New York Type of Love: Matt Rempe

The sunlight bullied its way through the blinds, unforgiving and sharp, cutting across the living room like it had been waiting all night for its chance. Braden was starfished on the couch in nothing but sweats, surrounded by a tangle of blankets and empty water bottles, snoring loud enough to shake the cushions. Josie was curled up at the other end, hair a knotted halo, one arm hanging off the couch as if she'd given up on gravity sometime around four in the morning.

My throat burned the second I tried to swallow. Not a voice left. Just air that cracked out in a pathetic squeak when I coughed. My body felt like I'd been through three straight playoff games, not one sixty-minute win. The smell in the apartment was worse than any locker room—beer, champagne, smoke from a forgotten candle, and a pizza box left on the counter like it had given up on being eaten.

Copper padded into the bedroom, nails clicking against the floor, his nose bumping against my leg before jumping up beside me and Matt. Matt's arm was heavy across my waist, his breathing slow and even, his face still flushed from too much adrenaline and too little sleep. He groaned when the dog landed on him, dragged the pillow over his head, and mumbled, "Five more minutes." His voice was shredded, barely human.

"Parade," I tried to croak. It came out as a squeak.

From the couch, Braden stirred. He sat up with his hair sticking in every possible direction, eyes bloodshot, voice wrecked. "Don't—talk." He pointed at me like he was giving battle orders, then reached for an abandoned Gatorade, took a long swig, and burped loud enough to wake Josie.

Josie groaned into her pillow. "If you ever make that noise again, I'm moving out."

"You don't live here," Braden shot back, grinning.

"Close enough," she muttered, shuffling off the couch and stumbling toward the bathroom. "Shower's mine. Don't even try me."

Braden groaned like he'd been stabbed. "I was gonna call dibs!"

"You snooze, you lose!" she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

I swung my legs off the bed, every muscle stiff and sore, and stumbled toward the kitchen. The fridge was a wasteland—two Gatorades, some takeout boxes, and a lone slice of cheesecake that looked like it had survived the apocalypse. I grabbed every bottle of water in sight, tossing one to Braden, one to Matt, one to myself. The fourth went unused because Josie had barricaded herself in the bathroom.

Braden caught his with lazy reflexes and downed half in one gulp. "Best. Hangover. Cure," he rasped, his voice cracking like a kid's. It made Josie laugh from behind the bathroom door until she wheezed.

Matt staggered into the kitchen, hair flat on one side, still in last night's T-shirt. He leaned against the counter, cracked his water, and studied me with bleary eyes. His grin—half crooked, half disbelief—looked younger than I'd ever seen him. "We're actually champions."

"Champions," I whispered back. My voice was shot, but the word still made my chest ache.

A sharp knock rattled the apartment door. Copper barked like he'd been training for it, tail going wild. Braden groaned from the couch, rolling onto his stomach. "Tell whoever it is to go away unless they've got bagels."

I shuffled to the door, hair a wreck, still in an oversized T-shirt. When I opened it, three familiar faces shoved their way in at once.

"Novaaaaa!" Jack's voice was even worse than mine, breaking on every syllable. He swept me into a hug before I could protest, spinning me in the doorway. Behind him, Luke was carrying two trays of coffees and a bag stuffed with bagels. Quinn followed with his usual calm expression, though his eyes softened when he saw me, like he couldn't help himself.