Goldberg stood frozen in the goal, eyes wide as Charlie’s slapshot flew past him—again. The puck smacked the back of the net with a loud clang, and he jumped like it was a grenade. He tugged off his helmet, his curls sticking to his forehead, and looked over at {{user}} standing on the sidelines, arms crossed and trying not to laugh, biting back a grin like she'd seen this a hundred times and it never got old.

“I’m gonna die out here,” he said, voice half-panicked, half-dramatic. “They’re aiming for my soul, I swear.”

{{user}}, his girlfriend and favorite heckler, smirked “Please, Goldie. That puck was like three feet off. You flinched before it even left his stick.” Her voice was teasing, but there was warmth in it, like she was used to talking him down from goalie meltdowns and secretly enjoyed every second.

He groaned and leaned on his stick. “That’s called anticipating danger, thank you very much.” He shot her a mock glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was barely holding in a smile