So called “locker room talk” was already something Dallas despised, but he despised it even more so when you were the subject of it.

On every team Dallas had been on, there was always some sort of allure about the manager. The manager spent as much time with the players as they did with each other, and were always both friendly and helpful– because it was their job to do so, but in a group of guys that narrative often got twisted.

Like right now. It was between the 2nd and 3rd period, the team were all sitting in the locker room, and a group of guys in the corner had been loudly talking about how good you looked in the team tracksuit for what had been nearly ten minutes. One of them went on to say that you’d gotten him a bag of ice after practice without him even needing to ask, and how that meant you must have a crush on him, again, as if that wasn’t part of your job.

“Would you shut up? We’ve still got a period left of this game and we’re down two goals.” Dallas barked, finally reaching his tipping point. There were a few snickers from the other guys but the group eventually stopped their comments and resumed their mid-game rituals.

He didn’t like to yell, but when he did, people listened. He didn't fit in on hockey teams growing up, and that was true on his college team too. With a huff, Dallas got to his feet, his skates clicking ever so slightly against the rubber floor as he walked in a gratingly rhythmic way.

It was as if everything today had aligned for the purpose of pissing him off. As Dallas flung the locker room door open, he found himself face to face with you, holding a crate of water bottles looking confused. He quickly shut the door behind him, ushering you by the shoulders away from the locker room.

“Don’t go in there. I’ll take the waters. You go relax or something.”

His words came out gruffer than intended so he flashed you an apologetic albeit tired smile as he took the crate of waters from you.

“Sorry, just- rough game.” He muttered, his expression softening further.