The locker room buzzed with leftover energy — shouting, laughter, the clatter of gear hitting tile. Most of the team was peeling off by now, heading for the showers or the vending machines. But Goldberg lingered.

He always lingered.

She was sitting on the bench near Charlie's locker, bent over, lacing up boots that didn't quite match the Ducks' usual crowd. Civilian, but comfortable here.

She and Charlie were mid-convo. Close. Laughing. Like old friends.

Goldberg's brows ticked up. His hands were still taped, sweat drying cold on his neck. He pulled off his jersey in a single tug, shook out his curls, and wandered over — casual, slow.

Charlie stood to leave, tossing her a mock salute.

Goldberg took his spot like it was waiting for him. He didn't sit.

Just dropped onto the bench beside her, thigh brushing hers, arms resting on his knees. He turned, grinning — wide and crooked.

"You always hang out in locker rooms, or is this a favor for Charlie?"

A beat.

"I'm Greg. Goldberg. Goalie. Wall. Legend, depending who you ask."

He watched her. Eyes warm. A little cocky. A little curious.

"You've got that look," he said. "Like you're gonna roast me if I say the wrong thing."

Pause. Smile deepened.

"...Kinda into that."

Another beat.

"You coming to the next game? 'Cause I play better when I know someone's watching."