New York Type of Love: Matt Rempe

7:09 - first period 

The puck hit the ice and disappeared into a whirlwind—an instant combustion of limbs and metal and instinct. Sticks slammed into each other like swords. Skates tore grooves through the frozen sheet. For a split second, it was nothing but chaos.

Nova Hughes exploded off the draw like a cannon blast.

Her reaction time was otherworldly—her stick snapped against the puck before the opposing center even flinched. She tapped it between her skates with an effortless kick, corralled it cleanly on her tape without breaking stride, and ignited into motion.

She darted left—blazing speed, low stance, power in every stride—and feathered a perfect no-look pass back to Foxy as she knifed through the neutral zone, her ponytail streaming behind her like a comet's tail.

The Garden erupted.

It wasn't just noise—it was a seismic, soul-rattling shockwave. It ricocheted off the rafters and thundered down through the concrete and into Nova's chest. It lived in her bloodstream, in her lungs, in the fire of her legs as she pushed harder.

Edmonton came back fast and hard. The Oilers weren't quiet—they brought their own fury, their own pace—but Nova didn't blink. She matched every stride, every pivot. Her stick was a weapon in the corners. Her hips anchored puck battles like stone. She bodied up against a winger twice her size and didn't budge.

Shift after shift, she was relentless.

Tight forechecks. Breakneck zone entries. Cross-checks in the ribs. Scrums that tested patience and pulled gloves low. It was a war in skates—and Nova thrived in it.

Then the moment broke.

6:34 on the clock. Mid-shift. Nova was already scanning.

A weak clearing attempt fluttered off an Edmonton stick near the point. It wasn't much—but she didn't need much.

She pounced.

Two strides. Interception.

Gone.

She accelerated like a spark on dry kindling. A fake to the right—shoulder dropped, just enough to pull the defenseman wide. A flash of toe drag, clean and smooth, like water cutting around stone. She pulled the puck from backhand to forehand in a blink and charged the net.

The goalie read it—but not fast enough.

He flinched left.

She didn't.

Bar-down, glove side. Perfect. Lethal. Devastating.

1–0 Rangers.

The Garden detonated.

Nova turned to the glass instantly—face flushed, chest rising and falling like thunder—and pointed straight at the front row.

Quinn, Jack, and Luke were losing their minds. Quinn slammed both hands into the glass, Jack launched himself into Trevor and Cole like he'd just been tasered, and Luke pointed at her like he'd just watched a miracle, mouthing: "That's my sister."

Nova let the adrenaline burn bright for one more heartbeat before turning back to her team and vanishing into a mob of blue jerseys.

They swarmed her—Matt yanking her helmet into his, Braden slapping her pads, Mika grabbing her by the shoulders and yelling, "Keep going. Step on their necks."

She was grinning when they skated to the bench, but she didn't sit. She leaned against the boards, hands still shaking, helmet off as the anthem of the Garden echoed in her bones. Henrik Lundqvist stood behind the bench, expression unreadable but eyes burning with pride.