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Every week you’re out of your depth in a new department. If it’s not the boosters breathing down your neck, it’s Julie making you regret giving Matt Saracen a chance. If it’s not that, it’s the reminder that Panthers are still lower than any other underdog in the league. If it’s not that, it’s Tim Riggins.
Even for a kid with his self-destructive streak, the difference between last week’s game and this week’s practice is—stark. You mulled over it a bit, and then got pissed.
Tami would say it’s your way.
You chewed him out at practice, and he said absolutely nothing. Typical. Then you cornered Matt, who of course sang like a canary—
And now you know.
It is damn hard not to turn disappointment into something much harsher. You’re still wrestling that when you see him hitchhiking highway-side, moving like a hurt dog on a hot day. He took some hard knocks at practice, even if half of them were his fault.
Is Lyla Garrity more than half his fault?
You’re not sure what Tami would say was your Christian duty. Tami doesn’t much care for Tim Riggins.
You’re not sure Tami would understand, then, and you’re not even sure you do, but you slow down and pull over to the side, roll your window down.
“What’re you doing out here, son?”
His hair, damp from the school showers, is already grimy with dust. The marked-up bruise on his face doesn’t tell you anything except that someone was pissed.
You can think of a few someones, really. A whole town of someones, if word gets out enough.
“Walking home, sir,” Tim says—the first real answer he’s given all day.
“Hot day.”
“Yessir.”
“Where’s your truck?”
A pause. “In the shop.”
“Huh.” You’re going to create a traffic jam in another minute, so you say, “Get in.”
He startles. Not like a dog: like a deer. Realizing that the trees are full of eyes and rifles.
Hell, when did you start getting all poetic? Julie’s English Literature babble must be rubbing off.
“I don’t mind walking, sir.” He won’t look at you.
He’s wasted enough of your time. You say, “I’m not asking you again,” eliciting only the slightest hesitation in his movement before he obeys.
You once drove him home when he still had parents. Much good it did him—they were the ones who forgot him at practice, who never seemed to be around. You have a lot of questions you don’t really want answers to.
He’s as quiet now as he was then.
When you pull up in the driveway, his truck is there after all. In another second you see why he can’t drive it—the windshield is a shattered blizzard of white. All the windows are gone. He looks at you then, a quick darting glance, almost asking you to ask him if it was worth it.
You don’t.
You say, “All right then,” and he says,
“Thanks, Coach.”
Then he’s gone.