, and curses herself inwardly for pleading. "Let's, what do you always say, that stupid-ass thing—make some memories."
His lips curl in a smirk. "Quotin' me. That's real flattering, Tyra. But making memories always involves beer. Always."
"Then grab a six-pack for the road," she retorts. "And put your damn shirt on."
"Keepin' yourself honest, I see," he teases, but he disappears into the house obligingly.
Once they're on the road, Tyra doesn't feel much like explaining. Tim never minds her being quiet; she wishes she could say the same. She pulls over alongside a cornfield—a place she's been a thousand times—and shuts off the truck. Tim leans in, turning her face towards his, lips seeking hers, obviously expecting this to go a certain way.
She bats him away. "Back off. I just want to watch the sunset."
He's confused. Of course. "Are we breaking up again?"
If you keep being dumb, she thinks, but she only rolls her eyes. "Let's get out."
They sit on the tailgate, Tyra playing with her hair and Tim sipping his beer. At last she reaches over and tangles her fingers in his.
He doesn't look at her, but his hand tightens around her. Tyra watches the sky glow tries to decide if she doesn't want this enough or if it isn't enough to want.
The sky is so big, and it makes her feel tiny and inconsequential.
Tim's eyes are wide and intent as he stares upwards, but he's not sharing his thoughts. The bottle is held loosely in his fingers, momentarily forgotten.
She lets a spark of hope light itself inside her. Maybe this year will bring change, enough to make her believe in something.
Fear follows hope. Change could mean anything. If it's the bad kind, Tyra knows, it might just push them both over the edge.
iii.
Tyra's in a mood, so she kisses him hard and then shoves him away and goes home. Tim doesn't give it too much thought—there's no point, when she gets like that, chasing sunsets and trying to get him to chase them with her—and heads back inside.
He didn't even shut the TV off, so that's one less thing to do. He stretches out on the couch, reaches for a half-filled bag of potato chips, and finishes off another beer.
He's grateful for the season starting, though he doesn't give a damn about school.
Sometimes it starts to seem like summer never ends, and then it does, all of a sudden, leaving a sour taste.
Dad left at the end of summer. That's a while ago, now, but Tim remembers the day perfectly, even if he never talks about it. Guess three months stuck home with his younger son was just more than Walt Riggins could bear.
Billy slams in at after nine o'clock, fired again. He's not as pissed as usual though. Something about the start of the school year being great for hiring.
"Keep dreaming," Tim tells him, and Billy flips him off.
"Let's see you hold down a job for more than two weeks, little bro."
Tim considers mouthing back, but he's just too tired. Too drunk, in point of fact. He sets down the bottle with a clatter and throws his arm over his eyes.
"Stop making noise," he groans, and Billy tells him he's an idiot, but he's a little quieter.
School. Football. Jay's last year. It should be a good one, even for Tim, if he just gets his act together.
Man, he must be well and truly hammered, thinking that will ever happen.
Tim decides to sleep it off. Or at least, as much of it as he can.
iv.
"You are so close, honey," his mom says, and he can see the love and pride her eyes. He's got a lot to live up to.
"I know, Mom."
"You excited?" She looks so young when she smiles. Jason takes her hand and smiles back.
"I'm pretty thrilled."
This is his year. The golden quarterback, that's what they call him. He's a senior, and he's worked for this, cares about this. He'll do whatever it takes.
His mom makes him a late breakfast, reminding him that it'll be early to rise come Monday. Jason doesn't mind. Just past noontime the doorbell rings.
From the kitchen, he hears his mom call out, "Come on in, Tim."
Jason carries his plate in from the dining room. "Hey, Riggs."
"Six." Tim is standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets. Even after all these years, Tim never seems quite comfortable with the picket-fence life. Tim doesn't have a mom with eyes that shine for him, doesn't have a mom at all, really.
Tim doesn't have much to live up to.
Jason's proud of him, though. Proud that he sticks it out in his own way, one of the best and toughest players on the team—better than ever this season, more than likely—and stubbornly fixed on plans for their future. Tim lets himself down, but not his friends. The two things have never crossed over, at least, not in Jason's experience.
Riggins is watching him, gauging the silence. Finally, he ventures, "You getting' all…philosophical?" and Jason laughs and shakes his head as they head upstairs, looking for a football.
"Nah. Hey, what do you say we set up a Frisbee game later? You, me, Lyla…whoever wants to come from the team."
"Frisbee." Tim pauses for a moment, clearly judging it, but he shrugs and nods. "Yeah. How about it. I'll bring beer."
"Enough for the team?"
"Enough for me."
"Generous." Jay plucks a football off his dresser and turns it in his hands. "Man, I am so ready."
"Best year of your life, right?" Tim grins. "So far. NFL, man. That's gonna rule."
Jason savors the thought, savors the dream. Future, something much more defined and promising than the mere knowledge of things to come. "Yeah. It'll be great."
v.
Jason's got one arm around her, one slung over the steering wheel. He's grinning bright and wide, pumped up with happiness.
"You looking forward to the season?" Lyla asks, like it isn't obvious.
He presses a quick kiss to her forehead, and she leans in. "Yeah, babe. Yeah, I am."
Lyla smooths down her skirt. "Where are we going, by the way?"
"Park. Riggs and I want to play Frisbee, have a few beers."
Lyla shakes her head. "Let me guess. You want the Frisbee, and he wants the beers."
Jason laughs. "Say what you will, he's got a mean arm."
Tim isn't the only one at the park, since Frisbee and beer is enough to draw half the team. Lyla stands off to the side while the guys rib each other, rolls her eyes at the sight of Tyra Collette hanging all over Tim, red nails raking through his overlong hair.
She and Tyra used to be friends, actually. Times change.
Jason convinces her to play, even though she won't have a beer. They split up into teams, and through some machination of Tyra's, Lyla and Jason end up on opposite teams. Of course, so do Tyra and Tim, but that's probably because they think fighting with each other is a turn-on or something.
Lyla decides she shouldn't have worn a dress for this. It's too easy to slip and fall on the slick, springy grass, and once she does, barking her knee. Before Tyra can jeer, though, Tim is at her side.
"You good, Garrity?" He helps her up, and she feels the quick press of his lean, calloused fingers on her arm. A shiver of electricity runs through her, and she tries to shake it off.
They lose by an inch, according to the strange set of rules that Jason and Tim have devised. Tim's last hurrah is pretty fantastic, though, a flying leap through the air that results in the Frisbee snapped in two and Tim sprawled on the ground.
Jason, ever a loyal friend, moves to help him up. Tim stumbles to his feet, nonchalant in apparent defeat, and then hooks one leg around Jason's, felling him to the ground. Jason swears, more vehemently than usual—and they tussle on the ground while their respective teams applaud.
When they're on their feet again, Tim laughs, low and long, sweeping one hand through his hair. The movement sends a ripple through his muscles that Lyla can't help but see. He always cuts his t-shirts to ribbons; she has no idea why.
She looks away.