Talking a whole bunch of shit [That I ain't trying to hear!]
[Communicate]
“Y’know, it might help if you didn’t show up to practice hung over,” Tyra comments from where she’s sitting at the kitchen table. Tim is currently dying on the couch in his boxer shorts, a cold bottle of beer pressed to his forehead. His body is covered in bruises and he keeps making these annoying noises of pain that send jolts of worry through Tyra; worry she covers with scowls and smart ass remarks.
“Weren’t hung over today,” Tim growls, his voice ridiculously exhausted.
“Oh right, today was one of those days you were still drunk from last night.” Her words are accompanied by an eyeroll that Tim can practically hear.
There’s a bout of relative silence punctuated by Tim’s groans of pain and Tyra’s sighs of irritation before she strikes again.
“Hey Asshole,” she poking the heel of her foot into his shoulder. “Drink this.” She shoves an ice cold bottle of water into his gut making him shoot up off the couch like a jack-in-the-box.
“Holy Hell, Tyra! What the hell are you doing?” Tim shouts.
“Don’t be a baby. You’re going to get dehydrated if you keep up like this asshole. You’ll end up in the fucking hospital and we don’t have the money for the hospital bill. Drink your damn water.”
“I don’t want any damn water. I wanna drink my beer so my whole fucking body doesn’t hurt so much!” Tim yells at her but his yell is losing steam. He doesn’t have the energy for it.
“What the hell happened, Tim? Last year at Dillon you were doing good. You showed up to practice sober and you worked your ass off.”
“You don’t think I’m workin’ my ass off right now? Tyra, don’t this look like I’m workin’ my ass off?” he points to his black and blue torso. There are older bruises showing green and yellow underneath fresh ones.
“What have you got against making this easier on yourself?” Tyra asks. “I didn’t move up here towing your ass with me just so I could play nursemaid to some idiot who’s too stupid to realize he’d play a game better if he weren’t drunk and hungover.”
Tim rakes a hand through his hair and takes a swig of beer. “This ain’t about me, Tyra. It’s hard. Them guys out there hit like fuckin’ trucks and I’m the damn tacklin’ dummy. I don’t need this shit when I come home.”
“And I’m out there supporting your lazy ass waitin’ tables while you play football and work a couple of hours at a garage so don’t give me that bullshit about you don’t this when you come home. Get some damn sleep, Tim. Try being sober for at least twenty four hours at a time and maybe college ball will get a hellva lot easier.”
“I can’t!” Tim yells and it’s not his words or his tone that brings about the silence that follows. It’s the way his shoulders slump and the defeated look on his face.
“You know…Momma had a boyfriend that did the AA thing…” Tyra starts.
“Oh hell, Tyra. I ain’t an alcoholic,,,okay I prolly am but I can stop drinkin’ if I want. It ain’t about the beer and it’s not about me.”
“Then tell me. Fill me in on the great puzzle that is Tim Riggins. What the hell is this about?” Tyra’s standing over him, hands on her hips and giving him that glare that usually makes him pause a heartbeat or two.
“Member how you said I stopped goin’ to practice in Dillon hung over or drunk?” His eyes flick up to hers and then back down to the bottle of water he’s still holding. He screws the top off, takes a sip of water and then goes on once Tyra nods. “Coach Taylor earned it. He went through the personal hell that is coachin’ me. This guy…he ain’t earned that yet.”
Tyra rolls her eyes, smacks him in the back of the head and then goes to get a fresh beer from the fridge. By the time she gets back, Tim is draped across the couch again. She thumps the bottle on the coffee table in front of him. “You drink a bottle of water, I’ll get you a bottle of beer for every bottle of water you drink.”
A grin quirks up the corner of Tim’s lips and starts guzzling the bottle of water. Some people just know how to communicate better.
“Y’know, it might help if you didn’t show up to practice hung over,” Tyra comments from where she’s sitting at the kitchen table. Tim is currently dying on the couch in his boxer shorts, a cold bottle of beer pressed to his forehead. His body is covered in bruises and he keeps making these annoying noises of pain that send jolts of worry through Tyra; worry she covers with scowls and smart ass remarks.
“Weren’t hung over today,” Tim growls, his voice ridiculously exhausted.
“Oh right, today was one of those days you were still drunk from last night.” Her words are accompanied by an eyeroll that Tim can practically hear.
There’s a bout of relative silence punctuated by Tim’s groans of pain and Tyra’s sighs of irritation before she strikes again.
“Hey Asshole,” she poking the heel of her foot into his shoulder. “Drink this.” She shoves an ice cold bottle of water into his gut making him shoot up off the couch like a jack-in-the-box.
“Holy Hell, Tyra! What the hell are you doing?” Tim shouts.
“Don’t be a baby. You’re going to get dehydrated if you keep up like this asshole. You’ll end up in the fucking hospital and we don’t have the money for the hospital bill. Drink your damn water.”
“I don’t want any damn water. I wanna drink my beer so my whole fucking body doesn’t hurt so much!” Tim yells at her but his yell is losing steam. He doesn’t have the energy for it.
“What the hell happened, Tim? Last year at Dillon you were doing good. You showed up to practice sober and you worked your ass off.”
“You don’t think I’m workin’ my ass off right now? Tyra, don’t this look like I’m workin’ my ass off?” he points to his black and blue torso. There are older bruises showing green and yellow underneath fresh ones.
“What have you got against making this easier on yourself?” Tyra asks. “I didn’t move up here towing your ass with me just so I could play nursemaid to some idiot who’s too stupid to realize he’d play a game better if he weren’t drunk and hungover.”
Tim rakes a hand through his hair and takes a swig of beer. “This ain’t about me, Tyra. It’s hard. Them guys out there hit like fuckin’ trucks and I’m the damn tacklin’ dummy. I don’t need this shit when I come home.”
“And I’m out there supporting your lazy ass waitin’ tables while you play football and work a couple of hours at a garage so don’t give me that bullshit about you don’t this when you come home. Get some damn sleep, Tim. Try being sober for at least twenty four hours at a time and maybe college ball will get a hellva lot easier.”
“I can’t!” Tim yells and it’s not his words or his tone that brings about the silence that follows. It’s the way his shoulders slump and the defeated look on his face.
“You know…Momma had a boyfriend that did the AA thing…” Tyra starts.
“Oh hell, Tyra. I ain’t an alcoholic,,,okay I prolly am but I can stop drinkin’ if I want. It ain’t about the beer and it’s not about me.”
“Then tell me. Fill me in on the great puzzle that is Tim Riggins. What the hell is this about?” Tyra’s standing over him, hands on her hips and giving him that glare that usually makes him pause a heartbeat or two.
“Member how you said I stopped goin’ to practice in Dillon hung over or drunk?” His eyes flick up to hers and then back down to the bottle of water he’s still holding. He screws the top off, takes a sip of water and then goes on once Tyra nods. “Coach Taylor earned it. He went through the personal hell that is coachin’ me. This guy…he ain’t earned that yet.”
Tyra rolls her eyes, smacks him in the back of the head and then goes to get a fresh beer from the fridge. By the time she gets back, Tim is draped across the couch again. She thumps the bottle on the coffee table in front of him. “You drink a bottle of water, I’ll get you a bottle of beer for every bottle of water you drink.”
A grin quirks up the corner of Tim’s lips and starts guzzling the bottle of water. Some people just know how to communicate better.