New York Type of Love: Matt Rempe

I woke up before my alarm. Again.

My brain had clearly decided sleep wasn't a priority anymore, not with Game 6 looming like a thundercloud. I lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the Miami hotel room, trying to will the knots in my stomach to unravel. No luck.

Next to me, Matt was still asleep—mouth slightly open, one arm tossed across the comforter, his hair pointing in about five different directions. He looked peaceful. I hated disturbing him, but my restlessness was unbearable.

I slid quietly out of bed, grabbed one of his hoodies from the chair—because I, of course, forgot to pack my own—and stepped out onto the balcony.

The morning air was thick and warm, already heavy with heat. Miami didn't feel like hockey weather. The palm trees swayed gently under a haze of golden light, and I stared out at them, arms wrapped around myself, hoodie sleeves bunched over my fists.

One game.

That's all that was left between us and the Stanley Cup Final. One more shot. One more war.

And I'd never wanted anything so badly in my entire life.

"Hey," Matt's voice came softly from behind me, still scratchy with sleep.

I didn't turn around. "Couldn't sleep."

He came up behind me, looping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. "You okay?"

I nodded, even though I wasn't. "Just thinking."

"You always think too much on game days."

"Can't help it."

He kissed the side of my head. "We win tonight," he said quietly. "We end it here. We don't go back to MSG for Game 7. We finish the job."

I turned to look at him, heart pounding. "You really think we can?"

He didn't hesitate. "Nova. Look me in the eye and tell me we're not the better team."

I couldn't. I wouldn't. Because we were. Even after Game 4's heartbreak. Even after the bruises of Game 5. We were still here. Still fighting.

I kissed him, sharp and fierce. "Let's go win a hockey game."

10:00 AM – TEAM BREAKFAST

The mood was tense. Plates clinked, coffee steamed, but nobody spoke unless absolutely necessary.

Kreider sat at the end of the table like a general in the trenches, his eyes narrowed and focused. Mika was silent, but that kind of silent that said he'd already played the game ten times in his head. Braden's leg was bouncing under the table—nerves or anticipation, maybe both.

I sat between Laf and Braden, half-heartedly chewing a protein bar. My stomach didn't know what to do with itself.

"You good?" Laf leaned in.

"Define good."

"Alive, breathing, ready to kill someone?"

"That checks out."

He grinned. "Then yeah. You're good."

Braden finally spoke, voice low. "We've got this. They're tired. We're not."

I nodded, because I needed to believe that. Because it was true.

12:00 PM – MORNING SKATE

The building was empty except for the dull echo of blades on ice and the occasional call from the bench. A light skate. Enough to shake out the nerves.

But we were sharp.

Every pass, every breakout, every rush—it felt like something electric was building just under the surface.