Worth the Gold
Pairing: Caroline “KK” Harvey X Y/N Edwards
Fandom: Women’s Ice Hockey
Summary: Gold medal night with a lot liquid courage.
A/N: sorry this took me so long to post yall life is kickin my ass
🏷️: @aubreygriffin , @authentic-girl03 , @atimelessheaven , @azziswrld , @buecker5s , @bueckersbucket , @cowboybueckers , @courtsidewithlani , @elalfywhore, @evry1luvzzae , @fairyblossomsav , @gabischeeseballs , @graceeeeeesblog , @iowahawkeyes22 , @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers , @issilovesherself , @iloveyou-lu , @jadasogay , @jupitermoonbaby , @kaliblazin , @kamspeaks , @latenighttalkinqwp , @lessi-lover , @let-zizi-yap , @lightsgore , @marleymarleymarleymarley ,@melpthatsme , @nicebellee , @paxaz535 , @paigeluvvr , @paigeshirleytemple , @private-but-not-a-secret , @runfor-roses , @sayurireidotcom ,@sitawita , @starfulani , @tenaciousglitternerd , @thatonesuschix , @unknowgirlypop , @vamptizm , @wbbszn , @yailtsv
I don’t remember deciding to go to the after-party.
I just remember Laila grabbing my wrist, still half in her gear, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with adrenaline and disbelief, yelling over the roar of music and people and celebration—
“WE WON.”
Like I didn’t know.
Like the last three hours hadn’t been my heart ripping out of my chest every time the puck crossed center ice.
Like I hadn’t screamed myself hoarse in the stands in Milan while my baby sister and the girl I maybe-sort-of-kind-of-definitely was in love with skated toward history.
But I screamed back anyway.
“I KNOW.”
And then she was hugging me all sweaty, helmet hair, gold medal bouncing against my collarbone where it smacked into me; and then someone else was there too.
Tall.
Solid.
Warm.
Caroline.
KK.
Her arms wrapped around both of us at once, laughter vibrating through her chest against my cheek.
“Edwards sisters supremacy,” she said into my hair.
I don’t know which one of us she meant.
Maybe both.
The party is chaos.
USA Hockey rented out some absurd rooftop club overlooking Milan, all glass and lights and pulsing bass that makes your ribs hum. Gold confetti sticks to the floor. Champagne flows like water. Someone dragged in a DJ. Someone else dragged in a literal fog machine.
Olympic gold looks good on everyone.
But it looks—
Unfair.
On KK.
I noticed it first on the ice, obviously. When they lined up for medals. When the gold ribbon went around her neck and she dipped her head slightly so it would settle against her chest.
I swear the arena lights caught in her hair.
I swear time slowed.
I swear something in me went very, very quiet and very, very loud all at once.
And apparently, I’m not the only one who noticed, because about an hour into the party, slightly drunk on champagne, expensive liquor and relief and the fact that they’re safe and whole and here, I end up blurting it.
She’s standing in front of me, close enough that I can see the tiny scrape on her chin from a second-period board battle.
Her medal rests against her sternum.
I point at it.
“You,” I say.
She blinks. “Me?”
“Yeah. You.”
She leans down a little, trying to hear over the music. “What about me?”
I gesture again, more insistently. My finger nearly pokes the medal.
“You looked… so… so…” I search for the word and fail spectacularly. “So sexy when they put that on you.”
Her entire face freezes.
“…what?”
I nod very seriously, because this is important information.
“Like— like criminal. Like illegal levels of attractive. I was in the stands and I was like oh my god, Laila just won gold, oh my god USA just won gold, oh my god Caroline looks—” I lower my voice conspiratorially, “—disgustingly good.”
Her mouth falls open.
Then she laughs.
Not loud. Not teasing.
Soft. Disbelieving.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re my teammate’s sister.”
“I have eyes.”
She chokes on her own breath.
I beam, proud of myself.
Then my gaze drops to the medal again, and before my brain can intervene, I reach for it.
“Can I see?”
She stills instantly.
The noise around us fades a notch, like the world senses something delicate happening.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah, you can.”
She lifts the ribbon over her head.
For a moment, she just holds it between us.
Then she steps closer.
So close my breath catches.
“So I don’t drop it,” she murmurs.
Her hands come up behind my neck.
The ribbon slides over my hair.
The gold settles against my chest.
It’s heavier than I expect.
Warm from her skin.
My heart slams.
I look down at it, then back up at her.
She’s not looking at the medal.
She’s looking at me wearing it.
And something in her expression goes wrecked.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Looks good there.”
My throat goes dry.
“You’re staring,” I whisper.
“You’re wearing my Olympic gold medal,” she whispers back.
“Still staring.”
“Can you blame me?”
No.
God, no.
We dance.
At first it’s everyone; team clusters, hugs, jumping circles, someone lifting someone else, Laila shrieking when a teammate pours champagne over her helmet hair.
But gradually, the crowd shifts.
People rotate.
And somehow, KK and I end up orbiting each other.
Always close.
Always within reach.
Her hand finds my waist once to steer me through a packed knot of players.
It stays there a second too long.
My fingers catch her wrist when someone bumps into her.
I don’t let go immediately.
She leans down to say something in my ear.
Her breath skims my neck.
Electric.
Later, a slower song bleeds into the playlist, not exactly slow-dance slow, but less frantic, and she steps into me without asking.
Hands light on my hips.
My arms come up around her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
We sway.
I’m very aware of everything:
The medal now back on her neck, occasionally brushing my collarbone when we move.
Her thumbs tracing absent little arcs against my sides.
The way she keeps angling her body between me and the rest of the crowd, like she’s shielding me from accidental elbows and stray drinks and attention.
Protective.
Always a little protective with me.
Tonight it’s… amplified.
“You okay?” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“Too loud?”
“A little.”
She nods.
Her hand slides up my back. They are warm, yet steady and presses gently, grounding me.
“We can go whenever you want.”
My chest tightens.
“You’d leave your Olympic after-party for me?”
Without hesitation: “Yeah.”
I stare up at her.
“KK, this is like… a once-in-a-lifetime night.”
She studies my face like it’s the important thing in the room.
“You’re also once in a lifetime.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Okay,” I say faintly. “That was… a lot.”
She exhales, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
We keep swaying.
My cheek ends up against her shoulder.
Her chin rests lightly in my hair.
It feels—
Dangerously like belonging.
I last another twenty minutes.
Then the champagne and adrenaline crash hits me all at once.
My head spins.
My limbs go floaty.
I cling to her shirt.
“KK.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m… done.”
She doesn’t even hesitate.
“Okay.”
She threads us through the crowd, one arm firm around me, the other clearing space. She finds Laila near the bar, mid-story with teammates.
“Hey,” KK says.
Laila turns, sees my face, and instantly switches to big little-sister-radar mode.
“Oh yeah, she’s toasted.”
“I’m not toasted,” I protest weakly into KK’s shoulder.
“You’re horizontal,” Laila says.
“I’m vertical.”
“Barely.”
KK hides a smile.
“I’m taking her back to her hotel,” she says.
Laila’s eyes flick between us.
A beat.
Then she nods slowly.
“Text me when she’s in bed.”
KK, holds my waist loosely yet protectively, “Promise.”
Laila leans in and kisses my temple. “Love you, drunkard.”
“Love you too, gold medalist,” I mumble.
KK squeezes my waist.
We leave.
The Milan night air is cool and smells faintly like stone and river water and distant traffic.
I sag into her the second we’re outside.
She laughs softly.
“C’mere.”
Her arm wraps fully around me now, solid and supportive as we walk toward the waiting team transport vans.
“Village?” the driver asks.
KK shakes her head. “Different stop.”
She gives my hotel name.
I blink up at her.
“You’re not going back to the village?”
She glances down at me, sheepish.
“Didn’t really want to… explain who I was sneaking into my room.”
My stomach flips.
“Oh.”
“Also,” she adds quietly, “you shouldn’t be alone this drunk.”
I swallow.
“Okay.”
The hotel room is dim and quiet and mercifully still.
The door shuts behind us.
Silence.
City glow through curtains.
I wobble out of my shoes and immediately face-plant onto the bed, arms flung wide.
“Alive,” I declare into the comforter.
KK laughs behind me.
“You need water.”
“Mhm.”
I do not move.
A moment later, the mattress dips near my hip.
A bottle presses into my hand.
“Drink.”
I obey, eyes closed, face smushed into the pillow exactly like the prompt of the universe ordained.
The bed shifts again as she sits beside me.
I can feel her presence; heat, weight, familiar scent of ice rink and soap and tonight’s faint champagne.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Mhm.”
“You did good tonight.”
“I sat.”
“You supported.”
“I screamed.”
“You always scream.”
“For you.”
Silence.
My brain, unfiltered by sobriety, drifts.
“You looked so pretty,” I murmur into the pillow.
She goes very still.
“On the ice,” I continue, voice slurring with sleep. “When they gave you the medal. You were smiling but also trying not to cry. And your hair was all… helmet-messed. And you looked like… like…”
I trail off.
“Like what?” she whispers.
My hand finds her sleeve blindly.
“Told you. Sexy.”
She huffs a shaky laugh.
“You’re going to be embarrassed tomorrow.”
“Probably.”
Another pause.
Then, softer, words I don’t even realize I’m saying:
“You make me feel like I’m home.”
The room goes silent enough to hear my own breathing.
Her hand slowly covers mine where it grips her shirt.
Warm.
Steady.
I’m half-asleep, face buried, but I feel the shift in her; something cracking open, something long held back finally breaking surface.
“Y/N,” she says quietly.
“Mhm.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Honest.”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, you are.”
My fingers curl in her fabric.
“Don’t go back tonight,” I mumble.
“I won’t.”
“Stay.”
“I will.”
My breathing evens.
The edge of sleep pulls me under.
I feel her thumb brush my knuckles once.
Then darkness.
I wake slowly.
Not hungover yet, that comes later… it’s just heavy and warm and aware of something different.
There’s weight at my back.
An arm around my waist.
A chest against my shoulders.
I freeze.
Then memory slams in: party, medal, dancing, hotel, pillow confession.
Oh god.
I am spooned by Caroline Harvey.
I make a tiny sound.
Her arm tightens instinctively.
“You okay?” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
My brain melts.
“Yeah.”
“You moved.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
I turn carefully in her hold.
We end up face to face, inches apart on the hotel pillow.
Morning-dim light.
Her hair a mess.
Eyes soft and searching.
Everything unspoken from years suddenly crowded into the small space between our mouths.
I swallow.
“I can’t tell if you’re flirting,” I whisper, “or I am just wildly misreading this entire situation…”
Her gaze drops to my lips.
Back to my eyes.
“I could kiss you,” she says quietly, “if it would make things more obvious.”
My heart slams.
“Might be worth a try.”
A beat.
“Yeah?”
My breath shakes.
“Mhm.”
She moves slow.
Gives me time to pull away.
I don’t.
Her hand comes up to my jaw, thumb warm under my ear.
Her mouth meets mine.
Soft.
Careful.
Years of restraint dissolving in one gentle press.
I melt instantly.
It’s not dramatic or rushed or messy — just right. Like something that always belonged here finally allowed to exist.
She exhales against my lips.
I tilt closer.
Her arm pulls me fully into her.
The kiss deepens, still tender, still almost reverent.
When we part, our foreheads stay touching.
We both breathe like we’ve run miles.
“Well,” she whispers.
“Well,” I echo.
“That obvious enough?”
I smile against her mouth.
“Crystal clear.”
She laughs quietly and kisses me again.
And for the first time since the gold medal ceremony, since the screaming arena and the roaring party and the years of almosts between us.
I feel exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Home.
We do eventually leave the bed.
It takes longer than it should.
Not because anything happens…not really, but because every time one of us moves away, the other seems to pull back in without thinking.
Her fingers trace idle lines along my arm.
My forehead keeps bumping her chin.
We keep smiling for no reason.
It’s ridiculous.
Soft.
New.
Finally.
“You should shower,” she murmurs at some point, brushing sleep from the corner of my eye with her thumb.
“You should too,” I mumble.
She glances down at herself, still in last night’s clothes. “Yeah.”
We stare at each other.
Neither moves.
Then she huffs a quiet laugh. “Okay, this is dangerous. Up.”
She tugs me gently.
I stumble upright, hair feral, shirt twisted.
She looks equally wrecked.
We both dissolve into laughter.
We shower separately; barely… trading the bathroom in turns because neither of us is brave enough yet for shared space without combusting.
When I come out, towel-dried and dressed in fresh lounge clothes, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed in a clean USA team tee and sweats, hair still damp at the ends.
She looks up.
Stops.
Just… looks.
I feel it like warmth across my skin.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says softly. “You just… look like you belong here.”
My chest does something fragile.
“Well,” I say, attempting lightness, “I did pay for the room.”
She grins.
Then there’s a knock.
We both freeze.
Another knock.
Then, the unmistakable beep of a keycard.
My stomach drops.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Laila.”
KK’s eyes go wide. “She has a key?”
“Backup.”
The handle turns.
The door swings open.
And there stands my Olympic gold medalist little sister, hoodie half-zipped, braids in a messy bun, already mid-sentence…
“KK they’re asking where—”
She stops.
Her gaze flicks to me.
Then to KK.
Then back to me.
Then down.
We both just showered.
We’re both in fresh clothes.
Standing too close.
Very obviously in the same room.
Very obviously together.
Silence detonates.
Laila’s eyes widen.
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
“You,” she says slowly, pointing at KK. “Look like you won the lottery twice.”
“Okay?” KK says faintly, head tilted like a lost puppy kind of.
“And you,” Laila points at me, “you, look like you just got hit by a happiness truck.”
I make a small noise.
Her eyes snap between us again.
Understanding lands.
Hard.
Her jaw drops.
“NO.”
I bury my face in my hands.
KK looks like she wants the earth to swallow her whole.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Laila shrieks, then immediately clamps both hands over her mouth because hotel.
She whisper-yells: “ARE YOU TWO—”
“Yes,” I squeak.
KK, with a big smirk on her face, “We—”
Laila spins in a tight circle, silent-screaming into her fists.
Then she whips back.
“How long?”
The question hangs.
Charged.
Loaded with sister and teammate and years of overlap.
KK and I glance at each other.
Something soft passes between us.
She answers first, voice quiet but sure;
“Feels like forever.”
My throat tightens.
I nod.
“But honestly,” I add, “this morning.”
Laila stares.
Processes.
Then her expression does something complicated; shock, delight, betrayal, vindication, chaos.
“I KNEW IT,” she hisses.
“We didn’t even know it,” I protest weakly.
“You looked at her like she hung the moon in 2022,” Laila says.
KK groans and covers her face.
“You wrote her name in Sharpie on your stick tape once,” Laila adds to KK.
“That was not—”
“And you,” Laila points at me, “refused to date anyone on earth who played defense.”
I squawk. “Coincidence!”
“You’re both disasters,” Laila declares.
We stand there, caught, sheepish, glowing.
She looks between us again.
This time slower.
Softer.
My big sister instinct expects interrogation.
Threat.
Instead, her shoulders drop.
“You make her feel like home?” she asks KK quietly.
KK’s eyes flick to me.
Then back to Laila.
“Yeah,” she says. “She does.”
My eyes sting.
Laila nods once.
Then she walks forward and shoves KK’s shoulder.
“Okay but if you hurt her I will literally fight you at center ice.”
KK laughs, relief cracking through. “Fair.”
“And if you hurt her,” she adds to me, “I will tell mom everything you did at age fifteen.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
KK is losing it beside me.
Then Laila exhales, looks at us both, and her voice softens completely.
“Okay,” she says. “This is… weird. But also… makes sense.”
She pulls me into a quick hug.
Then pulls KK into one too.
Then squeezes us both together because she’s Laila and subtlety has never lived in her body.
“Gold medal weekend,” she mutters. “I win Olympics and apparently also gain a sister-in-law.”
I choke.
KK goes crimson.
“Too soon?” Laila grins.
“Extremely,” we say in unison.
She beams.
“Text me when you’re done being in love,” she says, backing toward the door. “They want you for media, Harv.”
KK groans. “Right.”
Laila winks at me. “Worth it?”
I glance at KK.
She’s already looking at me.
Always.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Worth it.”
Laila nods like she expected nothing less.
Then she slips out, door clicking shut behind her.
Silence returns.
KK and I stand there, hearts racing, reality settling in around us.
“Well,” she says slowly.
“Well,” I echo.
She steps closer.
Careful.
Like everything is new glass.
“Hi,” she murmurs.
I smile.
“Hi.”
And when she kisses me again in daylight, real world, no champagne or medals or night to hide in — it still feels exactly the same.
Like home.
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
-Thank You For Reading!💚💙
-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗
