Caterpillars

And this is all we need, this is all we need

Eight days after first being admitted to the ER, Jason Street is transferred to a rehab facility at the edge of town and the Dillon Panthers officially get a new first-string quarterback.

"You're kidding me, man!" is Landry's reaction. "I mean, you have got to be kidding me! You, the quarterback? Of the Dillon freakin' Panthers? You?"

Matt tries not to be too offended. It's a shock, after all – his jaw had nearly hit the locker room floor when Coach Taylor made the announcement to the team. And he gets it, he's not exactly the star quarterback type. He lacks a certain finesse, the smoothness that made every word roll smoothly off Jason Street's tongue and every throw look effortless.

When Matt's on the field, it's work. People in the stands can tell – they see the muscles strain, the sweat drip. It's a struggle straight through to the end. But when he'd tried to explain that to Coach later, in the privacy of his office, the man had simply stared him down and, with a shrug, said, "That just makes each win count more."

"Come on, man," he finally cuts in on Landry's ribbing. People are starting to stare, as if he hasn't had his share of scrutinizing gazes to last a lifetime in the past week. Everywhere he goes – the barber shop, the library – people are sizing him up, thinking, Too small. Good hands. Bad form. "Give it a rest, huh?"

"I, for one, think it's great."

This opinion comes from three booths away. The blonds head turns around slowly, but recognition has already dawned for Matt. It's Tyra Collette, the same girl he'd surprised outside the hospital a week ago. She's in his PreCalc class, too, although she usually skulks in late and sits in the back row.

It takes Landry's elbow driving into his ribs to get his vocal cords working again. "Uh, th – thanks," he stammers out, then – cursing his own idiocy – adds, "Tyra."

"You're welcome." And here, she smiles, slow and sure, like she knows something he can only guess at. "Matt."

With that, she turns back around, leaving Matt to field Landry's disbelieving stare. "Dude," his friend begins, not bothering to even lower his voice. "What was that?"

Matt shrugs, attempting to play it cool. "Maybe she's a fan –"

"Maybe she's a – maybe a –" Landry sputters, his moth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "A fan? Matt. Be serious. Girls like that are not fans of yours. She's way – way – too hot for you."

Almost as an afterthought, the boy adds, "No offense."

Matt rolls his eyes. "None taken."

"Do you understand what is happening here?" Now, Landry gets quiet, leaning forward across the booth to whisper. "Do you know what this means for us?"

"Us?"

Landry ignores him. "This means we are on the rise, my friend. Quarterbacks – well, first-string quarterbacks, anyway – get respect in this town. We are about to embark on a new chapter in our lives, man, one in which we will actually score invites to parties and dates with cheerleaders."

"We?"

Again, Landry continues as if Matt hasn't spoken at all. "We're going to be popular," he concludes triumphantly, eyes shining as he envisions their bright future.

Matt digests this information for a long moment, chewing it over along with a mouthful of overcooked burger. "There's just one problem with that theory," he says when he's finally swallowed."

"What?"

"You –" He points for emphasis, poking his finger into his friend's chest. "Aren't on the team."

At that, Landry looks upset. "Like you'd ever leave me in the dust. Trust me, Matt, you're gonna want me around this season – this town is full of fair-weather fans."

"Your friend has a point." Again, the same sultry voice interrupts, although this time from a much closer vantage point. Tyra stands over their table, one hand on her jutted hip, a thin strip of flat, tanned stomach peeking out between the hem of her shirt and the waist of her torn jeans.

Matt's mouth goes as dry as his burger had tasted. "Uh – sorry – what?"

"Your friend," she repeats, bracing the heels of her hands on the table so that her wrists, thin and pale, bear her weight. "Has a point."

"Landry?" He feels bad for the note of incredulity that creeps into his voice, but really – Landry?

Apparently, Landry feels the same. "Me?"

Tyra nods and, without asking, reaches over to pluck a fry off Matt's plate, popping it into her mouth. "This town," she says, uncaring that both of them are transfixed by the way her tongue darts out to trace any salt off her lips. "Is full of phonies. People are gonna like you one day and hate you the next, all depending on how well you play the game."

"Well, I've been playing football my whole life," Matt says, then blanches at how boastful it sounds. It's not like he's God's gift to the game or anything; it's not like he's Jason Street.

"That's nice." She flashes him an insincere smile. "But I'm not talking about football."

With that, she turns on her heel and saunters away, hips swinging with an easy rhythm that garners more than one customer's attention. Matt frowns. "Well, then, what's she talking about?"

Landry is still staring after her, practically salivating, as he confesses, "I didn't hear a word she said."

At that, Matt has to laugh.

XXX

"Oh, I know that look," Smash calls out knowingly as Tyra exits the diner. He nods towards Matt in the window as his new teammate, unaware, laughs at something his awkward blonde friend has said. "Homeboy's in trouble."

Tyra bats her eyelashes, adopting Lyla Garrity's falsetto as she replies, "Why, Smash, darling, I just don't have any idea what you're talking about. Are you accusing me of something?"

"You do a mean impression, girl," he comments, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "And you know exactly what I'm talking about. Don't pretend the whole school doesn't know you and Tim are off again. I'm the one he takes it out on during practice."

"Your powers of perception never cease to amaze," she mocks, patting his cheek. "But just because Tim's been a jackass to me all week doesn't mean I'm gonna jump in bed with the next guy I see. Honestly, Smash, I've got a bit more class than that."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, not fully convinced. "All I know is, you were eyeing Saracen like he'd be just as delicious as one of the burgers at this fine establishment."

Tyra rolls her eyes at him. "Now I know you're joking. The burgers here suck. And anyway, with half the town in a state of depression over the mighty Jason Street's downfall, can you blame a girl for wanting an innocent little distraction?"

"You and 'innocent' don't belong in the same sentence," Smash tells her with a laugh. "Maybe not even the same dictionary."

His smile is dazzling in its brightness, not to mention its sincerity. Smash is one of the few football players (Tim Riggins not withstanding) whose company she actually enjoys. He has a straightforward nature she appreciates and a genuine enthusiasm that's contagious. Plus, the few times they've hooked up during her and Tim's infamous off periods, he hasn't assumed it meant anything more, which she also appreciates.

"Okay, maybe 'innocent distraction' is a bit of a stretch," she admits, because he knows her better than most. "More like … a challenge. You know how much I love those."

"Oh, man." Smash's laughter isn't mocking, but it follows her as she gravitates towards her third-generation pickup truck and coaxes it into gear. "Saracen's a goner."