After the buzzer

The buzzer goes and the sound hangs longer than it should.
Not loud. Just final

He stays in the crease for a second too long. Stick resting on the ice. Mask still on. As if leaving too fast would make it worse.

From the stands

People clap. Some parents talk about the goal. About the defense.
About what should have happened.

I don’t move.
I know this moment.

Losses don’t arrive with noise for goalies. They arrive quietly. They settle in the shoulders first.

He skates off last.

What a goal against really is

It’s never just the puck.
It’s the thought that came half a second too late.
The angle that almost worked.

From the outside it looks like one moment.
From the crease it’s a chain.

“You don’t forget goals against. You store them.”

Not to punish yourself.
To remember what pressure feels like.

Parking lot silence

The air outside is cold and sharp. Steam rises from the gear bag.
We walk side by side.

I don’t ask how it went.
He doesn’t offer details.

Later, in the car, he says:
“I had that one.”

I nod.
He already knows what I would say.

Driving home

There’s relief in movement. In distance.
Tomorrow there will be ice again.

And he will stand there.
Because that’s what goalies do.