Slouching in his seat, he turns up the volume on his mp3 player. Even in the lobby outside the assistant coach's office, it's obvious where he stands. His appointment was at four, and Tim managed to get himself there at 3:55, just in case. But in twenty minutes of waiting, Coach Clayton's seen three other players without appointments. That kind of says it all.
"Hey." The coach's secretary leans down toward him, her sour breath hot against his face. Her eyes are narrowed in annoyance.
Tim plucks the earbuds from his ears. "Yeah?"
The secretary leans back to glare at him, and she folds her arms. "I said Coach Clayton can see you now."
Tim stretches to his feet, pocketing his mp3 player as he makes his way to the coach's doorway. He tries to look casual, and he almost feels it, but there's a quiver of nerves at the base of his throat. Coach Clayton isn't the biggest or toughest-looking of the assistant coaches, but he's definitely the meanest, and the guys all know it. Whenever he speaks up in the locker room, every last one of them falls into a hush.
The coach looks up at Tim, motioning toward the chair on the other side of his desk. "Come on in, son," he says. "Don't be shy."
Tim slinks into the office and settles into the chair. Coach Taylor used to call him 'son', but from him it sounded fatherly. From Coach Clayton, it always sounds like he only says it because he can't remember Tim's name.
"Tell me something," the coach says. He looks Tim over from head to toe, like he's sizing him up. His shoulders are pushed back and his chest puffed out like a Marine's. "Do you want to be a Longhorn or a loser?"
Tim's breath catches. "I'm sorry, sir?"
He gives Tim a square-jawed smile, but there's something hard in his eyes. "You know why I called you in here today, son?"
Tim hunches down a little in his chair. "Uh. My grades haven't been the best, sir."
"Yeah." He nods at Tim, slowly, methodically. "Yeah, you got that right." He taps his pen on the desk, not lowering his gaze. "Your academic advisor tells me you're not passing a single one of your classes. Not a one. And do you know why you're not?" He plants his forearms on the desk and leans in toward Tim. "Because you haven't been attending. You missed three midterms, son. That's three big fat zeroes."
Tim stares at Coach Clayton, taking in his expression. His eyes are narrowed, and one corner of his mouth is turned up in a slight smirk. It's the same look of contempt Tim's been seeing on every coach, teacher, and fellow student since arriving in Austin. A band stretches in his chest. It tenses around his heart.
"Let's think about what your scholarship covers, shall we?" he says, ticking off a list on his fingers. "Tuition. That's about nine thousand dollars a semester, give or take a bit, right? Your room and board, about another five thousand. Your books—let's be conservative and call it five hundred. And a few hundred in fees. That's a fifteen-thousand-dollar slot we could have given to some other player. Per semester."
Tim's eyes don't move, but it feels like he's been tackled and pinned to the ground. Fifteen thousand. He might as well have said a million.
"Listen." The coach's voice softens a little. "I don't know what things are like out in—where you from again?"
"Dillon, sir."
"—out in Dillon. Maybe they pass people through there with grades that are good enough to snag them an athletic scholarship, grades they haven't really earned. But this is the University of Texas. You know what that means?"
Tim swallows. "I think so, sir."
The hardness in his eyes is back. "It means we don't cut people slack who have no business attending college in the first place. Even if they do sit on the bench in a football uniform a couple times a week in the fall."
Tim's face burns. The message couldn't be clearer: if he could run just a little faster or block just a little harder, he might be less expendable, but as things stand, he's just another college student. Worse than that—he's a liability. He thumbs the back of his ring. It's slick with sweat.
The coach holds up a stack of papers. "This is a list. On this list are the names of hundreds of fine young men lining up to take your place if you fail. It's your choice, son. Have I made myself clear?"
Crystal. "Yes, sir."
The coach lets the stack of papers drop to his desk. "So you're going to start going to class?"
Tim's eyes fall to the floor. The room clouds over in a red haze.
"I don't think I heard your answer there, son."
He clenches twin fists around the arms of the chair, and then, slowly, he lets go. He pulls himself to his feet, turns, and walks out of the coach's office.
#
Tim's got a roommate who's never there and there are a couple of members of the team who say hi to him, but the only one he really knows in Austin is Tyra. Fumbling with the phone, he dials her room and asks her to meet him at Applebee's. He can almost hear her roll her eyes, but she shows up.
"I can't believe you dragged me way the hell off campus to have dinner with you at Applebee's." She skewers a piece of chicken with her fork and shoves it into her mouth.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Why not? You used to work at one."
"Yeah, well, don't remind me." She shakes her head. "Don't you know there's a kickass Mexican grill right on Guadalupe? And this great pizza place down the—"
"I wanted Applebee's, okay? Quit givin me a hard time."
He narrows his eyes into a squint and looks at her, really looks at her for the first time since she walked in. Her hair's a little shorter, but she looks good. Harder, maybe, but in all the right ways. And definitely happier. Tim shifts against the booth.
"So what did you want to talk to me about?" She leans in toward him. "You look like hell, by the way."
Tim smirks. "Thanks."
Tyra smiles back. "You're welcome." She shoves a forkful of salad into her mouth. "Hey, you heard from Jason Street? How's California treatin him?"
"California?" Tim hasn't heard from Jay since he left for Austin.
"My mom told me he found some quad rugby team in Pasadena." She sets her fork down. "It's kinda like a—a feeder team for the national team or somethin? Real hotshot stuff. He didn't tell you?"
A muscle tenses in Tim's neck. "Nope."
"You gotta admire him for gettin out, you know? I mean, think how easy it would've been for him to be stuck back in Dillon his whole life."
Tim dips his head, letting his hair fall across his eyes. "Hm." He grabs his burger and takes a bite.
Tyra's mouth pinches. "I'm still tryin to get an internship this summer. I don't know, though—Econ's been kickin my ass. I got a C on the midterm and now I gotta get an A on the final if I want a chance." She sniffs. "If you would've told me a year ago that I was gonna be spendin every night at college with my nose in a book, I'd have laughed in your face. But I am not going back to Dillon next spring, not for nothin."
Tim chews on his burger for a long moment, then swallows it back with a big gulp of Coke. Tyra's eyes are fierce with a kind of determination he's never seen on anybody but Jay. She's like some kind of flower that just needed to get out of the desert to blossom.
"Yeah, well," Tim says slowly. "I've been thinkin about goin back a little sooner, maybe."
Tyra's eyes widen. "What are you—no."
Tim's head dips a little lower, and his hair cuts off their eye contact like a curtain. He lifts his burger to his mouth again.
"Look at me. Tim. Tim!"
He tosses his head back and meets her eyes again. They're pleading. "Don't you do it," she says. "Your scholarship. You can't."
He sets his burger down. "Well." He lets his eyes wander around the restaurant, resting on the familiar green uniforms, the yellow lights, the brown wood on the walls laced with Longhorn orange. "I think maybe I already did."
Tyra's face screws up like she's going to cry, and the back of Tim's throat starts to burn. And then she lets out a frustrated sigh, and that's almost worse. Tim balls a fist in his lap. He's so goddamn sick of disappointing people.
"Everybody in this town thinks they're better than us," he says. It's the first time since he got to this place that he's said what he was really thinking, but it comes out sounding like one more excuse. "Don't tell me they don't make you feel it, too."
She gives her head a shake. "You don't get it, do you? They are better than us. But if we work our little asses off, they won't be for long." She reaches across the table, grabbing his wrist. "At least promise me you won't go back to Dillon, okay?" There's a little wobble in her voice. "Quit school if you need to, but don't go back there. There are more jobs here anyway, right? Just promise me that."
Tim pulls his hand away. He doesn't let himself look at her.
Tim doesn't dare face the coaches back at the gym, and it's been a long time since there's been money for beer. So instead of staring at the walls of his dorm room, he spends the next week in shorts and a tank, his feet pounding against the sidewalk and his heart echoing the same drumbeat in his ears. But a steady stream of cars threatens to chase him down at the crosswalks and coughs out exhaust that sits in his lungs while he's trying to run. And so by the time a big guy in a uniform comes and tells him he's going to have to vacate his room, Tim's already figuring that if he's going to be miserable anyway, he might as well be miserable at home.
#
There's no hero's welcome back in Dillon—no parade, no cheering crowd. Billy's not even there when Tim pulls into the driveway, and when he finally gets home, his face is red with anger and he glares at Tim like he can barely stand to look at him. "You're damn well gonna pay rent," he spits out, and then flicks on the television. Tim spends his first night home so drunk on Billy's vodka that his head starts spinning by eleven and doesn't stop.
Everybody else has moved on: Tyra's made herself over as a student in Austin, and Lyla's cheering at some shiny college in North Carolina. But it's Jay who comes to him in a stupor of a dream that night. He doesn't say a word, just stares up at Tim from his chair, his eyes slitted and piercing and full of challenge. It's the only thing that gets Tim's sorry ass off the couch the next morning, and once he's up, he finds his way to the SpeedyMart. He knows it's probably just old Peterson feeling sorry for a former state champion, but the man makes room for him, and Tim's grateful. It's steady work, and that's the important thing. It doesn't hide the contempt in Billy's eyes, but it keeps him from breathing fire.
The days stretch into weeks and then to numbing months, past the winter's mellow chill and into spring. A routine settles in: awake by four PM in an empty house, breakfast from a can by afternoon light, his truck parked around the corner from the store, and behind the counter in time for the night shift. There's a motorcycle for sale in the yard by where he parks, but even that never moves: the sign starts out at $1200, but as the months pass and the cardboard frays around the edges, it's a thousand, and then finally $950. It's big and it's red and it's got a four-stroke engine and a full set of leather saddlebags that call out like the open road. A couple of times a week, Tim runs a hand over its cool metal, closes his eyes, and thinks about freedom.
He's lining up rows of tomato soup along one of the shelves a few hours into his shift when there's a voice from the next aisle over. "Well, if it ain't Mitchell Street."
Tim stands. The guy's back is turned, but behind him is Jay's dad. His face is weathered, but his shoulders are relaxed, like the old days. "Hey, Ron, how's it goin?" he says. Mr. Street is all smiles.
"I'm good. How are things down at the shop? How's the wife?"
Mr. Street shrugs. "Oh, we're hangin on all right."
"Boy, that son of yours is really somethin, ain't he?" The guy cuffs Mr. Street in the arm. "Paula just about cheered when she heard he made the team."
"Yeah, he does all right for himself." It's supposed to sound modest, but Jay's dad is beaming like a son-of-a-bitch.
The other guy laughs. "More than all right, I'd say. That boy is the best example of an all-American success story I know. He sure wasn't gonna let nothin get him down after that accident." He grabs a movie from the shelf and walks over to the counter, and Tim shadows him, flicking the latch to move behind it. "And now he's off to London and everythin," the guy says, his eyes shining.
A smile flickers across Tim's face. London. The Paralympics. Some brand-new gym they're building over in England, where the Olympic athletes are going to play, too, like it said in the Chronicle. Jay may not be able to stand up, but nobody can say he hasn't made it.
Mr. Street rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, you know his mama. She's all worried about that. Before Jason went out to LA, he'd practically never been outside the state of Texas, and now he's tourin around, gettin himself a passport." He grabs a six-pack of pop from the shelf and walks over to the counter, shoving the pop onto it. "You know..." he starts, and then cuts himself off.
His eyes dart around the store, like he's trying to make sure there's no one there. A ribbon tightens in Tim's chest. No one there that matters.
"I'm not really supposed to mention this yet," Mr. Street says. "But they've started filmin now..."
"Filmin?"
Mr. Street's mouth turns up at one corner, and he leans in toward the other guy. "About six months ago this Hollywood producer called Jason up. It's a little studio, just a couple of young guys, really, but...he asked how Jason'd feel about them makin a movie."
A wave of shock rips through Tim. But then suddenly he can see it: Jay's face, dripping with sweat from a workout or a game, up on some Hollywood movie screen. His jaw squared and intense, his arms tanned and rippling. Tim's mouth falls open.
"A movie about Jason?" The other guy's eyebrows fly up.
Mr. Street ducks his head a little. "Well, it's not just about Jason." He pulls a little roll of dollar bills out of his pocket and slides them against the counter. "It's about the team, really. But Jason's kinda...the main event."
The other guy shakes his head. "Well, we always knew that boy was fixin to be a star."
Tim slides the change into Mr. Street's hand, but Mr. Street's still looking at the other guy. "He's got himself a girl now, too. She's one of the camera—a camerawoman, I guess she'd be. Me and Joanne haven't met her yet, but we're thinkin about goin out there one of these weeks. She sounds real nice."
Tim's stomach turns over, and he looks down at himself. There's an ugly red ketchup stain on the green fabric of his uniform. He licks his finger and rubs at it. It darkens, but it doesn't budge.
"That's just great. I'm real happy for you, Mitch. After all y'all have been through, it's about time Jason caught a few lucky breaks."
"I appreciate that."
They're both walking to the door now. "Good seein you. Why don't you two come around for dinner sometime."
"That'd be great. Tell Paula hello from us."
"Will do."
The door jangles to a close. Tim watches them through the window, but as they part on the front step, his own reflection gets in the way. His hair's uncombed and lying limp in his eyes, and there's a gray streak of dirt across his face. His hand closes around the edge of the cash register, and he digs his palm against the rough metal until it stings.
A sudden rage burns hot at the back of his throat. They didn't even see him.
He slides a hand into the pocket of his jeans and clenches a fist around the keys. And then he's moving, heading for the door, heading for something. His heart's drumming in his chest, chasing away any coherent thought. He locks the store, throws the keys into the mailbox, and drives home.
Billy's out again, but for once the empty house is a relief. Tim tosses a couple of changes of clothes into a laundry bag, grabs the grocery money from the cookie jar and the emergency money from Billy's mattress, digs out his dad's old sleeping bag and tent from storage, and piles it all into the back of his truck. He leaves his stained green uniform on the couch instead of a note. He and Billy are years past common courtesies, and there's not much left to say at this point anyway.
The cardboard for-sale sign on the bike next door to work is down to $899 now, and it seems like an omen. Tim stammers out an offer as the owner stands in his doorway, bleary-eyed, in a flannel robe. He slides a suspicious glance at Tim, but he helps him fix the saddlebags to the the back of the bike in the dark.
It's the helmet that makes it feel real. And then the familiar Dillon roads give way to wide, empty highways, and Tim's choking back dust instead of memories.
#
Tim's been east to Corpus Christi once, so this time he heads south, past Pecos and Toyah and down Highway 17. When sleep presses at the inside of his skull, he pitches his tent in a farmer's field and huddles in his sleeping bag, the ground hard against his back. Breakfast is at a little diner just outside of Fort Davis, rubbery scrambled eggs chased down with a glass of watered-down orange juice. And as the landscape grows more rugged and more foreign, an old song sinks its teeth into his brain: When you're headin' for the border, lord, you're bound to cross the line. He thinks of Spanish-speaking cops and seedy karaoke bars and the smell of tequila on Jay's breath as Tim rolled him into bed.
But forty miles north of Presidio, somewhere between the middle of nowhere and the edge of the earth, the bike gives out. At first Tim thinks it's the hill he's trying to climb, and he digs in with his knees like the bike's a horse he can tame, but when it keeps slowing down on the way downhill, he knows it's something bigger. Tim makes it to a gas station, but the closest mechanic is three miles up the next dirt road, and the cheapest tow is eighty bucks he doesn't have. So he scrawls the address on the back of his hand and resigns himself to pushing. The helmet feels like it could boil his brain without the wind at his face, and he sweats buckets with every step.
The garage turns out to be just that: a garage, attached to a little green house with chipped paint and a rotting couch perched on the front porch. Behind the house is a cornfield, and the air is fresh with cut grass. There's a weathered "room for rent" sign in the front yard and a ladder leading up to a half-repaired roof, but no sign of a work crew.
Tim abandons his bike in the gravel driveway and tucks his helmet under his arm. "Uh. Hello?" he calls out, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the garage.
"M'second." It's barely a grunt, but it's coming from underneath one of the two cars in the garage. A set of tiny wheels scrapes against the cement, and a guy rolls out to meet Tim's eyes. "Yeah."
His skin is copper-colored, and he's maybe Coach Taylor's age, with thick black hair trimmed close to his scalp. His wifebeater and his ripped denim shorts are streaked with grease, which seems like a plus on the whole mechanic thing, but there's no sign that a bike has ever darkened his door. "Please tell me you fix motorcycles," Tim says.
The guy pulls himself to his feet. "Whadda you got?"
Tim steps back out into the light. "It's just—I just pushed this thing all the way from I-67."
The guy walks over to it, clutches one of the handlebars, and pats it on the saddlebags. He's shorter than Tim, but his arms and legs are cut and as big around as tree trunks. "A Shadow. '85?"
"'83."
"Nice ride." He looks up at Tim. He grins. "Til somethin goes wrong, anyway."
Frustration pools in Tim's throat. "Do you think you could just have a look at it? Please? I got cash."
The guy shrugs. "Sure." He kicks in the kickstand and rolls it into the garage. "Gimme a few minutes."
There's a drum of oil and a stack of tires in the corner, and the shelves are lined with manuals and car parts. On the wall is the guy's license: Angel G. Espinoza. Tim's eyebrows edge up. He hardly looks like a blonde chick with a halo and a white dress.
Tim turns around. The guy's crouched down by the engine, wielding a screwdriver. "Your name's Angel?"
His eyes meet Tim's in a glare. "AHNhell," he pronounces with a growl.
Tim smirks. "Uh-huh."
Angel scowls. "Hey, you want me to fix your bike or not?"
Tim holds up his hands and shuffles back a step. "Sorry."
Angel slides his head toward the garage door. "You can wait out front."
Tim backs out again into daylight. "No problem."
Tim sets his helmet down on the ground and steps up onto the porch, and then suddenly, he's pacing. He left his watch back at home on the bedside table, but the sun's low enough in the sky that it'd be right about time for his shift to start. Peterson's probably getting ready to damn him straight to hell right now for walking off the job. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his mouth flattening into a line.
"You look thirsty." It's a woman's voice, and her accent sounds like the Taco Bell chihuahua's.
Tim looks up. On the other side of the screen door is the tiniest little old lady he's seen in his life. Her stark white hair is held tight to her head with a ponytail, and her wrinkled mouth is pinched into a frown.
"And hungry. And tired."
Tim's forehead creases. "I'm sorry?"
"You sit. I come right back." She disappears.
Tim's rank with sweat and soaked through to the pores with road dust, but the couch is full of holes and at least as dirty as he is. Slowly, he lowers himself onto it. It creaks under his weight.
The door slams, and then the lady hands him a tall glass of ice water. He downs it in one gulp, and it tastes like a little piece of heaven. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thank you, ma'am."
She holds out a plate. It's lined with pink citrus wedges. "Grapefruit?"
Tim's face flushes. He must look like some sort of homeless waif, but embarrassment won't make his stomach stop growling. He reaches for a piece.
She sits down next to him on the couch and puts the plate between them. She holds out a hand to for him shake. "Rita Espinoza."
He takes it. "Tim Riggins."
"Tim," she repeats, but it comes out sounding like 'team.' Tim cracks a smile, and she echoes it back. "So." She throws up her arms. "What a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"
The corner of Tim's mouth turns up further. It's been a lot of years since anybody called him a nice boy. "My bike—uh, my motorcycle broke down."
"You from out east? San Antonio?"
For a split second he thinks about coming up with a lie, but he can't think of anything that sounds convincing. "Dillon," he admits.
"Hm. Dillon. Oil town. Lots of rich young men. Big fancy cars."
Tim takes another piece of grapefruit. "I think that was before my time."
"You going somewhere special?"
Tim shrugs. "Not really. Just kinda...goin."
"Mm." Her nod is approving. "Just going. Driving around, stopping when you want to stop, sleeping when you want to sleep."
Tim's eyes widen. "I guess, yeah."
"It is good to do that when you are young. When I was young, I did that, too. But I did not have no motorcycle." She leans in toward him and flashes him a smile. "Just a boyfriend with a fast car."
Tim smiles back. She's a little like Jay's grandma used to be, back when she was alive. She'd tell them stories that would make Mrs. Street blush and Mr. Street holler for her to keep her mouth shut in front of the kids.
"So, you want the good news?" It's Angel.
Tim looks up. "Please."
He holds up a hand. "I can fix it."
Tim slumps forward, clutching at his knees. "Thank you, God." He sits back up, and the look on Angel's face is serious. "Wait. What's the bad news?"
"It's your clutch line. We're gonna need to order in some cables. Now, I know a guy who knows a guy who can get his hands on em, but it's gonna take a little while."
Tim's stomach sinks. "How long?"
"Bout three weeks."
Tim's mouth drops open. "Okay, seriously, man. I'm sorry I laughed at your name."
Angel snorts. "Bein sorry ain't gonna get you a new clutch line."
"So what'll it take, then?"
His grin is back. "Waitin bout three weeks."
A rush of adrenaline propels Tim to his feet and out onto the driveway, fists clenched at his sides. He doesn't have money for three weeks. Hell, at this rate he doesn't have money for three days.
A growl escapes from his throat, and he kicks at his helmet, scattering gravel like buckshot across the ground. He squints across to the other side of the street. There's nothing but cornfields, as far as the eye can see. He runs a hand over his face, a familiar feeling of helplessness tugging at the back of his neck. Only he could manage to fuck up running away quite this bad.
From behind him, Mrs. Espinoza says something in Spanish, and Angel lets out a groan. Tim turns around. The only word he can make out of what they're saying is mamá, but he played high school football, and he'd know the pained look of an embarrassed son anywhere. Tim's heart slows.
Angel sighs, and he folds his arms and takes a few steps toward Tim. "So, uh. You know anything about roofin?"
Tim blinks. He's patched more holes than he can count. "I guess."
"It's just—the guy who was doin the job, he just skipped out. So if you wanna take over, we got a place for you to crash til your cables come in."
Tim peers up at the roof. There's a spot near the point where the old shingles are already pried off. It's a few days' work, tops. He cracks a smile. "Sure."
Mrs. Espinoza rushes to Tim's side, and all at once her arms are around him. It's a bigger bear hug than somebody who only reaches his chest should be able to manage, and a warm flush creeps across Tim's face. "See," she says, shaking her finger at Angel. "I tol you it going to be okay."
Angel rolls his eyes. "Let him go, mamá," he says. He tilts his head up toward the roof. "C'mon, I'll show you the job before it gets dark." And then the sheepish look on his face creases into a wide, winning smile, and for a long moment, he looks just like Jay.
Tim follows Angel up the ladder, his own smile broadening to a grin.
#
Tim keeps to the spare room for the first couple of hours, trying to stay out from underfoot, but they invite him to join them at the table for dinner, and then the questions just keep coming. He shuts down a little when they ask about the future, but the past is a little easier as long as he sticks to the guts and glory of football practices and state championships. He and Angel talk about cars, and Mrs. Espinoza pesters him about the length of his hair while she clears the table. Slowly, Tim feels his guard slip a bit. It's been a long time since anybody's asked him what he thought about anything, or listened when he opened his mouth.
At bedtime, Tim slings his towel over his shoulder and stops in Angel's doorway. He's spread a tarp in the corner of his bedroom, and four long boards are stretched out on it.
"You need the bathroom for anything?" Tim gestures down the hallway with a thumb. "I was gonna take a shower."
"Nah, go ahead." Angel's bent over one of the boards, a hammer in his hand. It looks like the beginning of shelves.
It's a big room, but at first glance, the stacks of milk crates that line every wall and perch at the foot of his bed make it look smaller than it is. They overflow with magazines, with tools. On the wall closest to the door, there's a heavy wooden shelf with row upon row of sports trophies.
"You can come in, you know." Angel's voice is light.
Tim ducks his head a little, but he steps inside. Perched on the pedestal of the tallest trophy is a gold statue of a guy in boxing gloves. His eyebrows inch up. "You're a boxer?"
Angel glances up. "I did some boxin, yeah. Long time ago."
The plaque on the wall above the trophies is an all-American red, white, and blue, with a crossed pair of brown gloves in the middle. Middleweight Championship, Fort Worth, it reads. "Looks like you were pretty good."
Angel shrugs. "Them things pile up. I'm sure you got plenty yourself."
Tim's never had a trophy case, or even a shelf. They're mostly perched on his dresser. Not like Jay, whose parents displayed every trophy in the living room until he packed them away himself.
"I don't know why I keep em," Angel says. He tilts his head toward the door, his mouth creeping up at one corner. "Except that she'd probably kill me if I threw em out."
Tim takes another step toward the shelves, running a hand along the gold plaque at the foot of the tallest trophy. Golden Gloves Championship 1991. "Golden Gloves. Ain't that some big tournament in Chicago?"
"Yep."
Tim's eyes widen. "You won that?"
"Just my weight class." His voice is level, dismissive. "There were twelve of them things that year."
Angel fixes one of the boards to the other and pounds it in with a hammer at the corner. The muscles in his shoulders are tensed and round, and Tim can see him in a boxing ring, sweat flying, fists swinging. "What was it like?" Tim asks.
"What?"
"Winnin."
Angel chuckles, but it sounds more like embarrassment than a scoff. He stops pounding. His eyes flicker to the floor, then up to meet Tim's. "Probly the best day of my entire life."
Tim's eyes fall shut. The rumbling of the crowd, the ball that snaps from Matt to Tim. The tackle, the final pass to Smash. The run. The score. The screams, the chants, the hugs, the high-fives. The roaring in his ears that didn't let up til morning. Tim smiles. "Yeah."
Angel crouches back down by the boards. "Too old for it now, though." His voice is matter-of-fact, but his shoulders slump a little.
There's a sudden rawness in Tim's throat. His fists flex around his towel.
"What?" Angel shakes his head. "It happens to everybody." He lays the one board flat, letting the other stick out at its angle. "You wait, it's gonna happen to you, too."
Tim rocks back on one leg, and a shock jolts through him. In a way, it already did happen. Guys like Smash, the ones who are good enough to really make it at college ball, they get a longer run, but guys like Tim are washed up at nineteen.
"Y'know, you ain't like most of them hard-assed football players," Angel says. "Ain't it just a whole lotta...hype?"
"You didn't play?"
Angel snorts. "I ain't cut out for no teams."
Tim shakes his head. "See, that's the thing."
Angel's eyebrow inches up.
"When you're playin football, the guys, they're your brothers. They'll do anythin for you. Even the ones who kinda hate you off the field, they'll carry you to the edge of the world if you need it. And they know you'd do the same for them, no matter what."
"No matter what." Angel's head cocks to one side.
A Mexican doctor's office. Jay stretched out on a sterile white bed as the doc pokes and prods at him. The fire in his eyes blinding him with the last desperate shred of hope. "Yeah."
Angel gives him a slow nod, like he's thinking. "Y'know, that sounds...nice." Their eyes catch, and there's a quick burst of warmth in Tim's chest, like the strike of a match.
Angel picks up another board and slides it in next to the first one. "You need some help?" Tim asks.
Angel's gaze bounces over to a wider board by the door. "You can bring me that."
Tim hoists it up on his hip and walks it over to him. Angel takes it with an open palm and a nod, and Tim squats next to him, tucking his bare foot under the tarp. Angel lays the board flat on the ground, his chest muscles flexing.
Tim eases his towel to the ground. "Y'know, you kinda remind me of that dude I was tellin y'all about," Tim says. "Jason Street?"
Angel smirks. "The cripple?"
Tim's eyes narrow. "He's not just a cripple."
Angel lets out a long laugh. "Yeah, he's a crippled gringo. So how's he like me again?"
Tim blinks. He can't explain it. He shifts his weight from one knee to the other. Back and forth.
Angel sets down the hammer. He's still grinning, but his eyes are fixed on Tim's, and there's something else there now. He's not looking away. Tim tries to swallow. His throat catches on a breath, and there's a little flutter in his chest.
With an open hand, Angel reaches across to Tim. His finger is marbled with grease stains, and he runs it over Tim's lip. Tim's heart races, and suddenly he's getting hard. He thinks about sucking on Angel's finger. Why does he want to suck on his—
And then Angel's mouth is pressed against his, pinning him to the ground, and they're kissing. Or they're doing something that's a lot like kissing but somehow faster, rougher. Angel sucks Tim's lip into his mouth, and Tim's brain freezes into shock. But his body bucks up to meet Angel's, and he closes his eyes.
Angel's hands are at Tim's belt, and he's—and that's his tongue, and it's warm and it's wet and it's pulling. Tim's pulse is drumming in his ears, and his fingernails dig into the carpet, and then into the back of Angel's neck. It's slick with sweat, and Angel lets out a throaty groan. It sounds like compulsion, like danger.
Suddenly Tim's dizzy with this, with the sour smells in the air and Angel's mouth on his cock and the calloused fingers curled around his ass and the sounds of Tim's own frantic, shuddery breaths. It all winds together, building like a wildfire at the back of his throat. He cries out as he lets go.
Tim doesn't look at Angel when it's done. He turns on his side, pulls up his jeans, and zips up his fly, his hands shaking. He ducks his head and lets his hair hide his eyes. He slinks down the hallway to the spare room, the twin smells of sweat and sex clinging to him like a second skin. He collapses into sleep.
#
The sunlight on Tim's eyelids wakes him the next morning, and his eyes fly open like he's been bitten by a snake. He's expecting the gray canvas of his dad's tent, but there's a dresser and a mattress and a—
He remembers.
He turns over, flat on his back, and stares up at the ceiling. Tim Riggins, the first guy in his class to smoke a cigarette, the first guy to own a fake id, the first guy to fuck a rally girl behind the bleachers. And now for his next trick, he's going to be the first guy to get sucked off by some Mexican dude who's probably old enough to be his father.
And he's getting hard just remembering.
He curls back onto his side, tucking his legs up to his chest. Things were already pretty fucked up before he got here, but turning into some twisted Brokeback ripoff is a whole new world of fucked up. A whole new universe. He pulls the quilt up over his head.
There's a knock at the door, barely a scratch. "Tim," comes a voice, a hoarse whisper. Tim's heart speeds up, but he doesn't move.
It's louder the second time. "Tim!"
It's definitely Angel, and Tim holds his breath, pressing his eyes shut. And then the silence stretches into minutes, and his heart slows.
"You want coffee or juice wit your breakfast?"
The voice pulls Tim out of a fresh burst of sleep, and his eyelids shudder as they open. He pokes his head out from under the quilt and blinks up at Mrs. Espinoza. Her hands are on her hips, and she's leaning over him, inches from his face. Her apron is stained with blotches of grease, and she smells like it, too.
She tosses her hands in the air. "Or both. You can have both." She shakes a finger at him. "But you gonna eat breakfast. You can't go up on the roof wit no breakfast."
The roof. Right. Tim lets go of a breath. "Uh. Juice is fine."
She clasps her hands together. "You get both. You look tired." And then she's gone.
Tim drags himself out of bed, grabbing a clean shirt and the other pair of jeans from his bag. In the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and runs a comb through his hair, but he avoids his reflection in the mirror.
He slinks into the kitchen, his back to the wall. Mrs. Espinoza's little, but she could still decide to pull a shotgun on him for what he's been up to with her son. But her eyes light up as he appears, and she beams up at him like the morning sun.
"There he is!" she chirps. She points at the only spot at the table where there's still a place setting. "You sit there. Like yesterday. That is your spot now."
"Thank you, ma'am," Tim mumbles, shrinking into the chair.
Her forehead creases. "You din sleep so good, no?"
Hands at his belt. Fingernails digging into his back. Tim's face burns. "I slept all right."
"It is an ol mattress," she says with a shrug, grabbing a frying pan from the stove. "But it is what we got."
"It was fine, ma'am." He picks up his juice glass and takes a sip. "Thank you."
She smiles again. "Thank you, ma'am," she mimics. "You so polite!" She pushes something onto Tim's plate with a spatula. "Here. Scramble eggs with frijoles. You like frijoles?"
It's a brownish lump of...something. Tim pops a forkful into his mouth. It's warm and it's spicy and it tastes like beans, but with more flavor. "It's good," he says, his mouth pulling at one corner.
She pulls out a chair and sits down next to him. She blinks up at him, smiling, but Tim's gaze darts around hers like it's trying to find a footing on a slide, and he looks down at his food. He shovels another forkful of eggs into his mouth. A guilty hole burns into his chest.
"How you see what you eatin wit all that hair?"
Tim peers up at her.
"How you ride your motorcycle?"
Tim cracks a smile. "I got a helmet."
She shakes her head and says something in Spanish. Then she reaches over and pushes Tim's hair back, tucking it behind his ears. "There. Much better. Now I can see your pretty face." She tilts her head at him. "I cut it for you, yes?"
He pulls back a little, but a laugh topples out of his mouth, and his shoulders relax. "I don't think so."
She narrows her eyes, and her smile transforms into a mischievous grin. "I cut it. You let me, you see." She pulls her hands back. "Okay, now I let you eat." She springs to her feet and reaches toward the stove for the pan, stirring it.
The coffee is hot and the orange juice sweet, and both the eggs and the frijoles nibble at his tongue with an unexpected hint of spice. Slowly, Tim's grip loosens around his fork, and the burning in his chest eases. This definitely beats cold Spaghettios from a can.
"You got enough?" Mrs. Espinoza holds up the frying pan.
Tim swallows his last bite of eggs. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Tim-Team-we are a team, yes? I fix the good breakfast, Angel fix the good motorcycle, and you fix the good roof." She smiles.
Tim smiles back at her. He's going to do an extra-good job on that roof.
She reaches down and pats him on the hand. "You go now. You want lunch? Twelve thirty?"
"That'd be nice." He stands.
Out front in the driveway, Angel is bent over the engine of a green sedan, the hood propped open with a stick. Tim's heart speeds up, and he tries to slink by unnoticed, but the screen door slams behind him and Angel looks up. Tim freezes as their eyes meet, but Angel gives him a little smile, and there's a warm feeling in Tim's chest.
He spends the day peeling back shingles, and as the hours pass, he lets the sun and the work beat back his nerves. And so that night, by the time he creeps past the door to the spare room and stumbles into Angel's bed, he's thinking maybe this is okay after all. Because yeah, it's fucked up, but it's nothing he hasn't done with dozens of girls, and nobody can see him out here anyway. And when it happens again—for real this time—it's fast and fierce and nothing at all like doing these things with a girl. But it feels so normal that it's easy to forget it's not.
#
The days pile into weeks, and once the roof is finished, Tim starts in on the painting. Mrs. Espinoza orders the paint and Angel drives into town and picks it up, and before long both pairs of Tim's jeans are flecked with pale yellow. The evenings are about dinner and and beer in front of the TV, and at night there's Angel. It's like the house is some kind of force field, buffering them all from the rest of the world.
One evening, after the third time Mrs. Espinoza threatens to cut it in his sleep, Tim finally gives in on the hair thing. She runs and gets her scissors, propping a full length mirror against a kitchen chair and pulling another one around to face it. She drapes a towel around Tim's shoulders and pins it in the front with a clip.
The spray bottle in her hand groans as she mists Tim's head down. It's cold against his face. "You ready?"
Tim laughs. "No."
She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and lets out a long sigh. "We want to see your beautiful eyes!"
Tim's shoulders tense. "Okay." He shakes his head. "Do it."
Snip. "I help you with your hair like you help me with my house, yes?"
"I guess." A six-inch strand falls to the floor.
"Such a pretty yellow house. And now I thank you." Snip. "You gonna need another color for the—" She says something in Spanish. "For the trim?" Snip.
"I think Angel's gettin in some black. He's fixin to do it himself on the weekend." Another layer of hair lands in his lap, and Tim brushes it away.
Snip. "Hm. He say that, but he always so busy." She leans in. "I think it gonna still be green next year," she whispers.
Tim looks up at her through her fingers, managing a smile. In the mirror, his own eyes are staring back at him now with a glassy gray. He looks like somebody else, somebody a lot younger and scareder.
Snip. "Right." Snip. "And that—and here—and—" She lifts her hands. "There you are!"
Tim leans in toward the mirror. It's a little like Angel's, now, but with a center part. His jaw is kind of pointy. He's never noticed that.
"See? Now you look very nice. Very handsome."
Tim swallows. It's shorter in the back than on top.
"You can wear it like this—" She pulls it back, pressing it to Tim's head. "Like Elvis! Or like this—" She runs her fingers through it, pulling it into soft spiky masses and then letting it fall into a part. "Like all the nice young boys." She pulls off the clip and the towel, stepping back.
"Thank you, ma'am," Tim mumbles.
"Right." She clasps her hands together. "Now I go to bed. Good night!" She kisses him on the top of the head, and she's gone.
Tim squints at the mirror. The slant of it makes him look smaller than he is, and all at once he sees it: the ten-year-old kid who used to look back at him from the mirror, back before Dad left. Tim makes a face.
In the living room, Angel's stretched out on the couch in front of the TV, a beer bottle in his hand. Tim hesitates in the doorway, and then his eyes catch on Angel's. Angel raises his eyebrows, and his mouth turns up into a smirk. Tim shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"Somebody made off with your hair," Angel says, pulling at his words like cotton.
Tim rolls his eyes. "I look like a dork."
Angel swings his legs off the couch, making room. He tilts his head.
Tim's fingers fidget. He shoots a look down the hall to Mrs. Espinoza's room.
"You ever seen her come back out of that room after goin to bed? Get over here."
Tim cracks a smile. He moves toward the couch. He sinks against it.
Angel cups his hands around both sides of Tim's head and traces his fingers down the back of his neck. Tim closes his eyes, his whole scalp tingling. He's closer to Angel now than he felt with the guy's cock in his mouth.
"You look great," Angel says. His eyes are shining. A flush spreads across Tim's face, and his smile follows.
The Rangers are playing the Mariners on ESPN, and Angel stretches an arm across the couch behind Tim's head. He gives Tim a sip of his beer, and Tim slouches down, settling in. He lets his shoulders relax as the familiar hum of the TV lulls him into something that feels almost peaceful.
Angel reaches over, tapping Tim lightly on the breastbone. "Y'know, your cables are comin in tomorrow."
Tim's entire body freezes. They're fixing to kick him out.
A cavern opens up in Tim's stomach, huge and empty. He jerks away. He throws his head forward, but his hair is gone.
Wrinkles dart across Angel's forehead. "God, man, don't look at me like that. It ain't for me, it's for you."
Tim pinches his lips together. He sits up straight, his head down.
"C'mon. If you think I wouldn't wanna keep some young stud in my bed until I died an old and happy bastard, then you're plain crazy. But you got a life to live, man."
Tim doesn't look up. "Not much of one." He grits his teeth. Pathetic.
Angel stretches a finger underneath Tim's chin and pushes his head up. He tilts his own toward the window. "You mean to tell me there ain't a single soul out there wonderin where you are?"
The night is black and dotted with stars. He thinks about Billy and Tyra and, somewhere, Jay. His stomach knots. He tries on a shrug, but his eyes are stinging.
#
For the first time in three weeks, Tim spends the whole night in the spare bedroom. The cables arrive on schedule with the morning mail, and Angel goes straight to work. Tim makes himself pack, but a sense of dread presses down on his chest, and he has to struggle for breath. At lunch he stares at his plate, a lump growing in his throat as he listens to Mrs. Espinoza humming to herself in the kitchen.
And then it's time. The sky is rough with clouds, but his bike is clean and shiny-red, like new. Tim slaps the saddlebags on the back, and fastens them. Angel watches, but doesn't speak.
"I, uh, changed the oil," he says finally. "And I swapped out the exhaust pipe. This one's new." He bends down to tap it. "You're gonna need a new set of tires, but that can wait til next year."
Tim digs in his pocket, his eyes on the ground. He pulls out a pair of crumpled twenties. "I don't got much."
"I don't need nothin."
Tim squeezes a fist around the money. It's probably guilt, but he's grateful. "I'll send it to you when I got it."
Angel shrugs. "Sure."
Tim shuffles his feet against the gravel and sticks his hand back in his pocket.
And then Mrs. Espinoza's arms are around his waist, and she's squeezing him like she did on the first day. Tim hugs her back, his throat raw. She reaches over to his saddlebag and zips open the outer pocket, slipping something inside. "For later," she says, shaking a finger.
"Thank you, ma'am," he croaks.
Tim's eyes crawl up to meet Angel's, then flick back toward the ground. He pulls out his helmet and starts to put it on. But then two calloused hands grip his forearms, and their eyes collide. "You come back and visit sometime," Angel says, his voice rough.
The cloud around Tim's shoulders lifts a little. "Yeah?"
Angel grins. "I'm countin on it."
Slowly, Tim's own smile stretches across his face. He glances at Mrs. Espinoza, and it grows. Angel steps back, and Tim puts his helmet on.
They wave goodbye as Tim drives off, the bike firm beneath him. He follows the dirt road back to the highway, spewing gravel in his wake. At the intersection he stops. Cars whiz past like frantic rabbits. He doesn't know what's next.
And then, suddenly, he does. He leans onto the highway, turning northwest. He accelerates, the wind at his back, and after just a couple of miles the sky opens up and fills with sun.
Tim stops for gas in a little town just outside of El Paso, and from a pay phone coated with years of dust, he calls Billy. He answers on the first ring, and the anger and relief in his voice cut clear across the miles. At first he's yelling: don't you ever run off like that again, you hear me? And then his voice breaks and he's crying: God, Tim. God. Tim's throat closes over, and he wipes at his eyes with the cleanest part of his hand. He doesn't tell Billy where he's going, never mind what's happened since he left, but he promises to be home in a few days.
He follows the highway north and west, chasing the Mackenzie River through the Franklins and past a cheery yellow sign that welcomes him to New Mexico. It's a border he's never crossed, and though the landscape on the other side looks the same, it's clear that it's a whole new world. He closes his eyes, lifts his hands from the handlebars, and lets the freedom wash over him.
#
LA looks like a juiced-up Austin, with houses sprawling out from the city core as far as the eye can see. It's coming on noon when Tim reaches the Y in one of the shiny, faceless suburbs, and the guy behind the front desk hardly looks at him before exchanging a room key for Tim's last thirty-four dollars and ten cents. In his room, Tim washes the road grime out of his pores, puts on his cleanest shirt, and then follows the hand-scrawled map in his pocket to a high school in Pasadena.
The air in the gym is heavy with the sour smell of a couple dozen sweaty guys, and the shouts of coaches and the grunts of players fill the room with an intensity of focus. It's as familiar to Tim as his own skin, and only the clanging of wheelchairs and the film crew hovering at the edges betrays the fact that this is anything bigger than a high school football team in the off-season. There are three cameras, and all of them are trained on a player he'd recognize anywhere. Tim follows the line of sight over to Jay, and the back of his neck prickles with goosebumps.
Jay steals the ball from one of the other players and takes off, lightning-fast in a chair that looks like something out of the Terminator. His arms are a pro wrestler's, but his legs are half the size of how Tim remembers them. Tim clamps down on a breath, his mind flashing back to the dive of a hotel room in Mexico, to the dark hours of the night when he watched the moonlight slide across Jay's face as he slept. With a certainty he's never felt about anything else, he knows what this is. He wants to stand guard over Jay 24/7 and make sure nothing else can hurt him ever again. It's not all he wants, but it's what he'd settle for.
There's a crash from behind Jay, and the ball slides loose from his grip. A coach's whistle cuts them off, and the movement slows. "Let's take a five-minute break!" someone barks. Jay wheels himself around, slowly stretching his neck first to one side, then the other. And then his eyes catch on Tim's, and his fierce concentration melts into a lopsided grin.
He comes to a stop a few inches shy of Tim's feet. "Well, I'll be damned," he says. "Tim Riggins."
He smells like a locker room. He smells like Jay. Tim smiles. "Street."
"You here for the movie?" Jay cocks his head to one side.
"Huh?"
Jay gestures over his shoulder with a gloved fist. "Did they get you to come out here to be in the movie?"
The crew's eyeing them curiously. Tim shakes his head. "Nah."
"You look different," he declares, giving Tim a once-over.
Tim shrugs. "You're different, too."
Jay nods slowly, almost solemnly. "It's true." He tilts his head toward the door. "Come get a drink of water with me," he says.
The hallway's dark after the bright lights of the gym. Jay takes a long drink from the lower of the two fountains, then sticks his head under the stream and rolls it around. He sits up straight again, and Tim's eyes trace a trickle of water as it winds its way down Jay's neck.
"So what are you doin in LA?" he asks.
The question catches Tim off-guard. "Uh." Memories from the past three weeks well up and roll through his mind: a dusty tent in a field by the side of the highway, the smell of eggs and toast wafting down the hallway to the Espinozas' spare bedroom, the way Angel's face would screw up when he came. "I got myself a bike," he says finally. "It's an '83 Honda?"
Jay's eyebrows fly up. "Yeah? Sweet. And you're just passin through on your way to bigger and better things?"
Tim rocks from one foot to the other. "Kinda," he says. But that's not quite right.
His throat is suddenly full, and he can feel something bubbling below the surface of his skin, threatening to break through. His hands clench a little at his sides. He takes a breath.
"Listen. Uh. Remember how I used to talk about that ranch? You know, ten years on, you and me livin off your NFL money?"
Jay dismisses the memory with a laugh. "Yeah," he says. And then his mouth flattens into a line, serious again. "You need money, Riggs?"
Tim clenches a fist. "No!" he says. He's not begging, he's got something to say.
Confused wrinkles cross Jay's forehead, and Tim tries again. "I mean, remember when—when I slept with Lyla right after the..." He swallows around the word 'accident.'
A shadow falls across Jay's face. "Don't tell me you came all the way out here just to dig all that up again."
A whistle blows from inside the gym, followed by a shout from the coach. Tim's blood is rushing in his ears. "I just—I think—"
"That was years ago, man." Jay rolls a step away.
Tim pushes a sigh out through clenched teeth. "No, I mean, I always, like..." Jay looks away, and Tim presses a fist to his chest. "Okay. Lyla said she thought that was about you, right? Like, her and me bein all upset you got hurt and everythin? But I think maybe—maybe it was really about you. For me."
The clash of a pair of wheelchairs rings out from the gym, but Jay's staring off into space, his face expressionless. Every muscle in Tim's neck is taut. "Yeah," Jay says quietly, his eyes and voice level.
Tim's heart beats faster. "Yeah?" he asks, his voice cracking.
"I kinda thought...maybe."
Tim tries to suck in a breath, but there's no air left.
Jay looks up at Tim, giving him a little smile. "It's okay," he says, cuffing Tim on the arm. His hand hesitates for a moment, turning the cuff into a pat.
The vice lets go of Tim's lungs. It's okay. It's okay.
"You hiding from the cameras again?" The voice is a singsong, and a flash of wavy brown hair rushes up behind Jay.
Jay looks up at the woman, his eyes shining on her they way they used to shine on Lyla. "Like that'd work, with you around," he says. She bends down to kiss him, and their faces ease together like two puzzle pieces.
There's a sharp pain in Tim's gut, and his eyes drop, but he forces them up again. Jay glances at Tim, pats the woman's hand, and draws back, but even with six inches of air between them they can't hide how happy they are. And yeah, it smarts a little, but it's still good. Nobody's got it rougher than Jason Street, and he deserves all this and more.
"Tim, this is Kathy," he says. "Kathy, I'd like you to meet Tim." He gives Tim a long look. "My best friend."
Tim swallows, and the last bit of tension in his chest relaxes. He feels his face spread in a smile that could hang the moon, a smile that's reflected back on Jay's own face.
"Wait." Kathy's eyebrows shoot up. "Tim Riggins? From Dillon?"
Tim's heart leaps. "Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, but he's looking at Jay.
"Oh, my God, this is terrific." She jumps up, a fresh wave of energy radiating out from her like a sunbeam. "You two mind staying right where you are while I get the crew?"
Jay rolls his eyes. "Kathy..."
"No, really, Paul's going to love this." She holds up a hand. "Just—stay right where you are." She starts to run back inside, and turns around in the doorway. "Don't move." And then she's gone.
Jay's laughter comes in a sudden burst. "Sorry, man. She never lets up."
Tim shrugs. He's still grinning. "It's okay."
"Yeah?" Jay's head tilts, questioning. "Seriously, you don't have to. The movie's really more about the rugby. We can just tell them no."
Tim shakes his head. "Nah. It's good." Real good.
Though it's been at least a year since Tim's had a camera trained on him, he does okay. Besides, it's really Jay they're after. They get him to tell them about life before: about the road from west Texas high school quarterback to the Paralympics, about coming to terms with his past, about his hopes for the future. And as Tim watches him, his chest swelling with pride, he can't stop grinning. Jason Street, his best friend, can be larger than life even from a chair. He's been through the badlands and come out the other side happy.
And from one step outside the camera's light, it occurs to Tim that if Jay can find his way to happy, maybe he can get there, too—in his own way, in his own time. Because it seems like maybe happy is just a place you decide to go, like Austin, or LA, or a house forty miles north of Presidio. Or maybe somewhere altogether new.
