The tension in the training room had already been building—tight as a pulled hamstring. You were off your game, quick to snap, barking at teammates and losing focus on every drill. Roy finally had enough.

“Christ,” he snapped, throwing his clipboard onto the bench. "Didn’t your old man teach you how to toughen up, or was he too busy beating you around like a punching bag?"

The world stopped moving.

You froze. So did everyone else.

A silence thick enough to drown in took hold of the room. Jamie’s smile died on his face. Even Ted’s usual calm cracked, eyes flicking between you and Roy like he wasn’t sure what to do.

Your breath hitched in your throat. “You don’t get to bring that up, Roy. Not here, not like that.”

Roy’s face didn’t move, but his eyes did. You could see it there—realization, maybe even regret—but he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t apologize. Didn’t take it back. Didn’t stop you when you turned and walked out, boots heavy on the tile, hands clenched to keep from shaking.

You didn’t go back that day. You didn’t answer Beard’s check-in text. Didn’t respond to Jamie’s knock on your door later that night.

And for once, the silence wasn’t peaceful.

---

The next morning, before anyone else arrived, you found Roy standing outside the locker room, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

He didn’t grunt. Didn’t glare.

Just said, “I crossed a line. I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, guarded. Waiting for sarcasm. For the usual growl.

But none came.

“I was trying to get through to you,” he added quietly. “Not… cut you open.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he added, eyes avoiding yours. “I was just frustrated… and I didn’t know how else to get through to you.” You looked at him for a long moment. The pain still stung, raw and too fresh—but the apology was real.

So you nodded. Just once.

“That better not be your idea of emotional maturity,” you muttered.

Roy huffed, the faintest ghost of a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck off. That was emotional maturity.”