#woho x reader

The guest room closet wasn't supposed to hold secrets.

It was supposed to hold extra blankets, off-season coats, holiday lights, and printer paper. It wasn't supposed to hold a plastic shopping bag shoved behind said winter coats, half-hidden beneath one of Hilary's old Team USA hoodies.

You'd only opened the closet because your printer was flashing its red warning light while you were preparing lesson packets for your Saturday violin students. When your hand brushed plastic, the bag shifted, and curiosity won.

Inside were stacks of scrapbook paper, archival glue, metallic gel pens, photo corners, washi tape patterned with tiny hockey pucks and musical notes, and a forest-green album still wrapped in plastic. On top sat a stack of newly printed photographs.

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

Hilary was making you a scrapbook.

For a moment, you just stood there in the guest room in your Seattle home, staring at the evidence of her plan. June sunlight poured through the window, and outside, roses leaned against the fence.

Hilary had left for off season practice two hours earlier. You could still picture her before sunrise, hair in a messy bun, coffee in one hand, keys in the other, already talking through the morning skate in her head.

You carefully lifted one of the photographs.

It was from your first Pride parade together, four years ago. You and Hilary stood beneath a rainbow flag, both of you laughing, your hand wrapped around hers like you were afraid the crowd might pull you apart. You remembered the way she'd cried behind her sunglasses when someone recognized her and cheered instead of stared.

You set the photo back exactly where you'd found it.

Hilary Knight, captain of the Seattle Torrent, Olympic gold medalist, face of women's hockey, and the woman who still forgot which drawer held the measuring spoons, had been hiding craft supplies in the guest room closet.

It almost made you laugh.

It also made your throat tighten.

Hilary wasn't, by nature, a scrapbook person. But you could picture her after practice, shoulders sore, squinting at a tutorial about photo corners like it was an opposing penalty kill.

It was possibly the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.

You put everything back with great care, closed the closet door, and stood there with your hand still on the knob.

If Hilary thought she was going to beat you to the sentimental Pride Month gesture, she had another thing coming.

By the time she came home that afternoon, cheeks pink from practice and hair damp at the nape of her neck, you'd already bought a navy blue album and hidden it in your studio behind three violin cases.

She found you in the kitchen, trying to act casual while stirring honey into tea.

“What did you do?” she asked immediately.

You looked over your shoulder. “Hello to you too.”

Hilary dropped her bag by the mudroom door. “You have a look.”

“I don't have a look.”

“You absolutely have a look.”

“I'm allowed to have any face I want in my own kitchen.”

She crossed the room and kissed you anyway, smiling against your mouth. Even after five years, even after every FaceTime call, airport reunion, and ordinary morning together since she'd moved to Seattle, her touch still made something inside you settle.

“Tea?” you asked.

“Please.”

You handed her the mug you'd already made.

Hilary smiled into it. “You're my favorite person.”

“I'm aware.”

“Cocky.”

“Loved.”

Her expression softened. “Very loved.”

You almost told her then. But the secret felt too tender to ruin, so you lifted your mug and pretended your heart wasn't full of paper, ink, and the quiet knowledge of what Hilary had planned.

Five Years Earlier

The Rosewood Café in Capitol Hill had been your refuge long before Hilary walked into it.

It sat between a vintage bookstore and a plant shop, all espresso, rain-damp coats, exposed brick, and mismatched chairs. That Tuesday in June, Pride flags hung in the windows, and a chalkboard sign near the register read, Queer joy belongs here.

You were between students, your violin case propped against the table leg, iced latte sweating onto a napkin, when the bell above the door chimed.

You almost missed her.

Almost.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, and athletic in a way that didn't need announcement. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a USA Hockey jacket hung open over a black tank top. Every table was full except yours.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Is anyone sitting here?”

You looked up, and whatever answer you'd been about to give snagged in your throat. Her eyes were warm, softer than you expected.

“No,” you said, moving your papers quickly. “Go ahead.”

For a few minutes, you shared the table in quiet. You tried to focus on Brahms and failed.

She noticed your violin case first.

“Is that a violin?”

“Guilty. I teach lessons here sometimes.”

Her smile transformed her whole face. “That's really cool. I've always loved how violins sound. There's something about the tone that just gets under your skin, you know? Like it's speaking directly to your heart.”

You felt something shift in your chest.

“Exactly,” you said. “Most people hear it as pretty background music, but you're right. It's intimate. It demands something from you.”

“You sound like someone who has feelings about music,” you added.

“I have feelings about a lot of things.”

You smiled. “Dangerous.”

“Usually.”

The ease of it startled you.

“What brings you to Seattle?” you asked.

“A USA Hockey coaching clinic. I'm helping with younger players and doing community outreach. I'm based in Minnesota mostly, but I try to get out when I can.”

“You play hockey?”

She laughed. “Yeah. Professionally. And for the national team.”

“The national team?”

“Team USA.”

“Oh.” You looked at the jacket again. “So I probably should've picked up on that faster.”

“It's okay. The jacket's subtle.”

“Practically invisible.”

She laughed, and you felt absurdly proud of yourself.

“I'm Hilary,” she said, offering her hand. “Hilary Knight.”

You told her your name and shook her hand. Her palm was warm, calloused, strong. Your hands lingered for half a second too long.

Neither of you pulled away quickly enough to pretend it hadn't happened.

The conversation opened from there. She told you about hockey: the travel, the training, the fight for better resources in women's sports, and the joy of seeing young girls step onto the ice like they belonged there. You told her about the symphony, Juilliard, and the students who made teaching feel worth it.

Hilary listened like every word mattered.

That was what undid you first. Not the height, not the smile, not the Olympic medals she mentioned only when you asked directly. It was the way she listened, fully and without rushing.

Your phone buzzed. Your next student had canceled.

“My next student canceled,” you said.

“Oh no,” she said, failing to sound sorry. “That's terrible.”

“You're smiling.”

“So are you.”

An hour became two. Hilary's afternoon became, in her words, “flexible enough to ignore.” You talked about travel, food, favorite books, Seattle rain, Minnesota cold, and the strange pressure of being good at something people expected you to be grateful for even when it exhausted you.

“You know,” Hilary said, turning her coffee cup between her hands, “people assume athletes are loud all the time. But after games, I usually just want quiet.”

You pointed at her. “Yes. After concerts, everyone wants to go out, and all I want is tea and silence.”

Her face lit with recognition. “Because you've already given everything.”

Eventually, the light shifted. Afternoon turned golden, and the lunch crowd thinned.

Hilary checked the time and sighed. “I should probably let you get back to your day.”

“You're not holding me hostage.”

“Good to know. I was trying to be subtle about it.”

You smiled. “This has been really nice.”

“It has,” she said, softer now. “Really nice.”

There was a pause. It held too much possibility to ignore.

“How long are you in Seattle?” you asked.

“Through Sunday. I fly back Monday morning.”

“Would you want to get dinner before then? An actual dinner, I mean. Not just accidentally talking for half the day in a coffee shop.”

Hilary's smile was immediate. “I'd really like that.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight works.”

When you finally left the café, the evening had turned the windows amber. Capitol Hill was alive around you, rainbow flags snapping from storefronts and music drifting from somewhere up the block.

At the corner, Hilary stopped.

“I'm really glad I sat at your table,” she said.

“Me too.”

You didn't know then that you'd save the dinner receipt, or that she'd text you before bed to say she was still smiling, or that you'd spend the next five years building a life out of impossible schedules and stubborn hope.

You only knew you didn't want the conversation to end.

Later, you'd realize the timing mattered. You'd met during Pride Month, in a café that declared queer joy belonged there. After that, Pride became the month love walked into your corner café wearing a USA Hockey jacket and asked if the seat across from you was taken.

Present Day

Five years later, June still made Seattle feel enchanted.

Rainbow flags appeared in shop windows, on apartment balconies, in bookstores, and even at the tiny hardware store near your house, where the owner still called Hilary “the hockey one.” Your porch had joined in too, one big Pride flag by the door and a smaller one in the planter Hilary had proudly stuck into the lavender.

Since moving to Seattle eight months earlier, Hilary had slowly become part of the house in ways that still made you ache. Her training shoes lived by the back door. Her team jacket hung beside your raincoat. Torrent schedules were pinned beside your symphony calendar in the kitchen.

For four years, loving Hilary had meant loving her across distance: Minnesota to Seattle, delayed flights, missed calls, and weekends that were over before you could breathe. Now, she lived here. Really lived here. Some mornings, you'd wake before her and just look at her, because for years mornings together had belonged to countdowns. Now they belonged to you.

Maybe that was why the scrapbook mattered so much. It wasn't only memory. It was proof.

You built it whenever Hilary's schedule left you room: early mornings before she woke, late nights after she fell asleep during game tape, and the hour between her leaving for practice and you heading to rehearsal.

You organized it by chapters.

The beginning: Rosewood Café, the dinner receipt from Fremont, and the first text she sent after getting back to her hotel. I made it back and I'm still smiling. Is that too much?

Learning each other's worlds: your first hockey game, where you'd jumped every time someone hit the boards, and Hilary at Benaroya Hall, holding flowers like she was afraid she'd bought the wrong kind. Under that page, you wrote: You taught me that power could be graceful. I taught you that quiet could still shake a room.

Pride: the first parade photo, a clipping from the interview where Hilary had talked about being queer, and a note she'd once left on your pillow after a hard day online: The world can be loud. You're still the quiet I come home to.

You wrote:

You were brave in public long before the world made it easy. I was honored to stand beside you, not as a secret, but as the person who loved you.

Long distance: plane tickets, boarding passes, screenshots, Hilary asleep on FaceTime, and your laptop balanced on the kitchen counter while you made dinner “together.”

The hard pages: her shoulder surgery, your grandmother's funeral, and the photo of you in Minnesota wearing one of Hilary's sweatshirts while she slept upright on the couch after surgery. You simply wrote: Love wasn't only the beautiful parts. It was answering the phone at midnight. It was booking the flight. It was staying when there was nothing to fix.

The final section was now: groceries, shared bills, takeout after losses, dancing in the kitchen after wins, and Hilary finally being here, really here, not just visiting.

On the last page, you left space blank.

At the top, you wrote: For everything still ahead.

Then you added a letter.

Hilary,

Five years ago, I walked into a coffee shop expecting an ordinary day. I walked out having met the love of my life.

You didn't become my home all at once. You became it slowly, through phone calls, airport goodbyes, morning coffee, hard losses, quiet Sundays, and every moment we chose each other when distance made it difficult.

This scrapbook can't hold all of us. But it can hold enough pieces to say that loving you has been the greatest gift of my life.

Happy Pride Month, my love. Thank you for living your truth with courage. Thank you for trusting me with the softest parts of you. Thank you for five years.

Here's to every page we haven't filled yet.

Forever yours

When you finished, your hands were trembling. You closed the album and hid it in your studio closet.

For exactly three days, you were proud of yourself.

Then Hilary found it.

You came home from rehearsal and noticed the house was quiet. Too quiet. Usually, if Hilary was home, there was some sign of her: sports commentary from the living room, the blender screaming from the kitchen, her voice on the phone with a teammate.

This time, nothing.

Then you saw her.

She was sitting on the couch with the scrapbook open in her lap. Her hair was damp from a shower, and she wore gray sweatpants and a Seattle Torrent hoodie. Tears streaked her face.

Your heart stopped.

“Hilary?”

She looked up, and the expression on her face stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn't sadness. It was wonder.

“I was looking for glue,” she said, voice thick. “I thought you might have extra in the studio closet. Then I found this. And then I opened it. And then I cried for, like, a while.”

You crossed the room slowly. “I was going to give it to you on our anniversary.”

“You made this for me?”

“Yeah.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

She pressed her lips together like she was trying not to cry harder. It didn't work.

She turned the page carefully. “This is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever made for me.”

Your throat tightened. “I wanted you to see what these five years have meant to me.”

“I do.” She looked at another page, then another. “You remembered everything.”

“I kept everything.”

“Of course you did.”

“You say that like it's a problem.”

“No.” Hilary turned to you, eyes wet and impossibly soft. “I say it like I'm the luckiest person alive.”

She set the scrapbook carefully on the coffee table and took your face in both hands.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”

You kissed her before you could overthink your answer. It was soft and slow, tasting of salt from both your tears.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

Hilary breathed out shakily, then her mouth twitched.

“What?” you asked.

“I need to show you something.”

She returned with the plastic shopping bag from the guest room closet and dropped it onto the coffee table, looking both proud and embarrassed.

“I was making one for you too.”

You stared at the bag, then at her. “I know.”

Her mouth fell open. “You know?”

“I found the album, Hilary.”

“Oh.” She laughed. “Okay, so we're both bad at secrecy.”

“We're both sentimental disasters.”

“We're perfect,” she corrected.

She pulled out photos you'd never seen before: you asleep on her shoulder during a flight, you playing piano in your studio, you reading on the couch in late afternoon light, you laughing with your head thrown back while Hilary's thumb blurred in the corner of the frame.

“You took these?” you asked softly.

“Some of them. My teammates took a few.”

“Your teammates?”

Hilary's cheeks turned pink. “Some of them. They’re invested.”

“You lead a team of detectives.”

“I lead a team of pests.”

You laughed, and Hilary looked relieved. Then she held up decorative borders.

“I watched tutorials.”

“You hate tutorials.”

“I love you more than I hate tutorials.”

The words landed softly between you.

You looked at the two albums on the coffee table, the two sets of photos, the two versions of the same love story told from different angles.

“We should combine them,” you said.

Hilary's expression warmed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Make one together. Your photos, my pages, both of our notes. One scrapbook for us.”

“That feels right.”

“It does.”

She kissed your temple. “Then let's make it ours.”

Anniversary Night

By the time your anniversary came around, your living room had turned into a colorful disaster.

Outside, Seattle was still awake, full of summer light, distant music, and people laughing as they walked past wrapped in rainbow flags. Inside, the coffee table had disappeared beneath photos, pens, glue dots, scraps of paper, ticket stubs, and two half-empty mugs of tea.

You sat cross-legged on the rug with the scrapbook between you.

It wasn't yours anymore. It wasn't hers either.

It had become something better.

Your handwriting curled across some pages. Hilary's stronger, less polished script filled others. The scrapbook grew page by page: championship wins, Pride parades, concerts, the day the Seattle Torrent announced Hilary as captain, a grocery receipt from the night you'd bought three kinds of cheese because neither of you could decide, and a sticky note she'd left on your violin case that read, Play something beautiful today. Then come home to me.

Near the back, you reached the blank pages labeled Our Future.

Hilary went still.

It was subtle, but you knew her. You knew the set of her shoulders before a difficult question, the way she got quiet when something mattered too much.

“What?” you asked softly.

“Nothing.”

“You have a look.”

She huffed a laugh. “That's my line.”

Hilary stared at the blank pages for another few seconds, then stood.

Your stomach flipped. “Hil?”

“Stay there.”

She crossed to the old oak bookshelf and reached behind a row of poetry books. When she turned back, she was holding a small velvet box.

Everything in the room seemed to stop.

Hilary came back and knelt beside you, not in front of you, but next to you. Partners. Equals. Side by side on the living room rug, surrounded by the evidence of five years of love.

“I've been carrying this for nine months,” she said, and her voice shook.

You covered your mouth with one hand.

“I bought it right after I moved here. After that first week of waking up next to you every morning and realizing I didn't have to count down to leaving. I kept waiting for the perfect moment, but I think I was making it too complicated.”

She opened the box.

The ring was simple and perfect, a single diamond on a platinum band. It caught the lamplight and scattered it across the open scrapbook page.

“This is the perfect moment,” she said. “Sitting here with you, looking at what we've made, thinking about everything we've survived and everything we still get to build. This is us. Making something beautiful together. Choosing each other again and again.”

Tears blurred your vision.

She took your hand, and hers was trembling.

“You stuck with me through four years of long distance. You loved me when loving me meant airports, missed calls, and weekends that never felt long enough. You supported my career even when it kept taking me away from you. You made room for all the parts of me, not just the easy ones.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“And now I get to come home to you. I get to live the life I used to imagine in hotel rooms when I missed you so much I couldn't sleep. I don't want to wait anymore. I want every blank page with you.”

She squeezed your hand.

“Will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life loving you and filling all these pages together?”

You were crying too hard to answer at first.

Hilary's smile wobbled. “Love?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice breaking. “Yes, of course yes.”

Hilary let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh, and slipped the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly.

You threw your arms around her. She caught you easily, like she always did.

“I love you so much,” she whispered. “I've loved you since that day in the coffee shop.”

“I love you too,” you said, pulling back just enough to kiss her. “My fiancée.”

Hilary's eyes lit up. “Say that again.”

“My fiancée.”

She kissed you deeper, smiling against your mouth.

For a while, the scrapbook sat forgotten beside you. The ring caught the lamplight whenever you moved your hand. You kept looking at it, not because you cared about the diamond as much as what it meant. A promise. A page turned. A future made visible.

Finally, Hilary wiped her face with her sleeve.

“We need to document this.”

You laughed wetly. “Of course we do.”

“Right now. It's scrapbook law.”

She propped her phone against a stack of books and set the timer. The first photo came out blurry because you both started laughing. The second was better: tear-stained faces, huge smiles, Hilary's arm around your waist, your hand lifted between you.

She printed it from the little photo printer she'd apparently hidden under the couch.

“You have a printer under the couch?” you asked.

“For scrapbook emergencies.”

“You're terrifyingly prepared.”

“I've been planning this for months.”

When the photo was ready, she placed it on the first blank page in the future section. Her handwriting shook slightly as she wrote beneath it.

June 2025. Pride Night. She said yes. We're getting married. The best chapter yet.

You added below it:

The moment everything changed, and nothing changed at all. Because I've been yours for five years already. Now we get to make it official.

Outside, June air drifted through the open windows, cool and sweet with roses. Somewhere nearby, people were still celebrating. You could hear laughter, music, and the low pulse of a city alive with Pride.

Inside, you and Hilary sat on the rug with the scrapbook open between you. Around you were five years of proof: the café, the first date, the first parade, the long distance, the injuries, the wins, the quiet mornings, and the life you'd built one brave choice at a time.

The world outside was still complicated. Hilary's career would still demand things from her, your symphony schedule would still stretch you thin, and visibility would still come with scrutiny.

But there would also be this: a house in Seattle with roses by the fence, Pride flags on the porch, hockey gear by the door, a scrapbook full of evidence, a ring on your finger, and Hilary beside you, finally home.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her hand finding yours.

“For what?”

“For this. For us. For five years of being my home. For saying yes.”

You lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you for sitting at my table that day.”

“Best decision I ever made.”

“I thought hockey was your best decision.”

“Hockey led me to the café,” she said. “So hockey gets partial credit.”

“Fine. Partial credit.”

She smiled and leaned her head on your shoulder.

“Happy Pride,” you murmured. “Happy anniversary. Happy engagement. Happy everything.”

Hilary laughed softly. “Happy Pride, love. Happy five years. Happy forever.”

“Happy forever,” you whispered.

It’s late at Climate Pledge Arena. Empty ice. Dim lights. Just Hilary in her skates. Helmet off. Headphones forgotten around her neck.

She glides.

Long, powerful strides. The kind that usually bring peace. Discipline. Solitude.

Tonight?

Not even close.

Her blades cut into the ice like it said something unforgivable. Each lap tighter, sharper.

“Rookie thinks she’s funny.”

“Cocky, loud, messy - exactly what we don’t need this year.”

Another turn. Her breath fogs in the cold. Her hands settle on her hips, fingers twitching.

“She’s got talent. Obvious.”

She slows at center ice. The Seattle logo beneath her. No crowd. No noise. Just the low hum of the arena holding its breath.

And still,

The thought lingers.

That smirk. That audacity. The stupid way she popped the collar of her team warmup like it was a runway, not a locker room full of legacy.

“She’s not serious.”

“She still thinks this is a game, not a statement. Not survival.”

But the truth?

That’s not what’s bothering her.

Not really.

Because when she closes her eyes, she sees a flash of ink - lightning bolt, bold and unapologetic - and remembers the way it felt to be challenged. Just a little. Just enough.

“Tattoos don’t make you fearless, kid.”

The words slip out, soft and bitter.

She pushes off again. Faster now.

Harder.

Up and down the rink like she can outskate the echo.

It doesn’t work.

By the time she stops again, sweat slicks her neck, and her heartbeat won’t slow. She’s staring up at the rafters - empty, silent, waiting.

No banners yet.

Just pressure.

And possibility.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

She doesn’t say who she’s talking to.

Another lap.

Slower. Controlled.

Then she’s back in the locker room, pulling her hoodie on, sleeves tugged down over her hands like it could bury the heat rising in her chest.

Her gaze drifts.

One stall. Your nameplate and number.

She looks too long.

Just a second.

i cant think of an intro we’re just jumping straight in enjoy

she gets a pretty normal amount of nervous on game days, as to be expected, but her only coping strategy is distracting herself

so you probably won’t get a moment alone

if you’re not living together, she absolutely LOVES when you sleep over the night before a game literally for no reason other than she wants to spend an obsessive amount of time with you

the type to constantly joke about handcuffing you to her (she’s kinda serious)

she’s normally a pretty big cuddler but on the nights before game days she turns into something else oml….

like literally on top of you, you can’t breathe, absolutely passed out having the best sleep of her life with her face just like uncomfortably pressed up against you like girl back UP

normally if you spend the night (or if y’all are living together) then when she has to wake up early she doesn’t wake you, although it’s very hard to leave you, she just ends up tucking you back in and going about her day

expect a very cute good morning text tho

on game days? no that goes out the window

she’s up? you’re up too!!

she needs to be distracted at all times and her favorite distraction is…. you guessed it….. YOU!!!!

she is ofc literally attached to you while you get ready, helping you pick out an outfit, will sit in your lap while you do your makeup even if you try to push her off of you bc you literally can’t see the mirror??

and we all know hockey players definitely are not superstitious no ofc not (this is sarcasm if you can’t tell)

she pretends that her kissing ROUTINE w you is not a superstition

“it’s just an excuse to kiss you babe!!!”

girl tell that to the whole specific ass routine you have be fr…..

she has to kiss you on your left cheek, then right, then your forehead and then YOU have to kiss HER on the lips

YOU have to be the on to initiate it or else she simply must start all over

and also it can’t just bc a peck no it has to last for like 3 seconds at LEAST (can’t go past like 5 tho bc she would get distracted…)

during the game she’s pretty locked in we love a focused queen

but if you’re sitting in like the first row she definitely spends a lot of time looking at you during warmups

“compher!!!! stop looking at the stands!!!!”

totally gets teased by her teammates and wants to melt into a puddle </3

also loves knowing that you’re wearing HER jersey with HER name on it and HER number……

“hey do you wanna just skip this game and go sit with y/n since YOU CANT STOP LOOKING AT HER????”

if she scores a goal or an assist she TRIES to point towards you in the stands as a way of like dedicating it to you

which is very sweet

but half the time she doesn’t know where you’re sitting so she just points in a random direction and hopes for the best

if it’s an away game, or you just couldn’t make it to a home game, she points at the camera instead

also gets teased for this, obviously

but this is a hill she’s willing to die on she will POINT

…even if it’s nowhere near you.

no matter if it’s a win or a loss, she LOVES when you take care of her after a game

literally cheesing, sitting on the couch under a blanket, watching a show while you bring her whatever dinner she requested

says thank you in a sing-song voice and ignores the fact you’re jokingly glaring at her

asked you to rub her feet ONCE and you gave her such a dirty look that she never asked again TRUST

will ask you to scratch her back, run your fingers through her hair, and massage her legs though

anyways, if she’s lost a game she’s definitely a little tense

but she just kinda shuts down and doesn’t want to talk about it

if she made a mistake then she knows she’ll just have to work on it during practice

but if she thinks the refs were unfair or something then she’s yelling at the wall or something pacing around while you sit there nodding like

“I MEAN ARE YOU SERIOUS??? THAT WAS A PENALTY. DO YOU HAVE EYES? DO. YOU. HAVE. FUCKING. EYES.”

“yes tell them baby!”

if you don’t know a lot about hockey or even if you do, she likes it when you ask her questions about certain plays during the game or whatever

loves feeling knowledgeable in front of you

and ofc…. literally DIES when you compliment her

“i really liked that thing you did today”

*she’s literally shaking* “yeah? what?”

“i don’t know what it’s called but you hit the puck really hard and then emma got the rebound”

“you mean… a slap shot..?”

“uhh…. i think so? idk, anyways, you played really good today”

“thanks babe”

she acts like she’s so nonchalant but really she’s about to giggle and kick her feet

but anyways back to my original point good lord

after a loss she’s tense yk but again she’s not like overly mad at herself or anything she knows that she’s still learning and even the best players make mistakes

she’s just like whatever i have to work on it

so she doesn’t really need to talk about it she kinda just wants to ignore it or else it will run through her head over and over again

but sometimes the pressure does get to her and she does need to vent like anyone

really after a loss she just wants to be with you

she literally never falls asleep first so most of the time she’s just laying with you while you’re asleep scrolling on her phone until she finally gets tired

and ofc now the narrative is completely flipped she wants YOU to be like fully on top of her LOL

calls you her second blanket

as if you aren’t one too bffr….

anyways after a win

if the team is having some sort of party or smth after the game she’ll usually go to that for a bit, but she’s honestly TIRED and wants to go home and go to BED

and you actually aren’t allowed to go to the team parties bc you came ONCE and then jesse just spent the entire time in the corner w you even though you were trying to tell her to be SOCIAL and go like TALK to her teammates

she just wants to see you and celebrate with you not that she doesn’t love her team she just loves you a little bit more

when she does finally get home to you, she eats and watches some tv to relax but then she’s always extra tired after winning for some reason so she usually just goes to bed and takes you with her

although after a win shes actually lying and she’s not that tired but like… she won!! she just needs a little time in bed with her girlfriend who she loves very much so she can climb on top of you and kiss the absolute living daylights out of you!!!! how sweet!!

and if you’re still wearing her jersey in all of this she’s actually going crazy a bit bc it’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen in her life

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Yourusername: my girl(s) won gold!! So so proud

Comments

Lailaedwards: finally made it in a post 😁

Yourusername: lailaedwards and it'll be the last

Lailaedwards: yourusername 😔

Carolineharvey: awh thanks, love you bae ❤

Yourusername: carolineharvey love you moreee

Hilaryknight: even made olympic mvp 😁

Yourusername: hilaryknight iktr!!

Marcus748: uhh who is this and why did kk call them bae?

Wohofan297410: Marcus748 She's gay marcus

*liked by yourusername*

Avamcnaughton: what about me :(

Yourusername: avamcnaughton come here and we'll celebrate properly 😏

Carolineharvey: avamcnaughton yourusername not on my watch

Yourusername just posted!

Liked by: kristensimms, cassiehall, laceyeden, and 369 others...

Yourusername: she's back home :]

Comments

Avamcnaughton: your page is literally just a fanpage of her atp

Yourusername: avamcnaughton right where I wanna be

Lailaedwards: boosted her ego by like 500

Cassiehall: very cute post 😊

Yourusername: cassiehall thanks cass :]

Carolineharvey: ignore them, they're just haters!

Laceyeden: carolineharvey you're literally giggling rn stop

Lailaedwards: carolineharvey laceyeden I'm dying not the callout 😭

Yourusername: lailaedwards you wanted to call her out first, don't play

Lailaedwards: yourusername you know me too well

Carolineharvey: lailaedwards laceyeden it's on sight when I see you guys on the ice 😤

Carolineharvey just posted!

Liked by: lailaedwards, aylsaliu, avamurphy, and 13, 542 others...

Carolineharvey: happy anniversary to my favorite person <3

Comments

Yourusername: aw babe 🥺

Lailaedwards: fav couple on planet earth

Kristensimms: lailaedwards thought that title was reserved for pazzi?

Lailaedwards: kristensimms oh shush girl

Top defender on the team, named captain in her final year and is projected to be the first pick in the draft.

Yet somehow, she irked your soul.

It was impossible for the two of you to actually hang out, like two peas in completely different pods(laila's words apparently).

Tonight however was game day and you were going against Ohio State.

You sat in your stall, for some reason it was right next to Caroline's.

Now that was unusual, your stall would normally be fall away.

Must have been a mistake

You were in the middle of tying up your skates, the rest of your gear already on.

"Don't let us down like last time."

You jumped lightly at the voice interuppting your silence, your face quickly turned into a scowl.

Smug as ever with the 'C' on her chest, Caroline put her jersey on.

She's referring to the shoot loss against Penn State, in which you had participated in and missed.

"Maybe next time, Coach should pick you for the shootout." You put your gloves on. "Maybe then you'd actually get some goals in."

"I'm too busy to do shootouts." She scoffed.

"Busy being on the bench?" You snickered as you exited the locker room.

Caroline grumbled under her breath.

The game started soon after, Ohio was faster but you and the team were faster.

Deep into the second, you had gained possession of the puck as it headed behind the net.

Caroline was also on the ice, her line being paired with yours.

Unfortunately for you however, you didn't notice someone was coming for you from behind.

A player from the opposing team checked you into the board, it was rather harsh.

You landed awkwardly and sorta just laid there for a bit, clutching your head in pain.

Caroline, wasn't sure what happened but when she saw you go down.

Her vision immediately turned to red, she shoved the player down.

Before she could get a punch in, she felt someone pulling her off.

It was Laila.

"I almost had her!" Caroline snapped.

Laila just glanced over in your direction as a response.

Laila didn't say anything, nor did she have to. Caroline knew what she meant, they always did.

She skated over and kneeled down infront of you.

And did something that shocked your teammates.

Caroline held your hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

You could barely process it all, first you were playing then you get checked hard, you're lying on the ice and the person you hated most on your team was holding your hand?

Yeah, you definitely had to be hallucinating.

Caroline whispered encouragement in your ear as she and the trainer helped you off the ice.

After the game, resulted in a 3 - 1 win.

You had officially placed on the Injury Reserve with a lower body injury but you also failed the concussion protocol.

You were making your way to your dorm when someone had called your name. It was Caroline.

You looked back at her. "I'm not really in the mood."

Her expression falters slightly as she caught up to you.

"I'm not here to tease," She shook her head. "Just wanted to see if you're alright after that hit."

You scoffed. "Alright? I just got back from injury just to be back on the shelf again. So, no, I'm not alright!"

Caroline frowned, her face showing a hint of guilt but also... no, concern? That's not possible.

Hesitantly, she placed her hand on your arm.

"Look," Caroline sighed. "I know we don't always see eye to eye and it's important that we do on the ice to win. Just because I don't like you doesn't mean I'm just gonna stand by and let some jerk hurt you. You're on my team, I protect my teammates and I will protect you. Whether you want it or not."

You nod slowly, you couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"You're the only one who truly gets to me and I hate how you do that, how I just let you in." She admits. "When you fell, I just couldn't let that slide. I couldn't let you get hurt, not again."

You nearly tensed at the reminder, of your past injury.

Caroline will always remember how long you lied there unmoving, her heart stayed still for just as long.

"So you... you care about me?" You asked.

Her jaw clenched at the question but relaxed in the same time frame.

"I care about my team." She says. "And that... that includes you."

"Right." You clutched your gear bag tighter.

That simple action reminded Caroline that you needed to get some rest, and she probably should as well.

She cleared her throat and stepped back, her confident demeanor returning. "Now go to bed, always so stubborn."

Caroline walked away, leaving you there in the hallway.

"Jerk." You muttered under your breath.