We get knocked down [We get back up and stand above the crowd]
[Heart]
“What the hell, Tim?” Billy asked as he walked into the living room. Tim was draped across the couch wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He was covered in black and blue bruises. They were littered across his torso, scattered down his arms along with a few blooming on his legs.
“Shitty practice,” Tim responded without moving. There wasn’t an inch on him that didn’t hurt. He’d shown up to practice hung over and Coach had made him pay for it. The entire team, Coach included, thought he was some damn impenetrable wall and he’s happy letting them think that, even if he has to pay for it later.
Billy rolled his eyes and got the tequila down from above the sink. He brought two shot glasses and the bottle over, sitting one in front of Tim. He poured the glasses full and nudged Tim’s toward him again. “Hey Dipshit, wake up.”
Tim grumbled, wincing and cursing as he sat up to grab the shot. He tossed it back, noticing that Billy didn’t take his until Tim’s was already tilted back. He slammed his shot glass back down on the table and Billy refilled it. Three shots later, pain was a fuzzy memory.
“Ready to hit the Landing Strip?” Billy asked as he got to his feet and grabbed a mostly clean shirt off the back of the couch.
“Shit…yeah,” Tim agreed a bit reluctantly. He wasn’t sure he felt like the landing strip but another two or three tequila shots and he would. He grabbed a plaid button shirt hanging from the back of a kitchen chair. “Where’n the hell my pants?” he grumbled.
“Kitchen,” Billy answered.
Tim stumbled into the kitchen to find his jeans exactly where he’d left them, crumpled on the floor in front of the fridge. He remembered taking them off now. He’d come home from practice, grabbed and chugged a bottle of water then took a long swig of the vodka they kept in the freezer. After that he’d stripped off his jeans, discarded his shirt and collapsed on the couch until Billy found him.
Tomorrow, he’d pay for it again by serving as Coach’s human tackle dummy. He’d have bruises on top of bruises but every time they hit him, he’d get back up. Tim Riggins was lacking in a lot of things. Heart was never one of them.
“What the hell, Tim?” Billy asked as he walked into the living room. Tim was draped across the couch wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He was covered in black and blue bruises. They were littered across his torso, scattered down his arms along with a few blooming on his legs.
“Shitty practice,” Tim responded without moving. There wasn’t an inch on him that didn’t hurt. He’d shown up to practice hung over and Coach had made him pay for it. The entire team, Coach included, thought he was some damn impenetrable wall and he’s happy letting them think that, even if he has to pay for it later.
Billy rolled his eyes and got the tequila down from above the sink. He brought two shot glasses and the bottle over, sitting one in front of Tim. He poured the glasses full and nudged Tim’s toward him again. “Hey Dipshit, wake up.”
Tim grumbled, wincing and cursing as he sat up to grab the shot. He tossed it back, noticing that Billy didn’t take his until Tim’s was already tilted back. He slammed his shot glass back down on the table and Billy refilled it. Three shots later, pain was a fuzzy memory.
“Ready to hit the Landing Strip?” Billy asked as he got to his feet and grabbed a mostly clean shirt off the back of the couch.
“Shit…yeah,” Tim agreed a bit reluctantly. He wasn’t sure he felt like the landing strip but another two or three tequila shots and he would. He grabbed a plaid button shirt hanging from the back of a kitchen chair. “Where’n the hell my pants?” he grumbled.
“Kitchen,” Billy answered.
Tim stumbled into the kitchen to find his jeans exactly where he’d left them, crumpled on the floor in front of the fridge. He remembered taking them off now. He’d come home from practice, grabbed and chugged a bottle of water then took a long swig of the vodka they kept in the freezer. After that he’d stripped off his jeans, discarded his shirt and collapsed on the couch until Billy found him.
Tomorrow, he’d pay for it again by serving as Coach’s human tackle dummy. He’d have bruises on top of bruises but every time they hit him, he’d get back up. Tim Riggins was lacking in a lot of things. Heart was never one of them.