blood on the ice ▸ matt rempe
PAIRING ▸ matt rempe mr73 x reader
GENRES ▸ lana del rey coded, hockey men, slow burn, moody, soft intimacy, hurt/comfort, trainer x player
SUMMARY ▸ matt rempe fights. a lot. which means he keeps ending up in the training room with split knuckles and bruised ribs, and as a trainer, you’re the one who has to patch him up. at first it’s just part of the job - but after a while, he seems to keep showing up.
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ as a newer hockey fan i have recently discovered matt rempe and….lemme just say the thought i have about him should be kept between me and god..….also he is soooo lana coded like he literally listens to her…so i just hadddd to write this…rangers win td tho :)
matt rempe always smells like ice, sweat, and a little bit of blood when he shows up in your training room.
usually it’s his knuckles—split open from another fight on the ice, bruised ribs blooming under his jersey, a cut above his eyebrow that needs stitching. it’s nothing new. fighting is part of his job as a professional hockey player, and fixing him up is part of yours.
you’ve gotten used to it.
more often than not, the trainers’ room door swings open after a rangers game, loud against the quiet of the medical area, and you don’t even have to look up to know who it is. heavy footsteps, a quiet lingering in his movements, a tall shadow in the doorway.
“again, rempe?” you say, not bothering to even glance up from the counter.
you finally look up, and you see matt rempe, in all his 6'9 glory, shrug, already moving to sit on your exam table like he’s done it a hundred times before, which, at this point, he probably has.
“told you before y/n, part of the job.”
you hum in disapproval, pulling on gloves as you step closer. taking a look at him, you notice that his knuckles are already starting to swell, skin split across two of them, dried blood along the edges. there’s a thin line of red cutting through his eyebrow where someone’s helmet must’ve caught him during the fight.
“hold still,” you mutter.
he does, and you always note that’s the strange part. on the ice he’s pure chaos: six foot nine and throwing punches that would make your own mother wince. but in here, he’s always quiet, almost careful. he lets you take his hand without a word while you clean the cuts, barely flinching when the antiseptic stings.
you reach up to tilt his chin slightly so you can see the cut above his brow better. for the amount of fights he got in, you hated how gorgeous the man was. he took tall, dark, and handsome to new levels, and it took everything in you to not just stare into his dark eyes. but you were a professional, so you continued.
his entire body goes still, but not tense. just still. like he’s suddenly aware of how close you are.
“you’re going to ruin your hands doing this,” you say, dabbing at the wound with gauze.
he huffs softly, something close to a laugh. “so i’ve been told.”
you stitch the cut quickly, tying off the thread before pressing a small bandage over it. when you step back he finally relaxes again, rolling his shoulders like he’s remembering how to move.
“all good,” you say. “try not to punch anyone with that hand for at least twenty-four hours.”
he grins slightly. “can’t promise that.”
you roll your eyes, already turning back to the counter to complete your task. it should be routine. but over the next few weeks, matt rempe keeps ending up in your training room.
sometimes it’s swollen knuckles after another fight. sometimes bruised ribs that need checking. sometimes a shoulder that needs ice.
every time you scold him. “you know you don’t get paid extra for bleeding, right?”
he just shrugs. quiet. slightly amused. never arguing while you tape his wrists or wrap his hands.
eventually the rangers locker room starts noticing.
one night gabe perreault leans into the doorway while you’re cleaning another cut across rempe’s knuckles.
“damn, rempe,” gabe says with a laugh. “you fighting guys just to see the trainer now?”
you glance up briefly. rempe doesn’t even look embarrassed. he just shrugs again. and doesn’t deny it.
but one night, matt shows up differently.
it’s late. the arena has mostly emptied out, the noise of the madison square garden post-game win chaos fading into distant echoes down the hallway. you’re wiping down the counter, organizing gauze and tape back into their drawers, already thinking about finally heading home to your too small apartment.
the door creaks softly behind you, and you glance up automatically. rempe is standing in the doorway. no blood. no bruises. no ice pack.
just leaning against the frame, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself.
you raise a brow. “you hurt?”
he shakes his head. “…no.”
you pause, setting the antiseptic bottle down. “then why are you here?”
for a moment he doesn’t answer. he just looks around the room like he’s noticing it for the first time: the quiet hum of the lights, the empty exam table, the soft echo of the arena far away.
that’s it? that’s the explanation. you don’t know why that answer settles somewhere strange in your chest.
you shake off the unfamiliar feeling and go back to cleaning.
“well,” you mutter, “try not to bleed on anything on your way out.”
he huffs a quiet laugh. but he doesn’t leave right away.
you can feel the change in energy without even looking: his presence still lingering in the doorway, tall enough that he basically fills the frame. you finish wiping down the counter, reorganizing a roll of tape that doesn’t really need reorganizing, and when the silence stretches a little too long you finally glance back at him.
he hasn’t moved, still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching you.
“you planning on haunting the training room?” you ask.
he snorts quietly. “just standing here.”
he shrugs, finally pushing off the frame and stepping inside like that was the invitation he was waiting for. his skates thud softly against the rubber flooring as he walks over and sits on the exam table, legs hanging off the edge.
you stare at him. “rempe.”
he nods like that’s a confirmed fact. “…yep.”
“so why are you sitting on my exam table.”
he tilts his head, thinking about it like it’s a complicated question. then he gestures vaguely around the room. “like i said. it’s quiet.”
you roll your eyes, but you don’t kick him out. instead you toss the used wipes in the trash and lean back against the counter across from him, taking in his profile.
“you know there are other quiet places in this building.”
you huff a laugh despite yourself. rempe grins slightly, encouraged.
“plus,” he adds, resting his hands on the edge of the table beside him, “you’ve got snacks.”
you glance toward the small cabinet in the corner. “those are recovery snacks.”
“they’re still snacks.” before you can stop him, he hops down and wanders over to the cabinet like he’s been doing it his whole life. he opens it, peering inside.
“those are not for recreational use.”
he pulls out a protein bar anyway, inspecting the wrapper.
you watch him for a second, baffled. this is new.
usually when he comes in here he’s quiet, almost shy while you work on his injuries. but now he’s talking, actually talking, and it’s like once he starts he doesn’t really stop.
he tears open the wrapper. “long road trip next week,” he says casually.
you raise a brow. “i know, how exciting.”
“not really. bus smells weird.”
a laugh escapes you, and you note how his face lights up after. “the bus smells weird?”
“yeah,” he says through a bite. “someone spilled protein powder in the back last time and now everything smells like vanilla chalk.”
you stare at him. “…vanilla chalk.”
he gestures with the protein bar. “and someone keeps playing the same country song in the locker room before every game.”
“you’re from alberta,” you point out. “aren’t you legally required to like country music?”
he grimaces. “not that kind. im more of a willie nelson guy, not so much morgan wallen.”
you shake your head, grabbing your bag off the chair. “i can’t believe i’m standing here listening to you review locker room playlists, after hours, mind you.”
he shrugs again. “you asked.”
a grin on your own face, “i absolutely did not.”
but you notice something as you watch him finish the protein bar and lean back against the exam table again, looking far more comfortable than a man who just claimed he was only here because it was quiet.
he’s smiling. and what a gorgeous sight it was.
talking easily now, about road trips and teammates and the weird superstition one of the defensemen has about taping his stick.
and for the first time since you’ve known him, matt rempe doesn’t look like the guy who drops the gloves on the ice. he just looks like a guy sitting in your training room.
and for some reason, you don’t tell him to leave. maybe you even let him walk you out until you two eventually separate on different train lines.
you tell yourself it’s just because it’s late.
the arena is much quieter than usual once the crowd clears out, the a few footsteps bouncing off the concrete corridors while arena staff finish shutting things down for the night. rempe falls into step beside you easily, long strides forcing you to walk a little faster just to keep up.
for a minute neither of you say anything, content in the city sounds filling the silence.
then, of course, he starts talking again. “did i ever tell you about the time the bus broke down in winnipeg?”
you glance up at him. “that sounds like a story that ends with someone getting arrested.”
“no,” he says quickly. “well… not arrested.”
you stop walking. “…rempe.”
he grins. “we just had to push the bus.”
you stare at him for a moment before shaking your head and continuing toward the exit doors. “i’m not even going to question that.”
outside, the cold air hits immediately, the city louder than the quiet arena behind you. taxis honk somewhere down the street, and the glow of neon from the nearby bars paints the sidewalk in red and blue.
rempe pulls his hoodie tighter over his head. “you always take the train?” he asks.
“yes,” you say. “because i’m not an nhl player with an absurd salary.”
he laughs under his breath. “fair.”
you reach the subway entrance, slowing to a stop at the stairs that split in opposite directions.
for a second neither of you move. it’s strange.
you’ve seen him dozens of times in the training room, held his hands in yours while you tape his wrists or stitch cuts across his brow. intimacy that only a few know.
but standing here, outside the arena, it suddenly feels different. less professional. more real.
rempe rocks back slightly on his heels. “so,” he says.
he gestures vaguely toward the entrance behind you. “guess i’ll see you when i inevitably injure myself again.”
you snort. “i look forward to your next terrible life decision.”
he grins, that easy crooked smile that somehow makes his whole face soften. “you always do.”
and then he turns, his tall frame ducking down the stairs toward the other platform.
you watch him disappear for a second longer than you mean to before shaking your head and heading toward your own train.
and you miss how he looks back again to watch you leave.
the next time matt rempe shows up in your training room, he isn’t bleeding. which is a new development.
you’re halfway through taking inventory of your supply drawers when the door opens again, that familiar tall shadow stretching across the floor before you even look up.
“don’t tell me,” you say automatically, still facing the counter. “you fought someone in warmups. you don't even play for another two hours.”
there’s a pause. “…not today.”
you finally turn around. rempe is standing there again, hands shoved in the pockets of his rangers hoodie, looking suspiciously intact.
you look over at him, taking inventory of all his limbs. no split knuckles. no bruised ribs. no stitches waiting to happen. still a gorgeous face.
you narrow your eyes. “rempe.”
he lifts one hand slowly. “my wrist feels weird.”
you stare at him for a second. “your wrist feels weird?”
he nods very seriously. “weird how.”
he considers this. “…just weird.”
you sigh, already motioning him toward the exam table. “sit.”
he does immediately, hopping up onto the table like always, long legs dangling over the edge while you step closer.
you take his hand, turning it over carefully, fingers pressing lightly along the joint. nothing. no swelling. no tenderness. no injury.
you look up. he’s watching you again, very closely. faces only inches away from each other.
you drop his hand. “yes.”
he nods slowly like he’s processing life-altering information. “huh.”
“anything else mysteriously wrong with you while you’re here?”
he pauses. “…shoulder’s kinda tight.”
you stare at him, then you step forward again and check his shoulder. also fine.
“miraculous recovery,” you say flatly.
but instead of leaving, he stays exactly where he is. sitting on the exam table and watching you.
you notice it immediately. “rempe.”
he nods. “…good.” and still doesn’t move.
you busy yourself with the supply drawer again, mostly so you don’t have to acknowledge the fact that a six-foot-nine nhl player is just… sitting in your training room like he lives there and staring at you like it's normal.
after a moment he speaks again. “so.”
he swings one leg slightly where it hangs off the table. the rubber sole of his sneaker taps softly against the metal frame.
“what neighborhood do you live in?”
you glance back at him. “that’s random.”
he nods like this is important information. “that’s close.”
he starts. “my pl- i mean, here.”
you snort, ignoring his slip up. “thank you for the geography lesson.”
he smiles a little, encouraged. “you always know you wanted to be a trainer?”
you shrug lightly. “pretty much. played sports growing up. tore my acl in college. spent enough time in athletic training rooms that i figured i might as well work in one.”
he listens carefully, elbows resting on his knees now, and all attention towards you. “that sucks.”
“yeah,” you say, but smile. “but it worked out.”
a pause settles between you, comfortable in a way that surprises you. then he asks, almost casually, “you ever get tired of fixing guys like us up.”
you raise a brow. “you mean large professional athletes who punch each other for a living?”
you think about it for a second. “…sometimes.”
he laughs quietly. “fair.”
you lean back against the counter again, arms folded. “what about you.”
he looks intrigued. “what about me.”
“you ever get tired of getting punched in the face?”
he tilts his head like he’s considering it. “…not really.”
you shake your head. “psychopath.”
he grins. “occupational hazard.”
you open your mouth to respond, but the door suddenly swings open. hard.
both of you look up. oh shit.
the rangers head coach steps halfway into the room, clearly in the middle of stalking down the hallway toward the locker room before spotting the extremely obvious giant sitting on the exam table.
his eyes narrow immediately. “rempe.”
matt straightens like a kid caught skipping class. “…coach.”
coach sullivan crosses his arms. “why are you in the training room.”
rempe gestures vaguely toward you. “…medical reasons.”
you choke slightly, and you hope nothing on your face reveals anything. sullivan looks at him. then at you. then back at him.
“you’re not even dressed for practice yet.”
rempe glances down at himself like this is news. “…oh...right…”
the coach sighs, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “locker room. now.”
rempe slides off the table immediately. “yes sir.”
he takes two long steps toward the door before the coach adds, “and if i find out you’re starting fights just so you can hang out in here again—”
rempe pauses. “…hypothetically?”
“locker room,” he says quickly, already backing into the hallway.
the coach shakes his head and disappears down the corridor, and matt quickly follows.
“sorry y/n,” he says over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “duty calls.”
you lean back against the counter, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unimpressed. “try not to pick a fight on your way there,” you call after him.
he stops in the doorway. turns back. for a second he just looks at you, that crooked half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh.
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too wide now too, and you know he catches it.
his gaze lingers a second longer than it probably should. like he’s memorizing something. then he nods once, pushing the door open with his allegedly "wonky" shoulder.
“see you later, trainer.”
the door swings shut behind him. the room goes quiet again. but this time, as you turn back to the counter and try to focus on reorganizing the exact same stack of gauze you’ve already organized twice, you realize you’re smiling.
and somewhere down the hallway, matt rempe is probably doing the exact same thing.
a week later, the first snow of the season hits new york.
another rangers win, another long night at the arena finishing paperwork and restocking supplies after the players have cleared out. by the time you finally shut off the lights in the training room, most of madison square garden is quiet again.
the kind of quiet that only happens after a game. you pull your coat tighter around yourself as you step outside the arena doors.
snow is falling slowly, soft flakes drifting down through the streetlights. the city feels different like this, muted, calmer than usual.
you barely make it three steps down the sidewalk before you notice him.
rempe is leaning against the brick wall just outside the players’ exit.
hood pulled up. hands shoved in his pockets.
and, apparently, holding a cigarette.
he glances up. there’s a moment of surprise in his expression before it settles into that familiar, easy smile.
you walk closer, folding your arms as you stop in front of him. “you know that’s terrible for your lungs.”
he shrugs. “i don’t make a habit of it.”
he takes a slow breath, watching the smoke curl into the cold air. “just one...a victory cigarette if you will.”
snow collects lightly in his hair where it escapes the edge of his hood.
you stare at the cigarette for a second. then you reach forward, pluck it right out of his hand, and drop it into the snow at your feet.
the tip hisses quietly as it goes out.
matt watches the whole thing happen without stopping you. in fact, he smiles. slowly.
like he was expecting that exact outcome. “knew you would.”
you brush your hands off.
“someone has to protect your career.”
for a moment neither of you move. snow continues to fall around you, settling on the sidewalk, on the edges of the street, on the shoulders of his hoodie. he looks calmer out here.
“you waiting for someone?” you ask after a second.
he shakes his head. “nah.”
“then why are you standing outside in the snow.”
he shrugs slightly. “…quiet out here too.”
you huff a small laugh. “you have a lot of quiet places apparently.”
another pause settles between you. cars pass at the end of the block. a taxi honks somewhere down the street.
but right here, it’s just the two of you and the falling snow.
he glances down at you. “headed to the train again?”
he shifts off the wall. “i’ll walk you.”
you raise a brow. “what, worried i’ll get lost?”
he grins faintly. “something like that.”
you shake your head, but you don’t argue. and a minute later the two of you are walking down the snowy sidewalk together.
his steps are slower this time. like he’s making sure you don’t have to hurry to keep up with his much longer strides.
halfway to the subway entrance he glances down again.
“you’re gonna keep stealing my cigarettes if i smoke again?”
he laughs quietly. snow catches in his eyelashes when he looks up at the streetlight.
you reach the subway stairs. the same spot where you split off the other night. again neither of you move right away.
“guess i’ll see you next time i get punched in the face.”
you tilt your head. “statistically speaking, that’ll be soon.”
but this time, before he turns away, his gaze lingers on you again. long enough that the cold suddenly feels less noticeable. like he’s thinking something he isn’t quite saying yet.
then he nods once. “night, trainer.”
he turns and heads back toward the arena. you start down the subway stairs. and halfway down, you glance back.
he’s still there. standing on the sidewalk under the falling snow. watching you go.
the next time you see matt rempe, it isn’t even a week later.
late again. the arena is quiet in the way it only gets after a game, the kind of quiet that settles once the crowds leave and the equipment carts stop rattling down the hall. most of the players are already gone.
you’re halfway through closing a cabinet when the training room door opens. soft this time. not the usual dramatic entrance.
you don’t even look up. “rempe, if you fought someone again after i specifically told you not to, i swear to god i-”
you glance up. he’s standing there in the doorway, just his signature blue rangers hoodie and sweats, hair still a little damp from the post-game shower. no blood. no ice pack. no bruised knuckles.
you narrow your eyes immediately, suspicious. “…so what’s up.”
he leans one shoulder against the doorframe, casual like he hasn’t been lingering outside your workspace all season. “you done for the night?”
you grab your bag from the chair. “why?”
he shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal. “thought maybe we could get a coffee.”
you glance at the clock on the wall. 11:47 p.m.
“it’s almost midnight,” you say flatly. “most coffee places are closed.”
he grins. “it’s new york…good thing i know one.”
you stare at him for a second longer than necessary. then you shake your head.
“this is a terrible idea.” definitely.
but you’re already walking toward the door, smiling a little more than normal.
the place he brings you to is a tiny diner a few blocks from the arena. the kind that never closes.
neon lights humming in the window. chipped mugs stacked behind the counter. coffee that’s probably been sitting on the burner for hours.
but somehow it feels perfect.
you sit across from each other in a booth, hands wrapped around warm mugs while snow falls slowly outside the window.
rempe talks and talks. about road trips, about his teammates, about the time the team bus actually did break down in winnipeg. even personal things. his sisters, his mom, how he's played guitar all his life.
you laugh more than you probably should.
but he also wants to know about you. about your family, friends, how you got your start with the rangers.
between the objectively bad coffee and his terrible storytelling, you realize something. he isn’t just the guy who shows up in your training room bleeding anymore. he’s just matt.
when you step back outside the diner later, the snow is coming down harder. the city is even quieter now, as it’s almost two in the morning.
you stop on the sidewalk, pulling your coat tighter around yourself while cold air curls around your ankles.
“well,” you say. “that was surprisingly normal.”
“high praise, i thank you..”
you smile. then you notice he’s looking at you again. the same stare he sometimes does in the training room. quiet, focused. like he’s trying to decide something.
he exhales slowly, a puff of white breath disappearing into the cold air. “can i ask you something?”
you laugh softly. “you’ve asked me like twenty things tonight.”
“but this one’s important.”
your stomach flips a little. “…okay.”
he hesitates, which is new. you’ve seen matt rempe throw punches at guys, even guys older than him, without blinking. but right now he looks nervous.
he shifts his weight slightly, snow catching in his brown hair.
“do you ever think,” he says slowly, “that maybe i kept coming into the training room for more than just the injuries.”
you tilt your head. “matt…i figured that out around fake wrist injury number two.”
he smiles a little at that. then he steps closer. “good.”
your heart starts beating faster. snow catches on the shoulders of his hoodie, melting slowly under the streetlight.
he shrugs, but there’s something softer in his voice now. “because i was hoping you might’ve liked me back.”
the words settle between you. you stare at him for a moment. then you sigh. “rempe.”
“you are the most obvious man alive.”
he blinks. “…that’s not a no.”
you step a little closer. close enough that your boots bump lightly against his.
something soft spreads across his face then. relief. a little disbelief. “good.”
neither of you moves for a second. snow drifting around you. the city quiet.
then his hand lifts slowly, hesitating just for a second before resting lightly at your waist.
like he’s giving you time to pull away. you don’t.
you raise an eyebrow. “yeah?”
“you gonna report me for this?”
you shake your head. “hmm…depends.”
you glance up at him. “how good the kiss is.”
he laughs under his breath, the sound low and warm in the cold air.
then he leans down. slowly. like he’s still half convinced you might change your mind. his hand tightens slightly at your waist, pulling you a little closer before his lips finally meet yours.
the kiss is warm despite the cold air around you.
soft at first. careful. your hand grips the front of his hoodie without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric as you lean into him just a little more.
that’s when he relaxes. the hesitation fades, the kiss deepening for a moment before he pulls back slightly, forehead almost brushing yours.
you roll your eyes. but you’re still standing very close to him.
“…only if you promise not to get into fights just to see me.”
he considers that very seriously. “…no guarantees.”
you laugh. and for once, you’re not waiting for matt rempe to show up in your training room.
he’s already right where you want him.
a/n: ooohhhh matt you wanna drop your spotify wrapped so bad...ooooohhhh bc ik lana's on that!!
