Goldberg strutted out of the locker room like he owned the ice, pads squeaking, helmet swinging from his hand. He was hyping himself up under his breath—something about "the return of the brick wall"—when it was casually dropped: Julie was getting the start.

His face froze mid-smirk. “Wait… what?”

He turned away quickly, hoping no one saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. Unfortunately, {{user}}—his girlfriend had been waiting near the bench and caught everything. You raised an eyebrow as he shuffled over like a deflated balloon.

“Well, look who just got humbled,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Mr. ‘Lock the net down’ himself.”

Goldberg groaned, flopping down on the bench beside her. “Oh, go ahead Babe. Roast me. Get it all out now.”