Eric leaned his forehead against the fourth floor window of his hospital room. Down below, he could see leaves swirling down the street. Occasionally, one would fly as high as his window, and would float gently, rocking back and forth before another breeze would send it whirling away. The sky was the incredible deep blue seen only in autumn. In the distance, he could see the light poles from the football field. This week was a bye week, and Eric had every intention of being at the next game. He felt like he needed to be there. That once he was out on the field coaching again, his life would be back to normal.

Sighing, Eric turned and trudged back to his bed, the Pleur-Evac handle clutched in his left hand. Rubber tubes dangled down and connected to the chambers. Carefully, he set the box down on the floor, making sure the tubes weren't kinked. At least the device wasn't connected to suction any more. He turned and gave a tug on the oxygen tubing, cursing softly when it caught on the opposite corner of his bed. Thankfully, his IV was disconnected for the moment. A couple of times a day, the nurse used the one remaining port to administer antibiotics, and for that short time, he remained tethered to his bed. He could get up, but he found it was too much hassle to deal with the chest tubes, IV pole, and the nasal cannula still supplying him with a little extra oxygen. Sometimes, he felt trapped, like a fly in a spider web of tubing.

With a soft groan, Eric sank onto the edge of the bed and pulled his tray table close.

His lunch had been delivered a few minutes earlier, and with a decided lack of enthusiasm, he lifted the lid off the plate. Baked chicken, rice pilaf and green beans. Yum.

Eric almost dropped the cover back on the plate, but remembered the doctor's admonishment that he needed to eat more. For some reason, he didn't have much appetite; probably a side effect of the medications he had received. The chicken was so dry and tough that cutting it taxed what little strength he had. After a few bites, he pushed the tray away and gingerly eased back in the bed, closing his eyes.

The thought of relaxing in his recliner watching game tapes while Tami and Julie sat on the couch reading sent a sharp ache to his chest that had nothing to do with the chest tubes or the stab wound. He just wanted to go home. He needed to go home to be with his family. To feel their presence and let it soak into him.

Eric wanted to smell the scent of make-up and shampoo, and candles burning on the mantle; to hear the sound of Julie chatting on the phone, her music playing just loud enough to get on his nerves, but not quite loud enough to be obnoxious. He longed to sleep next to his soft, warm, beautiful wife. He smiled, imagining spooning up against her back, strands of strawberry blonde hair tickling his nose. His body relaxed, his limbs becoming pleasantly heavy as he began to drift off to sleep.

Several minutes later, his eyes snapped open and he struggled to sit up. Vivid images of the attack assaulted his memory. He had been too sick and out of it the last few days to have much time to think about what had happened, but now that he was firmly on the road to recovery, his mind replayed the incident. Every time, Eric felt a sense of shame overcome him. He felt shame for not getting through to Foster, and shame that he was involved in a system that allowed football to become so important. It was just a game; it was only football.

Sighing, Eric pushed the bed control and raised the head of the bed. So much for the nap, he thought wearily. He rubbed his eyes, wincing at the tenderness that remained around his left eye. Eric raised his right hand and fingered the cut on his neck. It had required fifteen stitches and had come within millimeters of slicing through his jugular vein. As it was, it had nicked the vessel. No wonder it had bled so much.

Coach turned his gaze towards the window. From his vantage point on the bed, he couldn't see much except for tree tops and blue sky, but it beat staring at the walls. His mind turned back to the incident. Beneath the anger and hatred, Eric had glimpsed a yearning and vulnerability in Alan Foster. The boy longed for his father's unconditional acceptance. To be accepted for who he was, and even though Eric didn't know Foster's dad personally, he knew his kind. They put incredible pressure on their kids to succeed where they had failed. They saw in their children the chance fulfill their own dreams. Of course, the only one who really knew why Foster's dad had left was the man himself, but Eric was certain it didn't have as much to do with Alan as the boy thought it did.

While Foster had obviously had some real animosity towards football players, the coach felt that Foster's true anger had been directed towards his father. Only, his father wasn't available, so that anger had been focused full force on Eric, and by extension, the team. Eric knew that football coaches often filled father figure roles for many players. It was impossible to miss the eagerness in their eyes. Their desire to win Eric's approval. Many times, the only incentive for the kids to play so hard was to get a word or two of praise from him. They lapped up the least little crumb like adoring puppies. It was humbling and flattering and, sometimes, it scared the hell out of him.

"Uh, Coach?"

Eric turned his head, blinking at the spots that danced in front of his eyes from staring out at the bright sunshine. His room was much dimmer, and the person in the doorway was only a vague outline. He squinted and identified the person as Tim Riggins. It was the first time he had seen his fullback since the locker room.

"Hey, Tim. Come on in." Eric sat a little straighter and pulled his covers up, anchoring them at his waist with his left hand. It embarrassed him to be seen lying in a bed, but he didn't have much choice in the matter.

Riggins slowly entered, and Eric noticed the large pizza box in Tim's hands.

Tim lifted the box slightly. "Mrs. Taylor mentioned that you didn't like the food here, so I brought a pizza. I hope you like pepperoni."

Eric smiled. Pizza was very welcome after bland hospital food. "Sure. Pepperoni's great." He gestured to a nearby chair. "Have a seat."

Tim looked for a place to set the pizza, but the tray table still held Eric's lunch tray. "I'll hold the pizza if you want to just move the tray over to the window ledge." Eric held out his hands.

"Yeah, okay." Tim handed Coach the box and quickly cleared the table.

Eric cocked his head. He didn't smell anything. And, the box was cold. Real cold. He set it on the cleared table and lifted the lid. Half of a cold, greasy pizza rested in the box. It was all he could do not to break out laughing. Riggins had brought him leftovers! Eric reached in a lifted out a slice. What the hell, cold pizza still beat hospital food any day of the week.

"Thanks." Eric managed between bites. "You gonna have some?"

Tim shook his head. "No, I already ate."

Eric grinned. "Yeah, so I see."

Other than asking Coach if he wanted something to drink, Tim sat quietly. He hadn't been sure about bringing in the pizza, but he wanted to bring something…anything that would be a good excuse to come see Coach, and when Mrs. Taylor had said Coach wasn't eating much, he had the idea to bring the food. Coach seemed to be enjoying it, so Tim relaxed, trying not to look at the rubber tubes dangling from Coach's torso. One had a pinkish fluid in it, and the box connected to it, to appeared to be full of blood. Tim swallowed hard. He didn't think he could eat now even if he was starving.

Coach finished a slice, drank some water and sat back. "That was great, Tim. Thanks for bringing it."

Tim sat forward. "Aren't you gonna have some more?"

Coach shook his head. "I had some lunch before you came in. It wasn't too good though."

Tim sat back. "Oh. Okay." He stood up then, feeling restless, and wandered over to the ledge where he had set Coach's lunch tray. Dozens of cards hung from to the wall above it. Flowers and plants occupied every available flat surface. A huge plant perched on the windowsill had a card poking out. It was from Buddy Garrity. Tim wondered if Lyla had helped pick out the plant. Somehow, he just couldn't picture big ol' Buddy Garrity choosing plants to send to someone in the hospital. He fingered a dark green, shiny leaf briefly then moved on to a small, wilting bouquet, obviously from someone's garden. Tim plucked out the card resting haphazardly in the middle of the bouquet. It was from the Saracens.

Tim looked back at Coach and he could feel his face flush with shame. He should have thought to send something. It was the least he could have done after screwing up so badly. "Well, I guess I'll get going, Coach."

Coach Taylor shook his head, his expression serious. "Hold on a minute. You just got here."

Tim met his coach's eyes for the first time since entering the room. Coach regarded Tim, his hazel eyes steady and unwavering. Unreadable. Tim squirmed under the scrutiny.

"Riggins, sit your ass down. We need to talk." Coach's voice was quiet, but firm.

Obediently, Tim sat on the chair again. Here it comes, he thought, dreading the ass- chewing he'd get, but resigned to it, knowing he deserved everything Coach would say and more. He wondered if he would be kicked off the team.

Coach turned slowly to sit on the edge of the bed, and Tim winced in sympathy at the obvious discomfort the movement caused the man. Coach bit his lip and closed his eyes tightly.

Tim started to get up. "You okay, Coach?"

Coach Taylor let out a big breath, and opened his eyes then held his hand up. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sit back down. I just moved too fast."

Tim sat back again. If that was fast, he hated to see slow. He looked down, guilt stealing over him again. It was all his fault that his coach was going through this pain.

"You okay, Tim?"

Tim's head shot up at the question. "I'm just fine, Coach." He shifted in the chair.

Coach narrowed his eyes and said softly, "I don't think you are. Have you talked to anyone about what happened in the locker room?"

Tim shook his head and looked away. He felt a flush of embarrassment when his eyes welled up. He closed them, willing the wetness away.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling okay, because I tell ya, every time I close my eyes, I see Foster again. I see him hitting you with the gun. I see that knife and then feel it at my throat."

Coach stopped for moment and touched the bandage on his neck, and Tim felt guilt jolt through him once more as he remembered how Coach had received that cut.

"And I see Foster shoving you into my office. It scares the hell outta me every time."

Surprised, Tim looked up. Coach met his gaze for a moment then looked down at the tray table in front of him, swirling one finger through a ring of condensation left by a water glass. He continued, his voice hoarse, "I apologize for not doing more to get you out of that mess. I should have been able to stop Foster." Coach raised his eyes. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

Tim shook his head. "No, Coach. It was my fault. I was holding the knife when it…it…" Tim's voice trailed away. He couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence. "If I had been faster, or…or stronger, maybe, I could have gotten the knife away from him."

Coach ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "No, you did the best you could. It happened so fast, and I couldn't tell you what I was going to do, I just hoped you'd figure it out."

Tim nodded, surprised to find out that Coach hadn't said anything during that moment before he had grabbed Foster's gun hand. Tim could almost swear that Coach had told him the plan. Thinking back, he knew Coach couldn't have said anything. Foster had the gun trained on Tim at the time, and Tim would never forget the look that had been in Coach's eyes at that moment. Fear and shock at first, then he had looked at Tim, and Tim just knew what the other man was going to do as clearly as if Coach had called an audible. The fear disappeared from Coach's eyes at that moment. Determination, resignation and something else that Tim couldn't quite name replaced the fear. Sorrow? Peace?

That thought startled Tim. He had tried to block the whole scene out of his mind for the past five days, but now it came back with terrifying clarity. He now knew the meaning of that look. Coach had expected to die when he made the move on Foster. He had expected it, and yet he had jumped Foster anyway. Why? Why would he do that? Why would Coach Taylor risk dying to try to save him?

Tim dropped his head, unable to stop the tears that came this time. He stood and walked to the window, avoiding his coach's gaze but feeling it follow him across the room. Nobody ever did shit for him. Hell, his own dad didn't bother with him. Why should Coach care if he lived or died? He stood for several minutes. He could hear Coach getting out of bed, but he didn't turn around. His face was still wet, and ducking his head, Tim swiped his eyes across his shoulder. He blinked hard, relieved when the tears stopped and began drying up.

"Tim. This wasn't your fault. It was mostly Foster's fault, but I should have done more too. You're a good kid and I'm sorry you got caught in the middle of all this." Coach's hand rested on his shoulder.

Tim laughed out loud, the sound bitter and sharp. "Good kid? I think you have me mixed up with Street or Saracen, Coach."

"Nope. I know who I'm talking about."

Tim turned. "Coach, I'm a fuck-up. We both know that. I party too much and I'll be lucky to graduate."

Coach shrugged, but then froze for second, pain flitting across his face, he let out a deep breath before saying, "You're a little messed up, but shit, who isn't at 17? I know I was. I got myself straightened out, and you can too. My dad made sure I did."

Tim remained silent. A little flame of hope stirred within him at Coach's words. If Coach had messed up as a kid but still turned out okay, maybe there was hope for him. Then his hope plunged. "Yeah, well, lucky you, Coach." Tim hadn't meant to sound so sarcastic, but he felt hopeless now. His dad didn't give a rat's ass about him. Tim knew he couldn't count on him for support.

Coach nodded. "Yeah, I was lucky, but I want you to know that I'll be there for you. You can come to me any time, you hear?" Coach poked a finger at Tim's chest. "I expect you to come to me, understand?"

Tim felt the hope surge again, but remained silent, unable to voice what he was feeling. "Yes, sir."

Coach grinned. "I'm going to ride your ass so hard to keep you on the straight and narrow; you'll be wishing you had a second chance with that knife."