Tim is sprawled out on his couch - their couch - it was supposed to be their couch. He's on his fifth - no, sixth - beer, but who's counting anyway, and who really gives a shit - it's not like Lyla's here to tell him what to do. Not that she has much room to tell him anything right now.

He throws the cap of his beer bottle across the room, watching as it bounces off of the wall and hits the floor. Hardwood floors. What Lyla wanted. He can't decide whether he wants to drink himself into a coma or go out and start a fight with someone at a bar just to feel some relief - the relief of getting hit, getting hurt. To match the shit way he feels right now. He wishes he were on the field right now - in his pads, his helmet, getting pushed out onto the field to block - feeling the pain ripping through his arms, his shoulders - as he pushes someone to the ground - hard. It's funny how in real life, people hate bullies, but they're heroes on the football field.

Tim wants to be anywhere in his head but here, thinking about some guy with his hands all over Lyla. Some guy touching her, kissing her. Fucking her. He closes his eyes and pounds down the remainder of his beer. He immediately opens another one. That's the thing about having your own house - you get to put a six-pack or two on the table right next to you - the little side-table thing that Lyla has always liked - and drink in peace. No one bothers you.

They're talking about Texas football on television right now. San Antonio State could be a contender this year. Tim is used to being a contender. He's also used to feeling like shit. Though, in fairness, it's been a while. He wonders if this is how Jason felt when he found out that Tim and Lyla were screwing around behind his back. All those years ago. It's not quite the same, of course; Lyla and Tim are technically broken up, even thought it's been all of, what, a week? And then there's the fact that Lyla had a one-night stand with a random stranger and immediately confessed it to Tim. That's kind of different than what they did to Jason - his best friend, his now-paralyzed best friend, after his accident. But a broken heart is a broken heart, right? It doesn't matter whether it's because you just found out that your girlfriend of many years is screwing your best friend or that she just screwed some random asshole once. Right? Tim thinks that Jason must know what he's feeling right now. But Jason's probably not going to be all that sympathetic. Tim throws another cap across the room. Bounce, drop.

He hears a knock on the door and ignores it. He stares at the television - Oklahoma State has a scary good offense this year - and continues to drink. He wants to be on that field. He wouldn't have to think about Lyla and her one night fuck on the football field; it's the one place he can just not think.

He doesn't notice that someone has opened his front door and is talking to him. "Riggins. Earth to Riggins," Tyra Collette stands there with her hand on her hip. "Tim - what is wrong with you?"

Tim turns his head toward Tyra. "Hi," he mutters and looks back at the television.

"Good to see you, too, jerk," she says. She pushes the door shut and throws herself down on the couch next to him. "Just came to see how you are. Billy told me you were in New Jersey or something. What's that all about?"

Tim shrugs. "Beer?" he asks.

Tyra narrows her eyes. "Okay."

He pops a cap off of another bottle and hands it over.

"Thanks."

Tim nods. "Cheers," he looks at her.

"You okay?" Tyra asks.

"Great," Tim smiles brightly. "Just great."

"Yeah," Tyra rolls her eyes. She sighs. "So. . . ." She waits for him to speak. He doesn't. "So I heard you and Lyla broke up."

Tim doesn't look at her. "Yup," he mutters.

"She's moving to Austin, huh."

"Yup."

"And you . . . .?"

Tim takes a drink and looks at Tyra, narrowing his eyes. "What's this about, Tyra?"

"Nothing," Tyra makes a face at him. "Just tryin' to be friendly; thought we were friends."

"So what are you doin' home anyway?" Tim asks. "Figured you wouldn't ever be comin' back to Dillon."

"I know," Tyra laughs and runs a hand through her hair. "I figured the same. And yet, here I am."

"Here you are," Tim says dryly.

They sit and watch ESPN silently for a few minutes. Tyra finishes her beer. Tim hands her another one.

Finally, Tyra speaks up again. "So, aren't you going to ask me what I'm gonna be doin'?"

"What are you gonna be doin', Tyra?" Tim asks. He leans back against the couch, half laying down. He takes another swig of his beer.

Tyra sticks out her tongue at him and pokes his side. She grazes her eyes over his tanned, washboard stomach, now exposed where his shirt - emblazoned with the words "San Antonio State football" - has ridden up on him. "I'm interviewing for a job at the school, actually."

Tim cocks his head to the side and looks up at Tyra in surprise. "School? The high school? Dillon High?" he is incredulous.

"Yeah, Tim, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Tim grins. "I just can't believe that you're headed back to Dillon High. What are you gonna be doin' there?"

"Well, if I get the job, I'm gonna be a guidance counselor. Like Mrs. Taylor."

"Like Mrs. Taylor, huh?" Tim smiles. "That's great, Tyra, that's really great."

"Are you being serious, or are you making fun of me?"

"No," Tim smiles, "I'm being totally serious. That's great. I'm happy for you. I am."

"Yeah, well. . . ." Tyra smiles softly as her voice trails off. "So, you and me, back in Dillon, huh?"

Tim doesn't respond. He puts his arms behind his head and watches her curiously. Tyra glances at his biceps as they strain against his tee-shirt. She pulls her eyes away before Tim can see what she's staring at.

"I mean, it's like fate," Tyra laughs.

"Fate, huh?" Tim says.

"I mean, after you graduate," Tyra smiles. "Last season, huh, football hero?" she teases him.

"Last season," Tim grins. "It's kinda surreal right now, actually."

"Yeah, I bet," Tyra says. "What are you gonna do with your life, anyway?"

Tim leans his head back against the cushion, looking up at the ceiling. "The million-dollar question," he grins. He pauses. "Coaching, probably," he finally responds. "I mean, I've been helping Coach Taylor out for the last few years, and this summer I'm supposed to be helping Coach Spivey out. At least for a month or so, before I have to report for preseason. Playbooks, offensive coordination, recruiting, stuff like that. I think I'm actually pretty decent at this shit. Crazy, huh? I mean, it's a pretty far cry from Riggins' Rigs, anyway. . . ."

"No, it's not crazy," Tyra says softly. "Not at all. I think you'd be pretty good at it, too. Pretty great, actually."

"Thanks, Tyra," Tim smiles at her. "Ty Ty," he teases.

Tyra giggles. "Don't you dare."

"Oh, okay, so only Minds can call you that? I mean, we're family now, right?" he grins. "Aunt Ty Ty?"

Tyra grabs a cushion off the couch and hits Tim with it. "Don't. You. Dare," she grins at him.

TIm grabs her and pulls her down on top of him. "Ty Ty, come on, don't take life so seriously," he grins.

Tyra is trapped in his strong - ridiculously strong - arms. She can't move. And she doesn't really want to. She can feel his hard body beneath her - he is so fucking well-built. This is really an unfair advantage. "Tim, stop," she finally says.

"Stop what?" he asks. His face is inches from hers.

"This," she says quietly, uncertainly. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know," he says, "Does it matter?"

"Yes, yes, it does," Tyra pushes herself off of him. "It does because you're - you're using me - to make yourself feel better. Or worse. I don't know. I'm not gonna let you do that to me again."

Tim sighs. "Tyra, why does everything have to be so complicated? Why can't we just -"

"Because, Tim. Because I know you," Tyra tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Because I've been in love with you since I was five years old, and you spent half your life treating me like crap."

"Come on, Tyra, that's not true," Tim says. He's really regretting this now. He's definitely not in the mood for another deep conversation. Not with Lyla's - transgression - on his mind.

"Yeah, it is, Tim, it is," Tyra says. "You look at me as an easy lay - you always have. You take advantage of my feelings for you. Even though you don't - even though you don't -" she breaks off. Even though you don't feel that way about me. She can't say it.

She shakes her head. "You never change, do you? What am I, some substitute for Lyla when you can't have the real thing? I am not anyone's leftovers, Tim."

"Tyra, that's not how I think of you," Tim says. Not particularly convincingly. He's a terrible liar.

"God, Tim. What am I even doing here?" Tyra is angry now. Her words start spilling out quickly. Too quickly. Like she's been practicing this speech for years. "Fuck you. Fuck you for all the years you fucked me and then left me alone like I didn't matter. Fuck you for fucking Lyla and fuck you even more for falling in love with her. Fuck you for showing me, time and time again, that it's not that you didn't want a girlfriend, it's just that you didn't want me as your girlfriend." She stand up and wipes away the tears that are rolling down her cheeks.

Tim is surprised at the level of anger that she still - still? - harbors over things that happened eight million years ago. "I'm sorry, Tyra," he stammers. "I didn't - I didn't realize -"

"Didn't realize what, Tim?" Tyra wipes her face and smiles. "That I might actually have feelings? That I might actually want more than a roll in the hay? Of course you didn't."

"I'm sorry," Tim says simply. "I don't know what else to say."

"Whatever," Tyra brushes herself off. "I just wanted to come hang out with you today, see how you're doing. And you had to go all Tim Riggins on me."

Tim laughs. "I didn't realize I was going all Tim Riggins on you. I'm sorry. Really, I just thought - I thought we both wanted to -"

"No," Tyra responds quickly. "We didn't. Didn't you just break up with Lyla, like, five minutes ago? You really want to screw someone else so quickly?"

Tim's jaw tenses. He doesn't respond.

"Hit a nerve there, Tim?" Tyra snaps.

"You're right, Tyra," Tim stands up. "This wasn't a good idea. I'm not - I haven't - I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the way I treated you all those years ago. I truly am."

Tyra's expression softens. "I know," she says.

"And I'm sorry for - trying to - I don't know," he pauses, "take advantage of you - or whatever - here. I don't know what I was thinking. Not much, obviously. I just - I'm not - I have a lot of my mind. And, I guess . . . having sex with someone you don't love is easy because you don't have to care about -" he stops, wishing he could take back what he just said. He looks down at the floor.

"Yeah," Tyra says quietly. "You don't have to care."

"That's not what I - that's not what I meant," Tim stammers. "I just -"

"You're just in love with someone, and it's not me. It's never been me. I get it, Tim," she grabs her bag and heads to the door, "and I'm just going to go now before you accidentally tell me something else completely crappy."

"I'm sorry, Tyra," Tim sighs and sinks back down on the couch. Seriously - why are women so damn hard to deal with?