I sucked in a sharp breath as I leaned on my elbow, rolling my glute. The left side of my ass was full of tight, painful knots. I could barely put any weight into it without flinching. It didn’t help that Bailey had been sprawled out across the bed, relegating me to a tiny corner because I wanted to give her space. Sleeping that way totally jacked up my back.

“I didn’t get her number.” Chump move, Carter.

Then again, she was too busy vomiting curbside Saturday night. And come Sunday morning, she was skittish after waking up in my bed unexpectedly. When I drove her home, she was silent and stared out the window the whole time. I’d barely had the truck in park when she bolted. We didn’t exactly get off to the strongest start.

Plus, there was the whole part where sober Bailey hated me.

Dallas switched sides, grabbing his opposite foot with a groan. “Maybe for the best. Coach probably wouldn’t appreciate you stirring that pot. You get into enough trouble as it is.”

He wasn’t wrong, but she was hot enough that I was still willing to risk it if the opportunity presented itself again.

Hey, I never said I made good choices.

“What about her friends?” I asked. “Did Tyler hit it or what?”

“I think one of their exes showed up and they bailed not long after you guys did. But we met these other chicks and hit up a party at a penthouse downtown. So XS for the win.”

“I don’t know how your reputation stays so squeaky clean,” I muttered. “You’re no saint, either.”

“I’m just smarter about it. Ever hear the word discretion?” He raised his eyebrows pointedly, wiping his forehead with his red and white Falcons gym towel. Smug shit.

“Whatever,” I said. “We can’t all be perfect like you.”

In contrast to my type-B slacker ass, Dallas was our team’s all-star—well-rounded on and off the ice. He played a highly technical game, racked up tons of points, and could stickhandle circles around everyone in our division. In short, it was like he’d been genetically engineered to play; think the Steph Curry of NCAA hockey.

Unfortunately, this also put a huge target on his back. But he wasn’t a fighter, and he rarely dropped gloves. That was my job, as was making sure the people who took dirty hits on him answered for it.

“Perfection might be a little unrealistic for you,” he said. “I was thinking more along the lines of trying to stay out of jail.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off. Wincing, I adjusted the angle of my glute on the foam roller, but that made it hurt even more. Maybe I could get in for a sports massage this week. This cylindrical torture device wasn’t helping.