☆ summary: matt and gabe are at a club in soho. the music’s loud, the drinks are strong, the girls are hot. matt is told that if he can pull any chick there, he gets $500. so, he goes after the hardest target - the dj.
☆ pairing: matt rempe x reader
☆ content: meet cute, bets, clubbing, alcohol
☆ word count: 1.7k
☆ listen to this for the best experience
The bass rattled through Matt’s chest like a body check against the boards. He leaned against the bar in some Soho club whose name he'd already forgotten, nursing a whiskey that cost more than his first hockey stick. The place was packed with models, finance bros, trust fund kids, all of them moving to music that seemed designed specifically to make conversation impossible.
"Five hundred bucks," Gabe Perreault shouted over the noise, grinning up at him. "If you can pull any girl in here."
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Any girl?"
"Any girl." Gabe's eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that usually ended with bag skates. "My money's on the bar. Cash."
Matt scanned the crowd. There were options everywhere. A blonde in a dress that defied physics, a brunette who kept making eye contact, a whole group of girls who'd recognized them when they walked in and had been giggling in their direction ever since.
Too easy.
His eyes drifted upward to the DJ booth, elevated above the dance floor like a throne. She was locked in, headphones on one ear, hands moving across the equipment with the kind of focus Matt usually only saw during playoff overtimes. Dark hair pulled back, sharp jawline catching the strobing lights, completely absorbed in her craft.
The DJ. Y/N something. He'd seen her name on the door poster.
"Her," Matt said, pointing.
Gabe followed his gaze and burst out laughing. "The DJ? Bro, she's working. She's not even looking at the crowd."
"You said any girl."
"I meant, like, a girl who's actually available." Gabe shook his head. "DJs don't leave the booth. That's like rule one."
Matt drained his whiskey. "Five hundred, right?"
"Your funeral, man." Gabe was still laughing as Matt pushed off the bar.
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Getting to the DJ booth required navigating through what felt like an entire offensive line of drunk NYU students and Wall Street guys who thought buying bottle service made them intimidating. Matt used his size advantage, politely but firmly creating a path. A few people recognized him, but he kept moving.
The booth had a velvet rope and a security guy who looked like he ate protein powder for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
"Booth's closed," the guy said, not even looking up from his phone.
"I just need two minutes," Matt said.
"Booth's closed."
Matt glanced up at Y/N. She was transitioning between songs, that brief moment of silence before the next drop. Her eyes flicked down toward him, just for a second, then back to her decks. No recognition. No interest.
This was going to be harder than he thought.
"Look, man."
"Do you know who that is?" Some girl next to Matt cut in, incredulous. She was wearing a Rangers jersey, his number, actually. "That's Matt Rempe!"
Security guy looked up. Sized him up. "You play hockey?"
"Rangers," Matt confirmed.
The guy's expression didn't change. "Booth's still closed."
Fair enough.
Matt stood there for a moment, considering his options. He could wave. He could shout.
The music cut out.
"Someone spill something?" Y/N's voice came through the speakers, sharp and annoyed. She was looking directly at him now. "Because you're blocking my sightline."
The whole club was looking at him. Great.
"Sorry," Matt called up. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
"I'm working."
"After your set?"
"I'm working after my set too." She adjusted something on the mixer, and the music came roaring back. "Move."
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Matt returned to the bar where Gabe was literally doubled over with laughter.
"Man, she demolished you," Gabe wheezed. "Through the speakers! In front of everyone!"
"She's working," Matt said defensively.
"She told you to move." Gabe wiped his eyes. "Bro, take the L. There's literally a dozen girls here who would kill to talk to you. That brunette's been staring for like twenty minutes."
Matt looked back at the booth. Y/N was in her zone again, completely locked in. There was something about that focus, that complete absorption in what she was doing. It reminded him of how he felt on the ice during a game that mattered, nothing else existed.
"When's her set end?" Matt asked the bartender.
The bartender checked his watch. "Two hours. But she usually packs up for another hour after that."
"I'll wait."
"Are you serious?" Gabe stared at him. "Three hours? For a maybe?"
"You said five hundred bucks."
"I said five hundred bucks to pull someone, not to stand around like a creep for half the night!" But Gabe was grinning. "You're actually into her."
"I barely saw her."
"Exactly." Gabe ordered another drink. "This is amazing. Matt Rempe, enforcer, six-foot-nine, scared of exactly one thing: a five-foot-nothing DJ who told him to move."
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Matt waited.
He talked to some fans. Took a few photos. Deflected the advances of at least three different women, which made Gabe laugh so hard he nearly choked on his drink. The brunette eventually gave up and left with her friends, shooting him a confused look on her way out.
At 1:47 AM, Y/N's set ended.
The club lights came up slightly, still dim, but no longer full blackout strobe. Y/N was packing up her equipment with the same focused efficiency she'd shown while playing. Matt watched her coil cables, pack cases, check connections.
"Now or never," Gabe said, appearing at his elbow. "But I'm telling you, man, she's gonna shut you down."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Hey, I'm just saying. She didn't even look at you when you're literally the tallest person in this building. That's cold."
Matt made his way back through the thinning crowd. The security guy was gone, shift change, maybe. The velvet rope was unhooked. He climbed the stairs to the booth.
Y/N looked up when his shadow fell across her equipment.
"You again." She didn't stop packing. "Set's over. Bar's that way."
"I know," Matt said. "I wanted to wait until you weren't working."
"I'm still working. I don't get paid to flirt with drunk guys who think buying me a drink means I owe them my number."
"I wasn't going to offer you a drink."
That made her pause. She looked at him properly for the first time, really looked, taking in his size, his face, the Rangers jacket he'd thrown on against the November cold. "You're that hockey player."
"Matt Rempe."
"The one who fights people."
"Sometimes."
"And you came up here to... what? Impress me with your PIM?"
Matt couldn't help but smile. This girl knows puck. "I came up here because my teammate bet me five hundred bucks I couldn't get your number, and I picked the hardest person in the room on purpose."
Y/N blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. "That's the worst pickup line I've ever heard."
"It's not a pickup line. It's the truth."
"So you're telling me this is about a bet." She crossed her arms, but she was still smiling. "And you think being honest about it is going to work?"
"I think lying about it would be worse." Matt shrugged. "But also, I could've gone after literally anyone else here. I didn't."
"Because I'm the hardest target."
"Because you were the only person in this entire club who was actually present. Everyone else is just performing. You were locked in. I respect that."
Y/N studied him for a long moment. Down below, Gabe was watching with his phone out, probably recording this for the group chat.
"You waited three hours," she said finally.
"Your set was good."
"You don't even like this kind of music."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're from Calgary and you play hockey. You probably listen to, what, Jelly Roll? Morgan Wallen?"
"Lana Del Rey, actually."
Y/N finished coiling her last cable. "Here's the deal, Matt Rempe from Calgary who fights people for a living. I'm not going to give you my number."
Matt's stomach sank. "Okay."
"But," She held up a finger. "I am going to give you my Instagram. And if you can send me a DM that's not a) a pickup line, b) a comment about my appearance, or c) some variation of 'hey,' then maybe I'll respond."
"What do you want me to send?"
"Surprise me. You had three hours to think about it." She grabbed her phone, pulled up her Instagram. "Here."
He followed her. The username was @yn.ln.sound. Her profile picture showed her behind a much bigger setup, outdoor festival by the looks of it.
"Your teammate's going to be disappointed," Y/N said, hefting her equipment bag. "No number means no proof."
"I'll figure it out."
"And Matt?" She paused at the top of the stairs. "If this is just about the money, don't bother messaging. I can tell."
Then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd still lingering by the exits.
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Gabe found him still standing in the booth.
"So?" Gabe asked. "Did you get it?"
Matt showed him the Instagram follow.
"That's not a number."
"It's better than a number."
"How do you figure?"
"Because she didn't have to give me anything." Matt pocketed his phone. "And now I have to earn it."
Gabe stared at him. "You're actually serious about this. This isn't about the bet anymore."
"Was it ever?"
"Man." Gabe shook his head, but he was smiling. "You've got it bad. What are you going to send her?"
Matt thought about it. Thought about those three hours of watching her work, the precision in every movement, the way she'd carved space for herself in a crowded room and made everyone move to her rhythm.
"I'll think of something," he said.
They left the club together, stepping out into the cold November night. Somewhere above them, Manhattan glittered like ice under arena lights.
Matt's phone buzzed.
A notification from Instagram: yn.ln.sound started following you back.
Gabe saw his expression and groaned. "You didn't even get the five hundred bucks and you look like you just won the Cup."
"Better than the Cup," Matt said, grinning.
"You're insane."
Maybe he was. But as they walked toward the subway, Matt was already composing his message in his head. Not a pickup line. Not a comment about her looks. Something real. Something that showed he'd actually been paying attention.
He had a feeling this was going to be a lot harder than any fight he'd ever dropped gloves for.
And for the first time in a long time, he couldn't wait.
In Kenya, conservationists use smart tracking collars and implants on some endangered elephants and rhinos. If one stops moving for too long, or starts moving in a strange way, the system sends GPS alerts to rangers so they can rush in and check for poachers, injury, or illness.
#heated rivalry
#photography
