Malakai “Kai” Veyron || Baltimore Harpoons

The buzzer cuts through the rink, sharp and final, and the crowd detonates—sound crashing over the ice like live wire.

Malakai skates hard through the last heartbeat of the period anyway, lungs burning, muscles screaming, sticks clattering in his periphery. Adrenaline hums beneath his skin, carving familiar lines between his ribs. This—this—is where he lives. Speed. Pressure. The ache that reminds him he’s alive.

Then the whistle snaps again, longer this time, and the game exhales.

Lights dim. Music slams into the space. The arena shifts gears so smoothly it’s almost dizzying, intensity bleeding into spectacle. The announcer’s voice rolls out, bright and booming, wrapping the crowd up in promise.

“And now, for our Shoot-To-Win Contest—!” “Let’s see who today’s lucky fan is!”

Malakai hears it distantly at first, like it’s happening in another room. He doesn’t need to look up. He knows the routine. He’s seen it a hundred times.

Still, his gaze drifts to the jumbotron on instinct.

Faces flicker across the massive screen, framed in pulsing light. Fans wave, laugh, freeze mid-sip as the camera snaps away from them. The crowd feeds on it, the anticipation rising with every jump cut. It’s harmless. Fun. A release valve wedged neatly into the middle of a real, grinding game.

Then the screen stops.

On them.

Not long. Just a beat. Barely a breath.

But it’s enough.

The sound in the arena seems to pull inward, tightening around his pulse. A cheer swells as the PA crackles—“Looks like we’ve got our contestant!”—and excitement ripples through the stands.

Malakai huffs out a soft laugh, lips twitching.

Of course.

Of course they got picked.

They're too cute to not be picked.

He glides toward the boards and braces there, glove tapping against the wood as he watches arena staff usher them down onto the ice. They’re handed a stick—too heavy, too stiff—and he clocks the awkward grip immediately. The way their weight shifts like they’re not sure where it’s supposed to go.

Something warm blooms in his chest.

This. This is his favorite kind of moment.

He steps onto the ice as the setup finishes, the space before the net opening wide and bright under the lights. The rink feels cavernous without the chaos of play—every sound sharper, every movement magnified.

“Hey,” he calls, voice easy, steady, cutting clean through the halftime noise. “Ignore that stick.”

He reaches the bench and tosses them one of his own—lighter, balanced, right.

“Use this.”

He doesn’t crowd them. Doesn’t loom. Just settles close enough that his presence carries—calm, grounded, unmistakable. Like the ice itself has decided to behave.

“Okay,” he says, dropping into a loose crouch, chin tipping toward the net. His amber-gold eyes lock on the puck. “You don’t want power. Everyone thinks they do.”

He nudges the puck gently with his blade.

“You want smooth. You want placement.”

Another tap.

“The goalie always shifts a little after the whistle. Barely anything—but it’s there. Most people miss it.” His mouth curves. “Aim left.”

There’s patience in his voice. A quiet joy. The part of him that lights up when someone’s learning, when he gets to hand over a secret and watch it land. He lives for that moment—the click.

The crowd murmurs. The announcer’s countdown bleeds in, distant but insistent.

“Three...” “Two...” “One—!”

The puck moves.

Clean. Controlled.

Snap.

It slams into the back of the net, and the goal horn roars to life.

The arena explodes—cheers crashing down, whistles shrill, applause hammering against the ice. Malakai throws his arms up before he can stop himself, grin splitting his face like he scored it himself. Like every goal is personal.

He skates closer, pride buzzing hot and bright in his chest.

“See?” he says, teasing, genuine. “Didn’t have to hurt it. You just had to think.”

The jumbotron replays the shot in slow motion, dramatic and glowing. For a brief, private second, that familiar rush floods him—the same heat he feels when he scores, when the world narrows to motion and sound and triumph. He turns back to them, eyes warm, bright with mischief.

“That’s halftime domination,” he says with an easy shrug. “Prize is yours. Legendary status unlocked.”

Then his voice drops—just a fraction. Not for the crowd. Not for the cameras.

“And... I feel like a shot like that deserves a celebration.” A pause, deliberate. “I can think of a couple ways to mark the occasion. You wanna meet me after the game?"