I locked my phone and looked back up at Dallas. His light blue eyes pinned me to the spot, searing into mine, and his sharp jaw was tighter than the laces on my skates. He was more pissed with me than he’d been in a long time.

“What? We won, didn’t we?” I tugged my jersey off over my head and unfastened my shoulder pads.

“Barely,” he spat out. “And no thanks to you.” Dallas lowered his voice, brow furrowed. “Where the hell was your head at? You almost skated the wrong way at one point.”

“I told you; I was worried about Bailey. She was at the Bulldogs game alone.”

And by worried, I mean imagining all kinds of disastrous scenarios. Usually, I used my imagination for good—a.k.a. dirty—things, but I was also incredibly good at picturing bad possible outcomes too. Hadn’t realized that till recently, though.

“Did she get home okay?”

“Just now.”

“Good.” He slid off his elbow pads, giving me a withering look. “But you know worrying doesn’t actually accomplish anything, right?”

This, coming from the guy who did things like check the weather three times before he left the house for fear it might rain on his designer suede sneakers. Cute.

“I guess.”

I wasn’t much of a worrier in general, so I hadn’t given that idea much thought. What he said checked out, but somehow, I couldn’t effectively apply that principle to Bailey.

Dallas leaned down, untying his skates. “You’re gonna have to learn how to compartmentalize that shit.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve had way longer to figure out how to do that.”

Not all of us had been training for this boyfriend thing for months in advance like it was the fucking relationship Olympics. Come on.

“I guess.” He grunted. “But if you keep that up, Los Angeles will leave you here for another year.”

“You’ve had off games because of Shiv too. Remember our season opener?” I pulled off my skates and wiped off the blades.

“Vaguely,” he muttered.

Dallas couldn’t argue that one and he knew it. That game was a fucking disaster. They’d had a blowout fight earlier in the day—probably about the boyfriend/girlfriend label; thank god that was settled now. Our alternate captain, Maxwell, had to assume control because Ward was a total space case the entire time. In fact, he’d been an outright liability on the ice. And unlike tonight, we’d lost that game.

“Besides,” I said. “Miller already tore into me.”

“Next time you miss a pass like that, I’ll bench your ass myself.”

“Fair enough.”

After we showered, Dallas’s mood improved. He tended to blow up quickly and cool off equally fast once he said his piece.