New York Type of Love: Matt Rempe

The pool deck felt like another lifetime ago. The laughter, the sunlight, the splash of water — it all seemed to dissolve into a golden haze as reality returned. By the time Matt and I finished getting ready, the easy brightness of the afternoon had shifted into that deep amber glow that only early evening could hold. The entire hotel seemed to hum — low and electric, the kind of energy that thrummed beneath your skin before something monumental.

Matt was in front of the mirror, his reflection crisp in the glass, fingers adjusting his tie with meticulous focus. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, and he gave the knot one last tug before catching my gaze through the reflection. "You ready for this?" he asked, voice low, steady — the same calm that grounded me before every game.

I glanced at myself one last time — navy blazer pressed sharp, the gold-accented Rangers crest over my heart, the delicate shimmer of my championship ring catching the lamplight. My hair was pinned back neatly, a few strands brushing my cheek. I could feel my pulse in every corner of me — anticipation, nostalgia, pride.

"I've done harder things," I said, lips curving into a teasing smirk. "Like keeping you out of the penalty box."

Matt let out a soft laugh, that grin I loved tugging wider. "That's debatable," he shot back, turning toward me. "Pretty sure Trouba would say the opposite."

"Trouba just likes when I'm the one yelling at refs instead of you."

He laughed again, shaking his head, then reached out to tug gently at the lapel of my blazer. "You look incredible, by the way."

I rolled my eyes, though the warmth in my chest betrayed me. "Save the charm for the cameras."

"Oh, I will," he said, voice softening. "But maybe I'll start with you."

The elevator ride down was quiet, both of us watching the numbers tick lower, the silence filled not with nerves but something steadier — that deep, mutual knowing of what the night meant. The Summit wasn't just a formality. It was the night — the celebration of everything we'd fought through: the endless flights, the injuries, the late-night bus rides, the games that went into double overtime. For the Rangers, it was more than a season. It was history. First Cup since 1994. And somehow, impossibly, I'd been the one to deliver the final goal that sealed it.

The elevator doors opened to chaos — organized chaos, the kind that only a championship team could make look effortless. The lobby was a sea of blue suits, crisp ties, and laughter echoing off marble floors. Kreider leaned casually against the counter, chatting animatedly with Mika, who looked like he was mid-story, hands gesturing dramatically. Foxy and Laf were in a heated argument across the room — something about whose tie was "more Summit appropriate." Braden was trying (and failing) to break them up, while Igor stood off to the side scrolling through his phone, utterly unbothered.

Trouba, the calm eye of the storm, stood near the entrance, his captain's posture straight but his smile easy. There was pride in his eyes — that quiet kind that said we did it.

He raised his voice just enough to cut through the chatter. "Rangers, let's move. Bus leaves in two."

And just like that, everything shifted. The energy focused, tightened, turned forward. Suits straightened. Conversations wound down. The hum of pride filled the air again as the team began to file toward the doors — a group that had fought, bled, and triumphed together now walking into a night that would honor every ounce of it.

Matt's hand brushed against mine as we walked, a small touch in the sea of motion. His thumb pressed a quick, grounding squeeze into my palm. "Big night, huh?" he murmured, just for me.