Hi, new fandom! So, an explanation for all the mistakes/artistic liberties I've taken: I saw the pilot of this show forever ago, loved it, and then somehow never really watched it after that. So basically everything after Jason's injury is my own imagination – including whether or not Matt scored the winning touchdown of that first episode, because I really don't remember. But I hope you enjoy! Please review and let me know if I should continue!

Aim, Snap, Fall

I think I've found my new addiction tonight

Matt Saracen feels pretty fucking good for all of four seconds before he remembers what exactly led to him scoring this miraculous, game-winning touchdown.

It seems like the crowd remembers at the same time, because all of a sudden the cheering just stops – no trailing off or petering out, just clapping and whooping one minute and dead silence the next. There's an awkward moment when no one's sure how to recover (how could they have been cheering when their star player is on his way to the hospital?) and then the announcer clears his throat over the loudspeaker.

"Folks, if tonight's victory doesn't inspire Jason Street to make a quick recovery, then I don't know what will. Let's get the news and all our best wishes over to him at St. Vicnent's. And those of you who can't make the drive, be sure to keep him in your prayers."

The guy continues, offering his congratulations to the Panthers on their inspiring comeback, but Matt's the only one still listening. Everyone else is on their feet now, surging towards the parking lot, as if by being the first to arrive at Jason Street's bedside they'll somehow be credited with his healing process.

With a sigh, Matt latches on to the tail end of his team, trotting off the field and into the harsh fluorescence of the locker room. It feels like waking up abruptly after a deep sleep. He's got his helmet in hand, cradling it against him, but hasn't yet brought himself to strip off his uniform when Coach Taylor taps his shoulder.

"Oh. Coach. Uh, hi." He cringes inwardly – could he sound any more nervous? "Uh, I was just about to head over to the hospital."

Coach nods, his eyes flicking down Matt's body. "You might want to hit the showers first."

"But –"

"Are you a doctor, Saracen?" He doesn't raise his voice, but there's an edge to it that's sharper than his usual pregame pep talk tone. "You got some kind of medical training I don't know about?"

Matt casts his eyes downward. "No, sir."

"Well, then." As if it's settled. "Hit the showers, then I'll see you at the hospital."

"Yes, sir." He turns away, finally setting the helmet down – carefully, as if it's something breakable – on the shelf inside his locker.

"And Saracen?" The Coach pauses, waits for Matt to turn and face him again. "You played hard out there. That was your win."

Matt trips over his own tongue, but manages a strangled-sounding "Thanks, Coach." With that, the older man nods and turns to leave, moving slowly, as if his whole body aches with the same dull throb that Matt is currently experiencing.

Alone in the locker room, Matt exhales and pulls his jersey over his head, holding it at arm's length to study it. His name in blue block letters sit atop his number, the white cloth streaked with mud and grass stains. It looks like a real player's uniform, like someone who's put his sweat and tears into the game on more than one occasion.

He decides not to wash it just yet, instead hanging it carefully beneath his helmet, and then closes his locker and heads to the showers.

XXX

From the size of the crowd gathered in the waiting room of St. Vincent's, you would think there'd been some huge natural disaster, Tyra notes as she strolls through the doors. Hard to believe the entire town has come crawling out of the woodwork for a single teenaged boy.

Jealous? a smug voice asks from the corner of her brain.

She rolls her eyes at herself and shrugs the thought away. So what if maybe two people in all of Dillon would care if she was in the hospital? That's why she makes it a point to never get hurt.

"Tim," she calls out, spotting his familiar face. As always, her heart skips a beat when she sees him – Tim Riggins is a lot of things, none of them particularly good, but he's one handsome son of a bitch. "You okay?"

He pushes her hand away when she tries to take his. "I'm not the one who got tackled."

It's not the gruff tone that surprises her – Tim has always been rough around the edges and his gravelly voice and calloused hands suit him well – but the flash of pain in his eyes. Tyra has never seen such genuine hurt in the boy she's been sleeping with for the better half of high school.

"Hey." She softens her voice, all too aware that she's no gentler than he is. "It wasn't anyone's fault, you know. It just happened. That's how the game's played."

At that, his eyes snapp to hers, the hurt replaced with the hardness she's more accustomed to. "That is not," he says, low and scratchy, "How the game is played."

She knows she's said the wrong thing – she always does, doesn't she? – but she has no idea how to take it back. They face off wordlessly for a long moment and then he looks away. "I've got to get out of here," he murmurs, and pushes past her.

"Tim, wait," she protests, ignoring the few faces who are allowing themselves to be distracted by the unfolding drama. She shoulders her way after him. "Tim, come on."

Outside, it's an entirely different atmosphere. The air is cool and caressing, not the stifling anxiety crammed into the ER. Tyra feels like she can breathe again. "Tim," she says again, after taking in a lungful of fresh air. "It was an accident, okay? I'm sure he'll be fine."

He rears back when she reaches out to take his arm – like a spooked horse, she thinks, with the same panic in his dark eyes. "You don't know that, do you, Miss Mary fucking Sunshine? What are you even doing here, huh? You and Street aren't even close."

She bristles at that – she's hardly close with anyone in this godforsaken town but the only problem she's ever had with Jason is his taste in women. "Well, I'm close with you, aren't I? I wanted to make sure you're okay."

Tim just shakes his head. "I can't do this right now, okay? Just … back off."

She scoffs at his retreating back. "Great," she calls out, knowing he won't listen. He never listens. "Just great, Tim. Walk away."

She waits, half-heartedly hoping he'll turn around, but there's not so much as a pause in his stride. Cursing under her breath, Tyra swings around, only to find herself face to face with a stranger.

"Jesus Christ!" she gasps out, startled. Then, as her heart slows, recognition creeps up. He's not a menacing would-be rapist, he's Matt … something. God, what's his last name? He's on the team, she knows that, and she thinks they might have a class together. "What are you trying to do, kill me?"

The boy stammers for a minute. "Sorry," he finally gets out. "I was just … I just got here."

"Were you eavesdropping?" she asks incredulously.

"No! No, not at all." The guilty look on his face tells a different story. "I was just … I wanted to see if you were okay. After he left and all. I'm sorry, it's really none of my business."

"Saracen," is her response, the name finally coming to her. She studies his features carefully, memorizing them. It's always good to know who you're dealing with. "That's … sweet, I guess. Thanks."

He looks relieved that she's not going to haul off and punch him. "Sorry. I'll just – I'm gonna head in now. See how Jason's doing."

Tyra nods. "Hey," she says, when he'd just reached the door. He pauses and turns to face her – his whole body, nothing like the quick glance Tim would give her. She likes that; like the solidness of this boy's feet planted shoulder-width apart, toes pointing right at her. "Good game tonight."

His face kind of lights up, like her sister's kid's faces always do when they hear something they think is just absolutely great. "Really?"

"Well." She's not trying to be mean, but she's honest, damn it. "You kind of sucked, in the beginning. But you pulled through. That's what counts."

God help him, Matt actually seems to consider her words. Then he nods, slowly, and one corner of his mouth lifts. "Thanks."