PROLOGUE ━━ demythologized.
synopsis: the olympics come to a close. a sleep deprived kk and laila make friends.
pairing: caroline "kk" harvey x oc (jolie mercer) total wc: 5.4k warnings: none for now except for the fact i have never done this before soooo rip !
series masterlist. ⛸︎ pinterest. ⛸︎ spotify.
author's note: longest prologue ever but it's me, so who's surprised? no one? k, excellent. my brain hurts & my i ♥ exposition tshirt will be for sale on etsy soon. as stated above, i have never written a fic like this before in all my years of tippy-typing on the computer, so... remember kindness counts and it starts with u. shy kk, i love u bbyg. enjoy. xx
ARTIFICIAL SUNLIGHT DRILLS into every inch of exposed skin — which equates to none — and twice bakes anything concealed by winter white cotton — which equates to everything except for flushed cheeks and a wind-whipped nose; Caroline can feel the slick, individual beads of sweat rolling down her spine one at a time the longer they idly mill about in their marshmallowed puffer jackets. Normally, sweat doesn't bother her. She leaves her sports bras to dry out over the shower curtain rod overnight more nights than not, much to the chagrin of her roommates. The sensation of dried sweat along her hairline and tacky salt sticking to her skin in the tide pools along the hemlines of her clothes is familiar. Disgusting, but a routine.
Caroline likes routine.
She's not superstitious, but she takes refuge in predictability's embrace in every area of life she's allowed to iron-fist. It's the explanation for the weakness in her knees, amplifying with every step she takes around the emptied streets beyond the Verona Arena. She's more and less than flesh and blood in this moment. She's an amalgamation of wintermint chewing gum holding her limbs together, shitty water pressure and the residue of Laila's soap, every gram of energy she can siphon from a case of wild berry Celsius drinks fighting for the upper hand against twice as many Angry Orchards, the insanity that counting each individual thread in her sheets will do to a person. She's maybe slept four and a half hours in the last forty-eight, and that's if she was actually dreaming, not lucid hallucinating her and Laila's hour of jumping on the beds to see if the Olympic committee had disguised cardboard structures terrifyingly well. She's the gold medal sitting in the hollow of her chest that is susceptible to leave bruises on the undersides of her breasts from the number of times it has been an aggressive pendulum within the shallow valley they create.
Every blink feels like her eyelashes are cinderblocks. The white hot spotlights to illuminate every pore she has on international television throw debilitating waves of heat even with their backs to her. It's safe to say that she is having a prolonged out of body experience that nullifies her ability to control anything, fingers pried open and forcing a release of whatever resembles normalcy.
Because, in the grand scheme of whatever show the playwright's spinning, the life trajectory of winning an Olympic gold medal is not a normal one. It's not normal to receive the crown of Olympic MVP in your sport before your final transcript decrees whether you'll be the recipient of a bachelor's degree. Really, nothing about Caroline's life feels normal: hence the reason she clings to the minuscule moments of actually feeling twenty-three, addicted to her phone, and mundane responsibility the dictator over her time.
Right now, she's detached from 'Caroline,' and there's something about 'KK Harvey' that feels disproportionate, too. She's a rocket ship whose thrusters have detached, the rest of her hurtling towards a star while she herself free falls towards the ocean.
"Get off me," Laila gripes for the umpteenth time as Caroline finds herself falling into the orbit of her best friend yet again, leaning her entire body weight into Laila's steady and sure frame. "It's too hot for that shit."
"I'm tired."
"We can sleep when we're dead."
"Yeah, I think this is death." One of her fingers spins in gesticulation. "Welcome to my funeral."
"Props for the international syndication. Depressing we have to wear red, white, and blue."
"Lived and died for the cause."
"What, bruising Canada's ego?" Laila's comment tugs the corners of her lips into a smirk, even if it splits the seams and burns the slightest bit.
Dirty blonde hair, doe brown eyes with a snuffed out flame, the bitter aftertaste of Vaseline.
Blue bruises like constellations across her sternum, framing the black hole where someone forcibly ripped out her heart and stuffed the wound opening with blood-stained bedsheets.
Nausea roils in her stomach.
The errant beat of silence does not go unnoticed; Laila reads it like it's a billboard with flashing lights, an aftermath of your soul living beyond your body and inside of your best friend's ribcage. "C'mon," she continues, looping an arm through KK's unsuspecting one and tugging it into her side. "I wanna go find the curling team, see if we've got a future in sweeping ice after we get slashed one too many times."
KK lets Laila drag her wherever, no complaints aside from her legs feeling as though they could use a round of WD-40. They weave through the sea of Ralph Lauren, heralded by hellos that are kind but don't fully reach the eyes due to tiredness, several exchanges of congratulations and a mutual flash of hardware. KK knows faces but not names, and Laila knows vibes but not anyone that's not a mutual follower on Instagram. Beyond their insular bubble of hockey, the other athletes are strangers. (This is how it is back at home — Laila and KK know the same people they've known their entire time at Wisconsin, and if there's no bleed-through onto the ice, they'll forget someone inside of the hour.)
"Shit, King, what's up!?" Laila's suddenly thundering, the vibration of her voice rumbling through every layer of fabric KK's wearing. Laila goes to peel away from her, but with the thoroughly tangled nature of their arms — that, and the fact KK's fully reliant on her friend for every move she makes — the two of them wind up in an awkward, mish-mashed hug that's more clothing than limb.
Vanessa Kingsten stands at a petite five feet even, blue black hair that errs towards a rich midnight underneath the knitted toboggan; wisps of it are pushed back from where they mar her vision, a toothy smile as she grins up at the two hockey players. Even in an identical outfit to three-hundred something others, she is hard to miss.
Laila whistles, steadying KK with a hand on her elbow — without Laila, she's certain she'd be face first on some ancient cobblestones. "Damn, you're iced."
Vanessa sticks her thumb through the lanyards weighted down by two gold medals, extending them from her chest. "Got double vision?" she teases, letting the medals drop and clink against each other as they settle. "Probably shouldn't tempt fate; Jo's already broken her silver. We came close to reattaching it to a piece of dental floss."
"Jo like Jolie?" Laila parrots. "Are the Powerpuff Girls finally pack traveling?"
"Just because you and KK are a bonded pair doesn't mean the rest of us can be," Vanessa laughs. Laila shakes her head in disagreement as Vanessa spins around, scanning her immediate vicinity for someone, anyone. She casts her hand out like a fishing line, ensnaring the catch of the Olympics and reeling them into their conversation.
Silver's a harsh color. KK knows this, because she could clock the strategic methodology in a gold medal's solar eclipse when arranging the order medals rest on your neck from a mile away. Silver is a curse, a nuisance that demands attention as it forces the girl's gold to the side and share in the spotlight created between the lapels of their red puffer jackets. The girl smiles, though, like she's not been sentenced by the albatross on her neck to the ocean floor. She wears it with equal pride as the gold, its unworthy counterpart enjoying the space it occupies.
KK cannot fathom it. Her own silver medal from '22 is buried in a Sterilite container back home in Massachusetts that she wouldn't mind shipping off on a one-way vacation to a landfill. Forgetting '22 is a luxury she is not awarded.
"Laila Edwards, KK Harvey," Vanessa says by way of introduction, her hands gesturing back and forth. "Jolie Mercer."
That name, KK knows. Everyone in the Village knows that name, in the same way everyone glued to their televisions keeping up with frame-by-frame coverage of the Olympics knows it. Regardless of discipline, everyone wants an elbow brush at the dining hall with Jolie Mercer, to finger the pulse of her heartbeat and figure out how she's breathing this newfound ideal of hers that there can be fun in the Olympic Games. It borders along the edges of blasphemy.
Looking into eyes like that, though, KK understands why so many people are willing to start pulling bricks out of the religion alongside her.
"Hey," Jolie says, her voice warm and even-toned, registering at such a frequency that's got the power to send KK off to sleep. "That was one hell of a match you guys had. Congrats."
KK finds herself talking, three paces behind her brain's ability to keep up. "You too — I mean, the congrats part, not the match. You don't call them matches. Yeah. Congrats. Your skate was insane." She glances at Vanessa, offering a smile. "Yours too. Obviously, with gold and all."
By the time she manages to stop tripping over her words, the fires in her cheeks have reached new heat thresholds, and Laila's staring at her as though two more heads are sprouting from each shoulder.
She's glad to reciprocate the same bewildered glare up at her best friend.
Laila tears her sights away, shifting back to the two figure skaters. "Ignore her, she's sleep deprived."
"Right there with 'ya, sister," Vanessa nods. "We haven't slept in days."
"Livin' the dream."
Jolie doesn't chime in; she stands in the middle of their misshapen circle and lets the conversation bounce past her, the seeming natural resting state of her face both corners of her mouth upturned into a small smile. KK knows she's staring at her, but all sense about her was abandoned somewhere in a locker room shower before Bilka was tugging beer goggles over her head. Could've been minutes ago, could've been days. Time's not real anymore.
She's not sure this moment is, either.
"We should get a picture," Vanessa insists. Someone's phone materializes, and Vanessa recruits another USA puffer jacket to snap the photo. KK finds herself on the far end of their lineup with gravity pulling her into Laila's orbit yet again, the top of her toboggan brushing against Laila's shoulder. She smiles a bit too brightly, a side-effect of a blinding flash that temporarily wipes her memory.
"Thanks, dude." Vanessa threads her arm between Jolie's, hooking it — and her — closer, KK glimpsing at a scaled mirror of herself and Laila. They're two equally tired Olympians, cruising the fumes of adrenaline, reliant on their person to help navigate the waters. The difference is, somehow the two figure skaters look like they're still a complete person that is fully inhabiting their body. She and Laila gave up Scotch-taping their appearances thirteen hours ago when they were still bar hopping. "Nice seeing 'ya, golden girls!"
KK remembers to look back over her shoulder and wave a few beats too late, Laila back to using her height as an advantage to create a path of least resistance through the crowd of athletes and dragging KK along with her. By the time she does, Vanessa and Jolie have already disappeared, as if they were figments of her imagination all along.
It's pitch black in their room, luggage strewn about and not a single thing packed inside — KK's cocooned inside a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, staring up at a fixed point on the ceiling with her arms folded tightly over her chest. The silence in the room is stilted and uncomfortable, not even the reprieve of the HVAC unit's hum to fill the empty space. Right now, she's playing (and failing) the game of pretending that if she lays perfectly still, all she'll have to do is blink and suddenly be swept away into sleep.
Considering the discomfort in her stomach and the monster truck rally of errant thoughts she's got banging around inside her brain while she gnaws on the inside of her cheek, it's going about as well as she'd expect for someone still coasting an adrenaline high.
"KK," Laila groans from the other side of the room, where she's on her side under a bundle of blankets. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm hungry," KK can't help but whine.
There's a dull thud, likely the sound of Laila dramatically flopping fully onto her back. "I literally hate you."
"What, am I supposed to just let my stomach eat itself?"
"No, you're supposed to close your eyes and go to sleep."
"Excuse me for using all my brainpower to keep my stomach from grumbling."
Laila sighs. "My alarm is going to go off in thirty minutes and then I'm going to have to kill you for keeping me up all night."
"No it's not. It's going to go off in—" KK leans over and taps her phone screen, the light illuminating their room— "About four hours."
"KK," Laila moans, the forceful exaggeration of each syllable muffled by a pillow.
"I'm not keeping you up, it's not my fault you're still awake!"
"Yes it is. You're breathing too loud."
KK fully sits up, sheets rustling underneath her. "Fine then. I'll just… stop breathing, and you can ship my corpse back home through checked luggage."
"You're so dramatic. Jesus." There's more shifting from Laila's side of the room, and when KK glances over, she can see the faint sparkle of Laila's opened eyes staring directly at her. "Do you… I don't know, want to DoorDash something?"
"Like what?"
"A pizza? Help me out here, Harvey. You're the one that's hungering over there."
KK ponders this for a moment, lips twitching into a frown. "I think I want McDonald's," she responds.
"You want to DoorDash McDonald's? That's stupid, there's one downstairs."
KK rolls her eyes as she pulls the pillow out from behind her, lugging it in the direction of where Laila's bed is pushed up against the opposite wall. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, unplugging her phone and stuffing it in the front pocket of her hoodie. Her feet touch the ground first, the tile chilly from where they keep their room like an icebox, as she shuffles in the general direction of where she'd kicked her slippers off earlier. "You comin'?" she asks.
"You think they'll KK-nap you if I don't tag along?" Laila pauses for a split second, then answers her own question. "Nah. They'd bring you back."
"You'd cry if I went missing."
"I'm going to cry if I have to stress-pack all our shit tomorrow while running on zero hours of sleep," she counters.
KK pads across their room, stopping right at the door as her hand hovers over the doorhandle. "I'll buy you a large fry," she offers.
Laila's by her side in under thirty seconds, muttering on about how one of these days, she's really going to tell KK no and mean it.
If she were a snob, she'd find the McDonald's in the Team USA building a joke meant to rally the rest of the world in laughing at them. McDonald's isn't even a sponsor this year, for fuck's sake — except, ever since they won gold (and the night that she and Daryl broke up) she and Laila have been permanent fixtures there, regularly arguing with the faulty kiosk ordering system and its inability to properly read Laila's credit card. They're not the only people in the halls: even at the unholiest of hours, athletes freely move about. Some of them have their AirPods in, sweat glistening at their temples from a late night workout. Others are very clearly, very conspicuously heading to or from a hookup. In theory, everyone should be exhausted now that the Olympics have come to a close, but it directly counteracts the frenetic energy that's taken up residence in the building the last few days. Everyone's wired in their own way: just because it's over doesn't mean it feels that way. People are still celebrating, still licking their wounds. Clinging to the vestiges of a snowcapped dream before they're rudely awoken at TSA in a matter of hours.
Laila's got her nose in her phone the whole way down to the common area, snippets of chatter and music as her thumb flicks through TikTok's latest for you page curation. KK fiddles with the wallet attached to the back of her own phone as they walk in attempt to pull her credit card out without bringing along the three other cards and randomly sandwiched pieces of paper stuffed between them. She can see into the McDonald's from down the hall, a straight shot glimpse at its interior even several yards out — every table within view is open. Figures, she thinks. They may not ever have original thoughts, but on occasion they do, so long as it's fueled by lunacy.
"You just want a fry?" KK asks as they shuffle through the doorless opening. It smells like grease and whatever antiseptic they've used to mop the floors.
Laila makes a noncommital noise. "And a double cheeseburger, no onions."
"I only consented to purchasing fries," KK teases, just to pull her best friend away from the phone. She grins when Laila's exasperated glare cuts up at her. "Anything else, your highness?"
"Fuck off." Laila lightly shoves her elbow. "Just for that, you get to deal with the satanic kiosk all by yourself."
She shuffles out of sight, leaving KK to deal with ordering. The machine buffers and only responds to every third touch, but its brand of headache is far more tolerable than willing an elusive few hours of sleep to find her. The sound of Laila's laugh catches her off guard and she glances over her shoulder, almost surprised — but not really — when she sees her best friend has conjured company from thin air.
It's Jolie Mercer again, sitting at a table for two and smiling at whatever Laila's said. She's recognizable but not; the glitter and rhinestones have not accompanied her, and the fluorescents of a restaurant simply don't compare to the harsh illumination of a rink's lights. Her dark hair is knotted in something meant to resemble a bun before half of it fell out. The escaped strands are platinum blonde, brushing the caps of her shoulders, and she's wearing something that clearly came from home, a conclusion KK's derived from the hoodie not being adorned with the Olympic Rings, the Team USA logo or that bear Ralph Lauren's loved this year.
She realizes that she's staring, again, and pivots back to finish their order on the kiosk. By the time it takes her card and spits out a receipt for her to take back to her table and wait, Laila's pulled up a chair in juxtaposition to Jolie's. The two of them are rapidly talking, Jolie dragging fries through the opening of her McFlurry cup.
"That," Laila points. "Is horrific."
"Oh, so you have shit taste?" Jolie counters, both eyebrows vaulted upwards and a teasing glimmer in her eye. Her gaze flickers as she senses KK standing on the periphery of their conversation, that easy smile of hers melting across her lips. "Oh, Caroline. Hey."
Laila looks up at her. "KK, please tell her that M&Ms do not belong in ice cream." She shudders for effect. "Especially not when you're dipping fries into it."
Both of KK's hands curve along the back of the empty chair that sits directly across from Jolie. Up close, her hazel eyes don't seem such at all: they're more like a shade of honey, caramelized sugar that's catching the light. It makes her wonder if she'd hallucinated that detail when they'd met earlier. It also makes her pause and wonder if they'd really met after all.
Sure, there's a tagged photo of them on Instagram that's been shared across four people's stories, but if she wasn't actually present for it, it doesn't count.
Her nose scrunches up, frown playing at the edge of her lips. "Everyone knows that M&Ms are horrible in ice cream," she denotes.
Laila crows in satisfaction, to which Jolie drags another fry through her ice cream and pops it into her mouth with a grin. "Guess not everyone."
When Laila doesn't make any sort of move to get up, KK figures this means they're crashing and slides into the empty seat. "I was just telling Laila about how many DMs I've gotten since that picture, asking if I can put in a good word with you," Jolie says casually.
KK almost chokes on the air she's breaking, the tips of her ears burning. "I— what?"
Laila snickers. "Told you she's a useless gay."
This only makes KK's skin flush three shades deeper, the receipt in her hand immediately crumpled up and thrown directly at the side of her best friend's head. "Dude!" she hisses.
"Oh, like it's a secret." KK just stares back at her, bewildered, to which Laila deadpans at before glancing to Jolie. "Surely you got the Google alerts about her eleventh hour lesbian breakup before the gold medal match."
"I did not," Jolie intones in that same nonchalant tone that implies anything but, given away by that mischievous glimmer lingering in her eyes. Clearly, she's enjoying this.
KK's sure she is. Everyone else at the table is having the time of their lives, whereas she would simply like to cease existing.
The glare she shoots Laila is murderous, but it doesn't cut as sharp as she'd like considering how embarrassed she is. "Sleep with one eye open tonight," she utters out, failing in her attempt to sound threatening.
Laila's grin only furthers in making a mockery of her. "We know that's not happening."
"Then I will shove you out of the plane somewhere over the Atlantic."
"Isn't she so kind?" Laila says to Jolie. "Our Olympic MVP, sweet as honey."
"To someone else, maybe," Jolie observes dryly, idly swirling the top of her ice cream with a fry. "Dunno about you."
"Nah. She's obsessed with me, she just doesn't show it."
A nervous tickle crawls up KK's throat, brain still ping-ponging around Jolie's earlier statement. She coughs into her fist to try and loosen it before it tightens a noose around her. "I, uh — sorry about that. The DMs. People are weird."
One of Jolie's shoulders folds in a shrug. "Not all of 'em. I think I've found you some real winners in the mix." It takes a moment for KK to realize that this is her teasing, and once whatever micro-expression on KK's face sells her out, the corners of Jolie's lips pick back up.
"Cute," KK drawls.
"Olympic breakup, though, that's… well, it sucks," Jolie continues, the edges of her tone sincere. "I'm sorry."
KK doesn't know what to respond to that with, but fortunately, Laila does. "Thank you for understanding. KK being on the market is even more of a headache than when she's locked down."
"Why? 'Cause you know they all run through you to get to me?" KK finds herself firing off, like it's just her and Laila sitting on the couch of their apartment and poking at each other with twin smirks painted across their mouths to see who will wave the metaphorical white flag first.
"We do not have even remotely the same type," Laila counters.
KK scoffs. "Then tell me why your type always says that I'm their type."
"I'm not even gay, KK."
"My point still stands."
Their food approaches, clutched within the grasp of a McDonald's employee who could not look any less thrilled about serving a table of gold medalists — he doesn't even pause to check if he's setting the tray down in front of the right customers. (In all fairness, he doesn't have any other options: they're the only people there for a dine-in meal at 3AM.)
Jolie's thumb jabs over her shoulder as he shuffles away, still making eye contact with the floor. "He your type, Laila?"
"Yes," KK immediately replies brightly, at the same time that Laila says, "Get fucked."
Jolie's sights flicker back and forth between them. "How long have you two known each other?"
"Forever," Laila pretends to lament, unwrapping her cheeseburger. KK slides one of the fry containers towards her, reaching for the lone sweet and sour sauce they'd been willing to part with. "She had the most tragic haircut at age eleven."
"Shut up," KK mumbles. "That got cancelled out when you nearly died in the freshman dorms and I had to mother hen you for two and a half days."
"That food poisoning was no joke."
KK glances at Jolie knowingly. "She got drunk for the first time at Mifflin and discovered she was a lightweight."
"Excuse you."
As if she were five, KK sticks her tongue out at Laila.
"What's Mifflin?" Jolie asks.
"Big street party," KK replies, teeth ripping off half of a fry. "It started off as a protest, back in the day? Now it's just an excuse for all of us to drink before exams."
Something in Jolie's eye's catches fire, recognition lighting them a few shades. "You guys are still collegiate?"
"Yup," Laila answers, popping the 'p.' "University of Wisconsin."
KK nods solemnly, holding her pincer grasp still full of fries up in acknowledgement. "Go Badgers."
Jolie pushes her McFlurry away from her. "You guys are gonna have to sit somewhere else then; can't let someone catch a Gopher with a bunch of Badgers."
Laila's jaw unhinges about the time KK's eyes widen. "Wait, what the fuck? You go to Minnesota?"
Her head tips to the side in a so-so motion, more blonde hairs shaking loose from her hair tie. "Kinda sorta. I deferred this year to focus on the Olympics."
"What year are you?" KK asks, tongue darting out to catch the drops of sauce that have gotten on the tips of her fingers.
"Would've been a junior."
"Major?" Laila makes an indignant noise at KK's question, and KK kicks her under the table in kind.
"Astrophysics," Jolie answers.
"You're lying." The words fall off KK's tongue like a rogue bullet; she entirely blames Laila's presence next to her for the way she lets the knee-jerk reaction get the better of her. She wishes to retract the words as soon as they fly into the space between them, because she's not talking to Laila or one of her teammates, she's talking to a glorified stranger.
Laila cocks an eyebrow at her. KK prays that she will suddenly choke on a fry or drown in the single ounce of sweet and sour sauce to escape her sudden embarrassment.
When Jolie's smile is directed at her, her insides feel as though they're syrup, melting and sticking to the sides of her ribcage in a way that warms her bones. It alleviates the weight of her embarrassment only the tiniest bit. "Duh," she teases. "I was majoring in kinesiology."
KK should breathe a bit easier, but she doesn't. "Oh. Us, too."
Laila nudges Jolie with the point of her elbow. "Any time you want to commit academic fraud, you're more than welcome to hit one of us up for papers to use."
"I am so sorry for her," KK says directly to Jolie.
"No, don't be," she insists. "Next semester's going to be brutal — pretty sure everything I learned in the last two years got zapped from my brain walking through all those metal detectors at customs."
"If you need notes or something, you can always text one of us," KK finds herself saying, because apparently, she's not dug herself a deep enough hole tonight. "I save all my notes by semester and class."
Laila nods in agreement. "She does. It's kind of psychopathic."
One of Jolie's eyebrows arches perfectly. "You actually have time to go to class?"
"Fuck, no," KK admits with an exhale, one that could be confused with a laugh. "But that's why I take such good notes." Her index finger taps the side of her temple. "Take good enough notes when you do go, make up for the time you lose."
"Infallable logic," Jolie nods, feigning all seriousness. "Will have to remember that one."
"What's mine is yours."
"So that means I get your number?" Jolie asks. "After all, if it's yours, should probably be mine, too."
KK unlocks her phone and pushes it across the surface of the table. "Don't know how your classes line up with ours, but it can't be that different, right? 'S all the same stuff."
Jolie picks up the phone, fingers flying over the screen. "Well, I don't know about that. Minnesota probably makes us do more than you guys, since we're… y'know. Smarter. Better overall." She pauses, and this time when their eyes lock, the glint shimmering there is devious. Challenging. She's digging with the intent to drag to the surface.
Laila scoffs. "Twenty bucks says you don't even know half the words in KK's notes, and not because of her shit handwriting."
KK kicks her directly in the ankle.
"It'd be easier if you just went ahead and forked over your credit card to buy me a new television," Jolie laughs drily. She finishes typing on KK's phone and passes it back, before motioning to Laila. "You, too."
"My notes are nonexistent."
Those honeyed eyes of her roll in a neat circle. "Not for that. Well — could be," she interrupts herself, jumping back on track quickly. "But c'mon. You're telling me the next time you're in Minneapolis, you don't wanna hang out? Find KK a hot rebound?"
KK groans, burying her face into the palm of her hand.
"I like you, Jolie Mercer," Laila declares once Jolie's finished putting her number in her phone, immediately going to type something the second it's placed back in her hand.
"I hear that's a common opinion at the moment," Jolie remarks drily. "But, nice to know you're in the line."
"A very, very long line. Lucky for you, I know how to cut."
KK looks up right as Jolie's sights settle back on her. "No complaints from me," she says, a bit softer this time. If she's expecting something out of KK, it dissolves in a half-second. "Well, ladies. This was fun."
"What?!" Laila pouts. "You're leaving?"
Jolie pushes her chair back as she stands up, a small laugh escaping her throat in an exhale. "It's after 3AM," she points out. "I should at least try to sleep for a few hours before I've gotta pack my entire room up and get to the airport."
"Boooooo. You're no fun."
"You don't mean that," Jolie quips, and Laila doesn't have an argument for that. She grabs what's left of her midnight snack off of the table. "When do you guys fly out?"
"Tomorrow morning," KK answers. "Criminally early."
Jolie shakes her head, in semi-disbelief. "And you're down here having a full-blown meal?"
"I was hungry." KK points at Laila. "She's just along for the ride."
"Definitely," Jolie agrees with an exaggerated nod. "You hockey players are somethin' else."
"Somethin' good?" KK finds herself asking, voice cracking the slightest bit to make room for the playful, hopeful shift in her tone.
"To be determined." She uses her hips to push the chair back in, walking around the table and giving each of them a squeeze on the shoulder as her parting gesure. Her hand lingers a beat longer on her shoulder than Laila's, glancing down. Sincerity swirls in her irises. "I'm sure someone sees it in 'ya."
It's a loaded sentiment, as if she's telling Caroline she's sorry for the breakup, even if she doesn't really know her or the situation at all. It seems to be the subtle way of taking her side, a reassurance, the lighthearted alternative to prying deep down inside of her. Like face value Caroline is deigned worthy of decency, and not for any other reason aside from just… existing. No hockey accolades. No sexual attraction. Just her.
"Thanks," she says gruffly, the weight of Jolie's eye contact the slightest bit suffocating. Her lips turn up in a thin smile.
She doesn't watch as Jolie walks off, throwing her trash away and exiting out of the mouth of the McDonald's into the common area.
"I like her," Laila repeats matter-of-factly once she's out of earshot. "She's… cool."
KK's not entirely sure that's the word she'd settle on for Jolie, but she hums noncommittally in agreement as she dips another handful of fries into the small sauce container. "Did you text her?" Laila continues.
KK's eyebrows furrow. "No? Why would I do that? She just walked off."
"It fascinates me, how dumb you are." The back of Laila's wrist lightly hits her forearm. "So she has your number, genius."
"Oh. No." Laila looks on expectantly, so KK acquiesces, throwing the handful of fries into her mouth and wiping her fingers off on the side of her sweatpants before reaching for her phone. She thumbs through her contact list, looking for the latest addition. When she finds it, she hesitates over the blank text message.
hey, she settles on. Picture of eloquence, she is. As the blue bubble appears to signify its delivery, she purses her lips, tacking on an addition text. badger > gopher. but ur alright, i guess
A message pings back in under thirty seconds.
you're something else, caroline.
