New York Type of Love: Matt Rempe

The city was still asleep when the New York Rangers landed back at JFK.

It was too early for horns, too early for noise—just the whisper of tires on damp tarmac and the hum of a charter flight taxiing toward the terminal. In the distance, the skyline shimmered faintly, the first brushstrokes of sunrise catching on the glass and steel like gold leaf.

They were coming home up 3–1 in the series.

One win away.

But the mood was quieter than it should've been as the players filed off the bus at the MSG Training Center. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it—something was missing.

Nova Hughes wasn't with them.

She hadn't been on the plane. Hadn't suited up for Game 4 in Edmonton. Instead, she'd watched from across the country with her leg elevated, heart pounding, gripping her phone tighter with every line change, every shift, every goal.

Lower-body injury, the media had said. Day-to-day.

The real story? Her knee had seized up early in Game 3. She'd finished the game on adrenaline and pure spite. But by morning, her leg was stiff, swollen, immobile. The team doctors made the call. No Game 4.

Now, she was back. Quietly. Determined.

Nova pulled into the back lot in her Jeep just after 5:30 a.m., her dog Cooper curled up in the front seat. The building was mostly empty. She didn't need a keycard. She didn't need directions. The Training Center was as familiar as her own heartbeat.

Inside the therapy room, the lights were soft, the towels warm, the ice packs already waiting.

"How are we this morning?" the lead trainer asked, nodding her toward the table.

"Swelling's down," she replied, her voice hoarse from too little sleep. "Still a bit tight."

"We'll work through it. You going to skate tomorrow?"

"If I pass the test."

"Then that's the plan."

They moved through the session like clockwork—stim, resistance holds, slow mobility drills. Nova winced only once. The pain wasn't sharp anymore. Just dull. Persistent. Like a reminder.

By the time the team bus rolled into the lot at 6:02 a.m., Nova was already waiting in the hallway, leaning lightly on her crutch, hoodie zipped up over her training gear. Her brace was hidden under black leggings.

The Rangers came through the doors like ghosts—wrung out from travel, humming with playoff adrenaline.

Kreider walked in first, smoothie in hand, Yankees cap pulled low.

"She beats us here again," he said, grinning.

"Still surprised you make it at all," Nova shot back, nodding at his unlaced sneakers.

"I can't sleep knowing you're in here rearranging the locker stalls."

Braden followed close behind, duffel slung across his chest. "Tell me they cleared you."

Nova smirked. "You'll find out soon enough."

The rest trickled in—Laffy, Fox, Miller—still chirping about who fell asleep first and who snored the loudest. The usual chaos.

And then came Matt.

He didn't say anything. Just walked straight to her and stopped a breath away. His eyes dropped briefly to the brace beneath her leggings, then lifted to meet hers.

"You good?" he asked, quiet and steady.

"Better," Nova said, and meant it. "One more hurdle."

Matt let out a breath and leaned his forehead gently against hers for a second. "Let's get through this week," he murmured. "Then maybe we can breathe."

"Maybe."

He nodded toward the meeting room. "Come on."

The film session was tight and focused. Game 4 had been a win, but the margin was slim. Sloppy clears. Missed assignments. Coach didn't sugarcoat anything.

"Wednesday night. At home," he said, pointing to the frozen final frame on screen. "You win, we stay. You lose, it's back to Alberta. Simple."

Nova sat in the back row, notebook open, tapping her pen slowly. Even if she wasn't cleared yet, she had to be ready. Mentally. Emotionally. Tactically.

The optional skate after felt more like a battleground than a practice.

The top guys flew through drills—Braden, Matt, Laffy, Fox, Miller. Mika yelling like it was a game day. Short 3-on-3 scrimmages. High contact. High stakes.

Nova watched from the tunnel, arms folded, knee propped up. Every part of her ached to be out there.

Matt broke off mid-drill and skated over to the glass.

"You skating tomorrow?" he called.

"If the test goes well," she answered.

He gave her a slow smile. "You look weird without gear on."

"Funny. You still look like a giraffe on skates."

He laughed and went back into the drill.

Afterward, the locker room was half-chaos, half-fatigue. Some guys showered. Some collapsed in the lounge. Everyone was buzzing—tired but wired. The Cup was close. So close they could feel it in their blood.

Nova sat at her stall, scrolling her phone. A new text popped up.

Mom: We landed! Quinn's already talking about pancakes. Picking up your dad now. Rempes are grabbing brunch with us. See you there. XO.

Nova smiled, already knowing Matt had seen a similar message from his own mom a few minutes earlier.

She typed quickly.

Nova: Tell Jack not to try and one-up Luke on maple syrup again. I'm still recovering from the last time.

Matt walked over, tugging on a clean hoodie, hair still wet.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just waiting on Cooper to finish being dramatic in the parking lot."

"You sure you want to walk into that brunch with both families at one table?"

Nova gave him a dry look. "I grew up in a house with Quinn, Jack, and Luke. I've survived worse."

He chuckled, reaching over to take her duffel bag. "You think my mom's already trying to plan matching outfits for Game 5?"

"She texted me about color coordination last night."

They walked out together into the brightening morning, side by side, into a city that was finally awake. The horn blasts, the subway rumble, the street vendors calling out—none of it shook the focus between them.

Because Wednesday was coming. 

Home ice. Game 5.

One more win.

And this time, Nova Hughes was going to be ready.