A/N: It's been a while. Don't lose faith in me!

Disclaimer: Sorry, I don't own Remember the Titans or the characters, but I do own the ones that you've never heard of, because I made them up.

Summary: This story is a look into the slightly minor characters of RTT; Alan, Sunshine and Rev. Beyond football madness and into their more personal lives outside and inside of the team after the stadium lights shut off every week. Each one is an OC pairing.

Beyond The Titans

"Alan!" The young running back jumped, hearing his father roar from down the stairs. He grabbed his books and quickly ran down to the living room.

"Sir?"

"What in hell's name are you doin' boy, you're an hour late for school!" Alan sighed. It was his full intention not to go; T.C. Williams was the last place on earth he wanted to be. But his father would drag him down the street if he dared defy him, and high school seemed the lesser of two evils. In fact, any and everything did compared to the deacon.

"I'm on my way, sir—"

"On your way?" his father stood and yelled. Alan grabbed his car keys and headed toward the door, ignoring his dad's screaming. "My foot's on its way to the back of yo' spine if you don't get the hell outta here and down to that school house!"

Alan just closed the door behind him and threw his things in the backseat before pulling out of the driveway.

--

He had hardly paid attention to the road. His mind was so scattered that he began to perspire. He had flashbacks of the discussion his father had had with him the night before:


"I'm transferrin' you to Hayfield."

Alan looked up from his plate. They had been eating silently, just as they always did, across from each other in the dining room. It was unlike him to speak during supper.

"You're gonna start after the first gradin' quarter. Make it easier to transfer your grades." He spoke with firm finality. Alan was just about to speak when Stella came trotting in and sat down by him.

"Goddamn it, Alan get that damned dog outta my house!" He hollered, slamming his palm down on the long table. Alan jolted out of his chair and grabbed the retriever by her collar, leading her to the back door.

"Sorry, sweetheart." He mumbled, leading her out and sliding the glass door shut behind her. He turned and looked at his father, and rubbed his pant legs. Not knowing exactly what to say, he trudged back over to his seat and began playing absent-mindedly with his fork.

"Transferrin', sir?" he barely peeped. He felt the deacon look up, but didn't meet his gaze.

"That's what I said," He answered with his mouth full, "I ain't havin' no son of mine playin' for some Coach Coon."

"W—but I think I wanna play for T.C. Williams, sir," his father's eyes met his and his stomach turned into ice, "We'd still be playin' for Coach Yoast, he's assistin' Coach Boone," he managed to half-stutter.

"Did you just talk back to me, boy?" he said, slowly standing and towering over his son," In my house? At my table?" Alan leaned back in his seat, trying his best to keep distance between him and the deacon.

"No sir." He stuttered just before his father slammed his heavy arm into his throat, knocking him and his chair to the ground.

"You're damned right, 'no sir'! You ain't playin' at no school where a white man assists some nigger!" He spat down at Alan. He had knocked the wind out of him. The boy clutched his throat, his face was red, and he gasped for air. Once Alan began to cough his father retired to his room, leaving his son to gather himself.


Alan snapped back into reality hearing multiple car horns blasting behind him. He pulled over quickly and rested his head on the steering wheel. He could recall clearly the first day of school when things began to unravel:


"Bos-Baby!" Blue called as they piled into the school. "Where's your first class?"

"Physics, Ms. Dandridge!" He turned and answered, "Hey I gotta go; I'll see you guys at lunch!"

"Alright, hit them books, baby! Get that education!" Alan laughed, heading off to his first class.

"Alan." The blonde turned, hearing his name called. He smiled seeing Daisy Thomas behind him.

"Hey, sweetie." He kissed her forehead, but became worried when she shied away from him.

"What's the matter?" he asked. She shook her head.

"So it's true." His eyebrows furrowed above his blue eyes.

"What is?"

"You! And them!" She whispered. "You're really friends with them now, Alan?"

"With my teammates? Yeah, I'm friends with them," he answered innocently, "What's wrong with that?"

"'What's wrong with it?' Alan, are you joking? Look around! Look where you are! Look in a mirror!" He scoffed and looked around, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"You mean because they're colored."

"Yes, I do!" She sighed hopelessly. "What did they do to you at that camp?"

"They didn't do anything! Why are you actin' like this Daisy, you're my girlfriend! And they're my friends!"

"No." She said simply. Alan was struck dumb.

"What do you mean 'no'? What's that supposed to mean, you're not my girlfriend anymore?" He said sarcastically. She looked up at him with tears filling her eyes and he froze. "What are you serious?" he asked finally, "You're gonna break up with me 'cause I have colored friends, now?" The petite redhead remained quiet. "No. Daisy, no. We're not—"

"I can't go through this, not now. You've changed, Alan." She said through tears, "I don't even know who are anymore. I'm sorry." She looked him in the eyes and rubbed his arm before walking away, ignoring him calling after her.


Alan looked up again in the rearview mirror. His jaws were clenched to the point that they were the only white area of his otherwise crimson face. A vein protruded in his forehead; his cheeks were stained with unknowingly shed tears. He shuddered.

Helplessness was a feeling Alan Bosely had never experienced. But even as the seconds dragged like hours, as his breathing became more and more shallow, he knew; even as his heart began to beat erratically and he was forced to lean out of the window when his stomach upheaved violently into the street, he knew it could be nothing else. He was helpless. Peeling his hands from their death grip of the wheel, he wiped his eyes, unaware of the fact that he had been sitting there for a half hour. There was nothing for him, nowhere to run to, and no one to talk to.

Alan Bosely was not only helpless, he was alone.

Without looking or thinking he slammed on the gas and skidded into a U-turn, speeding down the road and away from T.C. Williams high school.

Alan wiped his eyes again, pulling up to the solitary grassy knoll marked with a single headstone. He inhaled deeply, shakily. It had been almost a year since he'd last been there, it was overwhelming him. When he finally did find his nerve, he exited his car, leaving the door open. He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking slowly to the headstone.

Jane Bosely (1932-1969)

"Hey, momma." His voice cracked through his smile.

TBC