Detention is about as exciting as an extra hour of class sounds. Roman and a few other kids - looked more like the type of kids that got detention in movies, delinquents wearing black and piercings in various visible places, not that Roman was judging them - took their seats at a round table in the corner, with him being the only one to actually do any of his work, and Regal followed them all in. There was a desk with a computer in the corner, and his fingers tapping on the keyboard filled about ten seconds of quiet, before he looked upon the kids at the table and told them to begin their work.
He gives Roman, specifically, this look that he can't quite decipher before he looks back at the computer screen.
It's an hour of work and mumbled voices - "Mr. Football Star? In detention?" "Guess he's not so perfect." "Don't tell him that." - that he tries very hard to ignore, but when he's released he's out of there much too fast for anyone to believe that he was unaffected.
Everyone always thinks and says he's 'perfect', and he's never gotten it, but it doesn't feel like a compliment when people say it. Not that he expects everyone to think he's perfect, because he doesn't think he is necessarily, but he's pretty sure he'd prefer not to hear it. Shouldering on through the hall to the gym to change into his gear, he holds his head high.
"Guess he's not so perfect."
Yeah, no shit.
On a normal day, football was a good escape from the pedestal people seem to hold him on, but today's practice feels a lot more like stress relief; his teammates welcome him with friendly smiles and fill him in on the first half-hour he'd missed, and he is off to the races in about thirty-seconds' time.
There's a lot of talking around him, mostly words of encouragement and friendly banter, but Roman remains quiet, which isn't anything new; he could be noisy, normally isn't, but this quiet is so different.
"-not so perfect."
"You are slowing the machine down..."
"Roman!"
It's too late for Roman to make sense of what happened when he suddenly finds himself in front of Mojo Rawley, whose arms are held out, poised to stop his teammate even though Roman was going much too fast for him to actually do so. His reaction time isn't the fastest, so it's no surprise that they go tumbling into each other.
Mojo is thrown backwards first, and it's a miracle that Roman doesn't land on him, but turns slightly so he can land on his arm. He grunts when he hits the grass, holds up a thumbs-up when several of their teammates start making their way over, various calls of concern and alarm. Roman can't move, though, doesn't want to, because he doesn't want to face the burning question that's probably going through everyone's minds.
What got into him?
Words. Stupid words. Just ... just words.
"Reigns! Rawley!" Coach Angle's got his hands on his bald head. Pretty sure if he had to hair to pull, he'd have yanked it all out by now. "Please tell me you both are 100-percent!"
Rawley shakes his thumbs-up around. "I'm good, Coach!"
"Good," Coach rumbles, helps him up and claps him on the back. "Go join the others. Reigns, you good?"
Roman pushes his hands underneath him, pushes himself up from the grass, and practically rips his helmet off of his head. Coach reaches a hand out to check his jaw, his nose, moves his head to and fro to check his neck, and huffs in relief. Roman hasn't said a word yet.
"Roman, you've gotta pay attention," concern emanates from Coach Angle's voice, and Roman visibly jumps when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you take a breather, collect your thoughts, and come join us again for some throwing practice. If you want, you can take a walk around the field."
Instead of answering, Roman gets up onto his feet - his ankle burns as he steps on it, but he's not about to tell Coach that, not with everyone counting on him for the game on Friday - and nods his head as he does so, starting toward the track. Coach doesn't stop him, just watches, seemingly unaware of the flames of anger blooming in his blood and seering his vision.
Probably doesn't miss Roman throwing his helmet violently into the chain fence, or the way he shakes out his foot like he's getting something out of his pant leg, but by the time Roman's sobered up enough to care, practice is resuming.
The worst part of all of it, in Roman's mind, isn't that he had allowed himself to get distracted by the laughing voices in his head. It's not that practice had stopped for a whole five seconds so he could have his little episode.
Probably ... the worst part was, by the time Roman made it to the bit of fence that separated the field from the bleachers, he can see Dean staring at him, his expression unreadable, lips parted in what was probably a gasp or the start of a cocky grin. His hair is slicked back some, giving Roman full view of his eyes, which are wide but no less innocent than the rest of him.
Looks like he has something on the tip of his tongue that he wants to say, but Roman ignores him and briskly walks - tries not to limp - past. Whatever he's gotta say, Roman doesn't want to hear it.
He doesn't.
He never asks, and when practice is over and all the anger has left his system, Dean is already gone. Roman makes the walk to his car alone, and he's not sure why that thought drags him down more.
"Detention!"
Pop didn't yell much; he was the type of guy that could silence a person with just a look, or with his silence, so when Roman gets home and one of the first things he hears when he shuts the door is his father's booming voice, he feels something cold shoot down his spine. Did they suddenly live in a freezer or something?
The large figure of his father stood before him before he could announce his return.
"Pop, if I could ju-"
"Are you trying to embarrass me?! Is this a joke to you?"
Roman didn't feel humored, but he didn't realize he'd been laughing. He catches himself mid-chuckle, but it's from nerves. This is far from a joke to him. "It's just a misunderstanding! I'll serve my sentence and-"
He had meant it jokingly, his 'sentence', but Pop was thoroughly unamused. "This is a joke to you. This is unlike you, Leati."
Leati. His proper Samoan name. Just like that, any humor is gone. Roman looks down, rubs up and down his arm, nostrils flared in an effort to stay quiet; the last thing he wants to do is unleash his anger on his old man, who was possibly the strongest influence when it came to his future. It doesn't occur to him that his jaw is starting to ache, either.
Reaching up, he rubs at his jaw, then his neck before he looks up at his father, strong and proud.
His father's face becomes stony, expressionless. It stings.
"I'm disappointed in you, Roman."
As his father turns away, all Roman can do is watch, eyes wide, words he had never heard before echoing over and over again in his head.
"Not so perfect."
"...disappointed..."
He doesn't realize he's moving, but his mother's concerned voice follows him as he runs up the stairs to his bedroom. His ankle is on fire, pounding, and he's pretty sure the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes are from it, but he says nothing, does ... nothing.
The last thing he wants to do is break, and to prevent it, he has to become impenetrable.
Pretty easy, actually - if his father could do it in a matter of seconds, surely he could, too.
