Tiny goalie
SUMMARY: When Spencer’s parents give your son his very own miniature goalie gear for his third Christmas, he immediately decides it belongs everywhere—at breakfast, outside in the snow, at the grocery store, and even in bed. Spencer happily encourages his tiny goalie, while you slowly realize the gear may never come off.
WC: 3.1k
WARNINGS: Pure fluff, toddler chaos, Christmas setting, family moments, brief mentions of parental pressure in sports, and Spencer being completely unable to say no to his son.
Requested: Spencer Knight + Your child wants to wear tiny hockey gear everywhere.
Christmas morning in the Knight household had already dissolved into the kind of chaos only a toddler could create.
Discarded wrapping paper covered nearly every inch of the living room floor. A half-eaten cookie rested dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table, and the train set you and Spencer had spent almost two hours assembling the previous night had been completely abandoned after approximately six minutes.
Your son, Noah, was far more interested in climbing into the large cardboard box it had arrived in “Noah,” you called from the couch, trying not to laugh as his little head disappeared behind one of the flaps. “There are actual presents under the tree.”
“I’m present,” he announced from inside the box.
Spencer, sitting beside you with one arm stretched along the back of the couch, lowered his coffee from his lips “He has a point.”
“He’s two.”
“And already making compelling arguments.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning into his side as Spencer pressed a quick kiss against your temple.
It was technically Noah’s third Christmas, although it was the first one where he seemed to truly understand what was happening. The previous year, he had been more interested in eating the wrapping paper than discovering what was inside it. This year, he had spent the entire month talking about Santa, pointing out every Christmas light he saw and asking whether each present under the tree belonged to him.
Most of them did.
Being the only grandchild on both sides of the family had consequences “Noah,” Spencer’s mother called from the armchair near the tree. “Grandma and Grandpa still have one more present for you.”
The cardboard box immediately stopped moving “One more?” His small face appeared between the flaps, curls flattened messily against his forehead.
“One more,” Spencer’s father confirmed, reaching behind the tree for a large rectangular box wrapped in red paper.
Noah scrambled out so quickly that one of his sock-covered feet slipped against the hardwood floor. Spencer instinctively moved forward, ready to catch him, but Noah recovered without noticing and hurried across the room.
You looked at the size of the box before glancing toward Spencer’s parents “What did you two buy him?”
His mother smiled far too innocently “Something small.”
“That box is almost as big as he is.”
“The things inside are small,” his father corrected.
Spencer’s expression changed as soon as he noticed the logo printed discreetly on the side of the box where the wrapping paper had torn “No way.”
“What?” You followed his gaze. “What is it?”
Instead of answering, Spencer placed his coffee down and moved to sit on the floor beside Noah “Come here, buddy. Daddy will help.”
“No help,” Noah insisted, immediately beginning to tear tiny pieces from the corner instead of opening the present properly. “I do it.”
Spencer sat back on his heels “Of course. Take your time. We have nowhere else to be today.” You watched patiently for nearly a minute before Noah became frustrated and shoved the box toward his father.
“Daddy do it.”
“I thought you didn’t need help.”
“Need help now.” Spencer laughed, tearing the rest of the paper away in one quick movement, Noah stared at the box.
His eyes widened when Spencer lifted the lid and pulled out the first item—a tiny black-and-gold goalie mask designed for children. It wasn’t professional equipment, only a safe plastic set meant for playing around the house, but the details made it look remarkably similar to one of Spencer’s masks.
“Noah,” Spencer breathed, inspecting it with the same excitement as his son. “Look at this.”
The toddler reached for it with both hands “My helmet!”
“Your goalie mask,” Spencer corrected gently.
“My goalie mask,” Noah repeated, stumbling slightly over the words.
The rest of the box contained miniature leg pads, a blocker, a catcher, a padded chest protector and even a tiny goalie stick. His grandparents had customized the back of the little jersey with KNIGHT and Spencer’s number.
You covered your mouth as Noah attempted to pick up every piece at once “Oh, this is adorable.”
Spencer looked toward his parents “Where did you even find this?”
“It took some searching,” his father admitted. “But he keeps trying to steal your equipment whenever you leave it somewhere he can reach.”
“I goalie like Daddy,” Noah announced, Spencer became completely still.
You knew that expression—the quiet, almost overwhelmed softness that appeared whenever Noah copied him or showed interest in hockey. Spencer tried not to make a big deal out of it. He never wanted your son to feel pressured into playing merely because his father did.
But hearing Noah say that he wanted to be like him affected Spencer every single time “You want to be a goalie like Daddy?” he asked.
Noah nodded eagerly “Put it on.”
“You want all of it on?”
“All.”
It took both of you nearly ten minutes to figure out how the tiny pieces were supposed to sit on his equally tiny body. Noah refused to remain still, bouncing impatiently as Spencer fastened the chest protector and you adjusted the jersey over it.
The leg pads reached almost to Noah’s hips. The blocker made his right hand appear comically large, and the mask kept slipping slightly to one side because he wouldn’t stop moving his head.
When Spencer finally handed him the miniature stick, Noah stood in the center of the living room looking like the smallest goalie in hockey history.
Spencer sat back and stared at him, you could practically see his heart melting “Well?” you asked. “What do you think?”
Spencer blinked rapidly before clearing his throat “He looks good.”
“You sound like you’re about to cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
His mother smiled knowingly from the armchair “He cried when he got his first goalie pads too.”
“Mom.”
“You were older than Noah, but the expression was exactly the same.”
Spencer reached for Noah, pulling him carefully between his knees “You look so cool, buddy.”
“I play hockey now.”
“You do?” Noah nodded before awkwardly attempting to drop into a goalie stance. The leg pads prevented him from bending properly, and he slowly tipped forward until Spencer caught him beneath the arms.
“Easy,” Spencer laughed. “Maybe we should learn how to stand in them first.”
“No. I save.”
His grandfather rolled a soft foam ball across the carpet, Noah moved approximately half a second too late, watching it pass between his legs before turning around.
Everyone remained silent, Noah looked back at Spencer with his lower lip beginning to tremble, Spencer immediately shook his head “That one didn’t count.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa took the shot before you were ready.”
“I absolutely did not,” his father protested.
Spencer shot him a warning look “You absolutely did.”
“Oh. Right. My mistake.”
The ball was returned, and this time Noah dropped directly onto his knees before his grandfather released it. It bounced harmlessly against one of the little pads “I save it!” Noah shouted.
“You saved it!” Spencer celebrated, lifting both arms above his head. “What a stop!”
Noah immediately ran—or attempted to run—toward you.
The pads made it nearly impossible. He waddled across the living room with his legs spread apart, dragging the tiny stick behind him “Mommy, see?”
“I saw, baby.” You opened your arms, allowing him to crash against your knees. “That was an incredible save.”
“I goalie.”
“You certainly are.”
“Wear all day.”
You glanced at Spencer, he smiled as though the request was completely reasonable “Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes “You’re taking responsibility for that answer.”
Noah wore the goalie gear throughout Christmas breakfast.
He sat in his booster seat with the chest protector beneath his pajamas and the goalie mask resting on top of his head because it wouldn’t fit comfortably between him and the back of the chair.
Every few minutes, it slipped over his eyes.
Each time, he pushed it back without acknowledging the inconvenience. When you suggested taking it off so he could eat more easily, he clutched the mask protectively “No.”
“Baby, I’m not taking it away. I just don’t want you to get syrup inside it.”
“Noah,” Spencer said from beside him, cutting a pancake into smaller pieces, “goalies take off their masks when they eat.”
Noah looked at him suspiciously “You do?”
“I do.”
“At hockey?”
“Not while I’m actively playing hockey,” Spencer clarified. “But when I eat.”
Noah considered that before reluctantly passing him the mask “Daddy hold it.”
“I’ll protect it with my life.”
The moment breakfast ended, Noah demanded it back.
He wore the equipment while opening the rest of his presents. He wore it while watching a Christmas movie. He wore it while helping his grandmother carry plastic cups into the kitchen, although the blocker caused him to drop each one at least twice.
By the afternoon, you assumed he would grow tired of it.
You were wrong.
When Spencer suggested going outside to help his father clear the thin layer of snow that had fallen overnight, Noah stood near the front door in his full goalie set “You’re not wearing that outside,” you told him.
“Why?”
“Because you need your snow pants and your coat.”
Noah looked down at himself “Goalie warm.”
“Goalie is going to freeze.”
Spencer crouched beside him “How about we put your winter clothes underneath the gear?”
You stared at your husband “You’re encouraging this.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“You’re going to spend twenty minutes dressing him.”
“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
It took closer to thirty.
By the time they finally stepped outside, Noah was so heavily layered that he could barely move his arms. The goalie pads were strapped over his snow pants, his mask sat over a wool hat, and his tiny stick remained trapped beneath his elbow.
Spencer took several pictures before helping him down the porch steps.
Noah stood in the driveway while Spencer shoveled, protecting an imaginary net formed by two snowbanks. Every scoop of snow became a puck, and every time a clump landed near him, he dramatically collapsed across the driveway to make the save.
At one point, Spencer abandoned the shovel entirely and began gently sliding snowballs toward him.
You watched from the front window with his mother “They’ll be out there until it gets dark,” she said.
“Probably.”
“He always wanted this.”
You turned toward her “What?”
She watched her son kneel in the snow, patiently showing Noah how to position his glove “A family. Someone to share everything with.” Her smile softened. “He wanted hockey to be something that brought him joy again, not only something that came with pressure. You and Noah gave him that.”
Your throat tightened.
Outside, Noah successfully caught a snowball against the padded palm of his glove. Spencer threw both hands into the air as though his son had just won a championship.
Noah’s laughter reached you even through the glass “He gave us plenty too,” you said quietly.
The obsession did not end with Christmas.
The following morning, Noah appeared beside your bed at seven o’clock wearing only his pajama pants, one sock and the goalie mask.
You opened your eyes to find the cage inches from your face “Mommy.”
You startled so violently that Spencer woke beside you “What happened?” You placed one hand over your racing heart “Your son happened.”
Spencer looked toward Noah and immediately began laughing “Morning, goalie.”
“Need pads.”
“No,” you answered before Spencer could. “You need breakfast.”
“Pads for breakfast.”
“You cannot wear goalie equipment every time you eat.”
His small eyebrows pulled together “Why?”
“Because normal people don’t do that.”
Spencer pressed his face into the pillow, shoulders shaking, you turned toward him “Do not laugh. This is your fault.”
“I didn’t buy the equipment.”
“You made goaltending look appealing.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about my profession.”
Eventually, you compromised by allowing Noah to wear the jersey during breakfast. Then he wanted it for the grocery store “No,” you said firmly while helping him into his shoes.
“Yes.”
“No hockey gear at the store.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re buying food, not playing a game.”
He immediately turned toward Spencer, who was putting on his coat near the door “Daddy?”
Spencer froze, you gave him a look. He cleared his throat “Listen to Mommy.”
“Goalie mask?”
“No.”
“Little stick?”
“No.”
“Glove?”
Spencer hesitated.
“Spencer.”
“No glove,” he corrected quickly, Noah’s shoulders slumped “You can wear your jersey,” you offered.
His sadness disappeared instantly “And helmet?”
“Jersey only.”
“Okay.”
You thought you had won.
Halfway through the grocery store, Noah reached into the lower basket of the stroller and proudly pulled out the blocker he had apparently hidden there before leaving home.
Spencer stared at it, you stared at Spencer “I didn’t know,” he said immediately.
“Sure.”
“I genuinely didn’t.”
Noah shoved his hand inside and waved at a woman passing with her cart “I goalie!”
She smiled “I can see that.”
For the remainder of the shopping trip, Noah sat inside the cart wearing the blocker, attempting to catch every item Spencer placed near him “Milk,” Spencer announced, gently passing the carton toward his covered hand.
Noah slapped it sideways, you caught it before it fell “Maybe don’t use the groceries for goalie practice.”
“It was a controlled drill.”
“You’re worse than he is.”
The equipment followed Noah everywhere, he wore the mask while coloring, insisting it helped him concentrate. He slept with the glove beside his pillow. He brought the tiny stick into the bathtub once, although you confiscated it before it touched the water.
When Spencer returned from practice, Noah waited near the door in full gear, shouting, “Goalie meeting!” the moment his father stepped inside.
Spencer always treated it seriously.
He would place his equipment bag on the floor, sit across from Noah and ask detailed questions about his day “How many saves did you make?”
“Seven.”
“Any goals against?”
“No.”
You leaned against the kitchen counter “He let the dog’s tennis ball roll past him twice.”
Noah looked offended “Dog cheated.”
Spencer nodded solemnly “That happens.”
“Spencer!”
“What? I wasn’t there. I can’t overturn the call.”
Some evenings, Spencer took Noah into the basement, where they used a miniature net and soft foam pucks. Spencer never shot hard. Most of the time, he moved the puck slowly enough for Noah to stop it with his stick or kick it away with his pads.
Noah celebrated every save as though thousands of people were cheering for him.
So did Spencer.
One afternoon, after nearly two weeks of refusing to remove the gear unless absolutely necessary, Noah fell asleep on the living room carpet while still wearing half of it.
You found him lying on his stomach, one leg pad strapped on and the other abandoned near the couch. His glove remained on his hand, curled beneath his cheek, while the mask sat crookedly over his curls.
Spencer was stretched out beside him, scrolling through his phone, “You let him fall asleep like that?”
“I tried to remove it.”
“And?”
“He said he had to protect the net.”
You looked toward the miniature goal positioned across the room “He is unconscious.”
“Still hasn’t allowed a goal.”
You sat beside them, carefully unfastening the remaining pad, Noah stirred “No take it.”
“Shh,” you whispered. “You can wear it again when you wake up.”
His eyes remained closed “Promise?”
“I promise.”
Satisfied, he relaxed against the carpet, Spencer watched you remove the glove and gently massage Noah’s little fingers “He really loves it,” he said.
“He loves being like you.”
A quiet smile appeared on Spencer’s face “I know he might grow out of it.”
“Probably.”
“He might decide he hates hockey.”
“He might.”
“Or he could want to be a forward.”
You gasped softly “Tragic.”
Spencer nudged your knee “I’m serious. I don’t care what he chooses. I don’t want him thinking he has to play because of me.”
“He doesn’t.” You glanced down at your sleeping son. “Right now, hockey means spending time with his dad. That’s why he loves it.”
Spencer’s expression softened, he leaned down and brushed the curls away from Noah’s forehead “I love spending time with him too.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Do you think it’s too early to get him on the ice?”
“He’s two.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“He still walks into furniture while looking directly at it.”
“Goalie instincts can be developed.”
You laughed quietly “Maybe we can take him skating after the holidays.”
Spencer looked genuinely thrilled “Really?”
“Only if he wears proper beginner equipment. Not the plastic Christmas set.”
“Obviously.”
“And you’re not putting him in the net immediately.”
“I would never.”
You gave him a skeptical look “Spencer.”
“I might let him stand near one.”
“No.”
“Beside one?”
“No.”
“In the general vicinity?”
“We’ll discuss it later.”
He grinned, leaning over Noah to kiss you, the movement caused the toddler to stir between you. His sleepy hand searched blindly across the carpet until it found Spencer’s wrist “Daddy?”
“I’m here, buddy.”
Noah’s eyes opened slightly “Wear pads tomorrow?”
Spencer glanced at you before answering “After breakfast.”
Noah smiled and immediately fell back asleep, you shook your head “You realize we’re going to have to take that equipment everywhere until he outgrows it.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“What happens when he tries to wear it to preschool?”
“I’ll support his individuality.”
“You’ll be the one explaining it to his teacher.”
“Deal.”
“And when he refuses to take it off for family pictures?”
“We’ll have memorable pictures.” You attempted to look annoyed, but Spencer’s smile made it impossible.
On Christmas morning, his parents had given Noah a set of tiny goalie equipment.
But they had also accidentally given Spencer his favorite thing in the world: a miniature version of himself following him through the house, demanding to practice saves, wearing his number and announcing to anyone willing to listen that he was a goalie like his daddy.
And judging by the way Spencer looked at your little boy, you suspected Noah could wear those ridiculous pads absolutely everywhere and his father would never become tired of seeing them.
