Adaptation
Part 2

Tim pulls up short out of the block. Third time in a row. He knows he's going to get his ear yelled off for playing like a freshman, but his ribs just can't take the pounding. It was all he could do to squeeze his bruised body into his gear. One hit and he'll probably pass out.

"Riggins!" The new head coach screams at him from the sidelines. "So help me God, son. If I have to nail your ass to Saracen's, I'll do it. You hear me?"

Tim ignores the orders. Talking back will only earn him more screaming. It's better to just keep his head down and try to make a play, any play. God damn it though if he doesn't think he can stand upright for five more seconds.

Saracen nudges shoulders with him in the huddle. "You playin' this or what?"

Tim leans hard on his legs, the effort simply to bend over nearly taxing beyond his limit. "Just get the ball away from me."

"Can't take the heat, Riggins?" one of the guys asks.

Another adds, "Riggins is retiring a year early, boys. Who wants fullback?"

Tim shakes his head and grits his teeth. "One play, Saracen. Just do it."

Matt grunts in reply and calls a play that will, hopefully, leave Tim free and clear. They line up and listen for the call. Tim bends over, his feet drumming the ground in preparation. The ball snaps, and Tim bounces up.

Bradley slams into his shoulder, spinning him around and dumping him in a quivering heap on the ground.

"Sorry, Riggins," Bradley says. The redhead stands over him, grinning. He holds his hand out to Tim who shakes it off. "Didn't see you there, man."

Tim groans and rolls gingerly onto his side. Bradley doesn't want his spot; he was as good as on the team before tryouts even started. But fucking with Tim is still a favorite pastime of the lineman. Tim should have realized he'd get no favors from Bradley Cole.

He's slow to get up, but manages to do it on his own. Coach is screaming something; Tim's pretty sure it's in his direction. He shuts everything out and walks slowly toward the bench, his right hand cupping his side.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Tim looks up. Coach is in front of the sun, darts of sunlight breaking around him to shoot directly into Tim's eyes. He squints and feels his equilibrium waver, like he's walking a tightrope without a net. He has to sit down before he falls down.

"Five minutes," Tim says. He just needs five minutes to catch his breath.

"You hurt?" Coach asks.

Behind them, Mac blows his whistle. "That's practice," he yells.

Tim shakes his head. Practice is over. He'll be better by tomorrow anyway.

Coach screws his lips angrily and jabs his finger at Tim's chest. "You owe me a practice."

Tim fights not to roll his eyes. No matter when Coach comes to collect on his practice, it could never be as bad as last year and the walk home that ended with the kiss that almost ruined everything.

Players are slinking off the field, tired and sweaty, all of them. Down the bench, near the coolers, Jay is bent over a playbook, scrawling something with his curled fingers wrapped around the stub of a pencil. He's not looking at Tim though, hasn't glanced in his direction all day.

Tim rises, slowly, and walks the line of benches—right past Jay who doesn't even look up.

Cat calls ring out across the dressing room. Someone who never played with Street and has no idea of what Jay might do if he overhears calls out, "Hey Riggs, your girlfriend wants you!"

Tim would like to say it never happened, but right then, with Jay waiting for him in the office like he's about to hand out detention, there's a moment when Tim wishes they were never friends. It hurts him worse than the embarrassment and when he walks through the office door his cheeks are burning—part from shame, part from anger.

"So I guess you know why you're here?" Jason starts.

Straight to the point. Fine, if that's the way it's going to be.

Tim eases over to the chair. He's tired, and wants to sit down, but then he sees the lack of handles on the chair and rethinks it. His ribs won't let him bend over, and he's not about to show Jason his weak side—not today.

Instead he flips his hair out of his face and stares straight back at his coach. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Tim." Jason is sighing like he's some goddamn parent that Tim never asked for. The shame is fading, the anger growing. "You can't keep acting like your spot on this team is some gift. It's not."

Brought up from junior high to play on JV, varsity as a sophmore. One season as captain already. Hadn't he earned the right to relax a little? Coast onto the team one final time?

"These are tryouts, and you're not trying. Plain and simple."

Tim wishes he could snap back, 'My ribs are bruised, maybe broken. But sorry, Coach, if that ain't trying hard enough for you.' He wishes he wasn't so stubborn that he can't admit the slightest weakness. Instead he braces himself for the cut. Maybe he'll take up golf—apparently there's a school team.

"You got one more shot to prove yourself. And this is coming from Coach, not just me." Jason stares straight at him.

One thing about Jay—he never was afraid to back down from a challenge.

Tim doesn't respond, just shifts his feet and fights the urge to raise his hand to his side again.

"Timmy…" There's a catch in Jay's voice. He dips his head, then raises it up, shaking it from side to side. "We're friends, right?"

Tim closes his eyes. Friends. Texas Forever. He doesn't respond.

"If you want help. If you need help…" Jason stresses 'need' like that's the expected response.

Opening his eyes, Tim nods once, quickly. "Got it. That it?"

Jay's quiet. Tim's doesn't need to be dismissed—in his eyes, Six is a team coach, and so far, Tim's not on this team. Jay's made that much perfectly clear. But he can't bring himself to leave. Maybe it's the pain rippling through his side, like fingers strumming a washboard in some jug band. Or maybe it's just the look on Jay's face, like he's about to impart some pearl of wisdom that will make Tim forget why he was mad in the first place. Then again, if he leaves he's got a 6-pack of beer waiting in the fridge at home that will get him a long way towards forgetting too.

Tim turns toward the door, but he's slow. Jay pushes out from the desk and scoots towards Tim's legs; he's quick, quicker than Tim's seen Jay move since that quad rugby game last fall. Tim's whole body tenses—he's never been afraid of Jay, but once bitten, twice shy…Tim's not looking for another fight.

Except Jason doesn't want to fight. His right hand reaches up and snags Tim's forearm. With his left, he brushes the minefield of bruises marring Tim's ribs. Tim's breath escapes his lips in a violent hiss, but he can't move. He's trapped within Jason's grip, his eyes lost in Jason's stare.

"You're hurt," Jason says simply.

"It's nothing," Tim responds.

Jason releases him, but doesn't move back. With his eyes, he indicates that Tim should sit down and finally Tim can't resist any longer. He paces around the chair until he can grip the back with his left hand and lower himself slowly, painfully, to the seat.

Jason is quiet for a long time, staring at Tim like he's deciding how best to devour him. Tim figures he has it coming. They've been warned about practicing while injured. He's no good to the team if he can't suit up for a game. He keeps his eyes on the floor, on his hands, on Jason's wheels, but he can't raise them to Jason's face. Six is supposed to be out in the locker room ribbing Tim for letting Bradley catch him unaware. Not sitting opposite him preparing to boot him from the team.

Finally, Jason sighs and rubs his hand across his forehead tiredly. "I'm just trying to do my job here. You and me, Timmy. State champions. Wasn't that the dream?"

Tim's voice is quiet. "You were supposed to be on the field with me. Not watching from the bench."

"I was out there, Tim. Maybe I wasn't calling the plays, but it was better than nothing."

"It's not good enough. It's not good enough for you."

Jason throws his arms out to his side, giving in with his whole being. "What do you want me to say? This is me."

Tim's not sure his voice will work. There's a lump in his throat the size of Texas. He coughs and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Not to me."

If Jason's angry, he's not showing it. In fact, he looks more sad than angry and that's making Tim squirm. Suddenly it feels hot in the office, like someone killed the air conditioning during the hottest week of the year.

"So what do you want me to do, Tim? Quit?"

Tim's eyes widen. Is that an option?

Jason stares straight at him, like he's waiting for Tim to just come right out and ask him to quit his job. Finally Tim drops his head and scrapes his sneaker over a blackened piece of gum on the floor.

"Nah, don't quit for me."

"Good, because I gotta tell you, the money's not half bad."

"Enough to buy your own beer?" Tim says lightly.

Jason laughs. "I'm holding out hope that Sergeant Street will get recognized when the season starts."

Tim smiles and shrugs. "I can hook you up." He pauses, realization dawning over him as he raises his eyes to Jay's, then drops them back to the floor. "If I make the team."

There's a soft click as Jason releases his brakes and rolls towards Tim. He stops just in front of Tim, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"How bad are those ribs? Really?"

"Not bad." Tim shifts unconsciously and his face winces at a fresh wave of pain.

"That's what I thought." Jay pushes away and rolls back behind the desk. "See the trainer and I'll write up a report that you got hurt today when Bradley dropped you." He looks up and gives Tim a 'you do what I tell you to' stare. "Today. Yesterday never happen."

Tim nods and leans as much weight on his legs as he can handle while he stands up. Jay's focused on writing and Tim stands there for a second, before turning and reaching for the door. He stops with his hand on the knob and looks back at his coach…his friend.

"Uh, thanks, and, you know, if you want that beer…"

"Do me a favor. Water and Advil and lots of rest for one day, no beer." Jason is all business, his mouth set in a straight line. Then it cracks just a little and he grins like he's 12. "We'll talk about beer tomorrow."

Tim nods and pulls open the door before things get too touchy-feely between them. The locker room is empty when he walks back out and he sees the trainer alone in the weight room. He turns once more to look back at Jay, still sitting in the office. Maybe this doesn't have to be a dictatorship. Jay's got Tim's best interest at heart, always has. And Tim can have Six's back in a whole new way—win another State championship for his coach. Not a bad goal.

/fin/