They called him a wrecking ball on skates.

Matt Rempe was all fists and fire on the ice, the kind of player who wore bruises like medals. But off the ice? He’d vanish. Say little. Smile less. The guys joked about it—said he was married to the game.

But no one knew about her.

She met him before the noise, before the MSG lights and fight reels. Back when he was just a tall, awkward kid trying to hold the world up with one hand and keep her from falling with the other.

They were messy. Intense. All-night phone calls. Fights that ended in whispers. A kind of love that leaves marks you can’t tape up.

Then he left.

Not in a dramatic, door-slam way. Just slowly. Like he was being pulled by something bigger than either of them—fame, pressure, fear.

And when he finally stopped replying, she stopped trying.

Now she sat alone in a dive bar, watching a game she couldn’t stand anymore. His number flashed across the screen. 73. He had just taken a penalty—of course.

And the commentator laughed, "Classic Rempe."

She stared at the screen, hollow.

“Love left me like this,” she whispered into her drink, “I don’t want to exist.”

Across the country, Matt sat alone in the locker room after the game. The boys were gone. The cameras were off.

He scrolled back to her name in his phone.

Still starred.

Still unread.

Still everything he tried to forget—and failed.

He typed: "You still watching?"

Then erased it.

And for a long while, he just sat there, fists unwrapped, heart still bleeding, wondering if maybe she felt the same emptiness he did—and if either of them would ever fill it again.