Could you do a grace Knox fix where reader is help through the losses but is Lowky trolling her for losing twice in a row
two in a row (but who’s counting)
pairing: lsu!grace!girlfriend x lsu!photograher!reader!girlfriend
wc: 2.2k
summary: you’ve been courtside for every high and low this season—so when grace drops two straight, you show up the only way you know how: support first, jokes second, love always.
join the 🏷️: @imadethiscauseiwasbored, @marleymarleymarleymarley, @carlaaaisinthehousew, @yourmom-25s-blog, @sammiejane22
you’ve been to every game this season. every single one. not just the televised ones, not just the ranked matchups that make headlines and end up clipped on social media.
you’ve been there for the early season games when the crowd trickled in late and the arena lights felt too bright for how empty the stands were. the blowouts where the bench laughed more than they played. the nights when the starters barely broke a sweat.
the nights when they left everything on the floor and came back to the locker room hollowed out and silent.
you don’t miss games. not because you feel obligated—but because this is your job. because the camera feels like an extension of your hands now. because you like freezing moments people forget happen. the quiet ones. the in-betweens. the exhale right after the whistle. the look no one sees when the crowd’s still screaming.
you’re a fixture now.
you walk in with two cameras slung around your neck, press badge tapping against your chest, hair pulled back without thinking about it. the managers wave. the players call your name when they catch you crouched near the baseline.
“hey, get this angle!”
“delete that one immediately.”
“wait—no—i look good here, take it again.”
they save you a seat when you’re not working. slide water bottles your way. someone always asks if you ate. even coach nods at you from the sideline, that sharp, approving look that says you belong here. once, early in the season, she told you, you see things others don’t. you carry that with you.
and grace—she always knows exactly where you are. it started that way. you met her through the lens before you met her face-to-face. first week. first practice. she kept drifting into your frame like gravity pulled her there—long strides, sweat darkening her collar, focus etched into her expression like it was permanent.
after practice, you were kneeling courtside, reviewing shots, when a shadow fell over you. “you always shoot like that?” she asked. you looked up. she was taller than you by almost a foot, arms crossed loosely, curiosity softening her face. not intimidating. just…there.
“like what?” you asked. “quiet,” she said. then smiled, small and genuine. “i like it.” after that, she always found you.
now, the height difference is impossible to ignore. she’s all long limbs and broad shoulders at 6'2, towering over you even when she slouches. you barely hit her shoulder at 5'5. when she hugs you, you disappear into her chest. when she leans down to hear you in loud gyms, it looks intimate even when it’s not meant to be.
january first comes heavy.
kentucky. baton rouge. loud. the arena hums with that electric tension that settles into your bones. you’re working tonight—camera in hand—but you still take your usual spot behind the bench when you can, her number tucked under your jacket.
your feet barely touch the floor when you sit. grace paces. rolls her shoulders. cracks her neck. you lift your camera, capture the way she exhales like she’s bracing for impact. she doesn’t look at you during the anthem. superstition. focus. but right before tip-off, she glances back.
you give her a tiny salute. she shakes her head, lips twitching. the game is tight. too tight. you feel it through the lens, through the shutter clicking too fast, through the way grace plays hard but off—forcing instead of flowing. when the buzzer sounds and the score flashes 80–78, the arena deflates.
you lower your camera. you don’t clap. you don’t stand. you wait. you always do. she comes out of the locker room later than everyone else. jaw clenched. shoulders tense. when she sees you, something gives.
you open your arms. she bends down automatically, folding you into her chest, chin resting on the top of your head. “i hate that,” she mutters. you press your cheek against her. “yeah.”
“we should’ve won.”
“also yeah.” she pulls back, eyes shining. “you’re not gonna lie to me?”
“never,” you say. then add, gentler, “but i’m also not letting you spiral over one loss.” she scoffs. “easy for you to say.” you tilt your head. “true. i’m undefeated tonight.” that earns a breath of a laugh. barely—but it’s there.
on the drive home, she’s quiet, eyes fixed on the road. one hand stays steady on the wheel while the other rests warm and familiar on your thigh, thumb tapping softly like she’s reminding herself you’re there. “i keep replaying it,” she says. “i know.”
“that last look—”
“grace,” you interrupt softly, “if replaying games fixed losses, you’d be 40–0.” she exhales. “don’t be smart.”
“i’m always smart.”
three days later, nashville. vanderbilt. you’re back behind the bench, camera ready. someone behind you mutters something rude. jada nudges you like we got you. you smile.
the game is worse. harder. heavier. grace gives everything. you see it—the fight, the frustration, the way she looks to the bench like she’s asking if she’s still enough. 65–61. two losses. back to back. when grace looks up, her eyes find you instantly.
you don’t clap. you nod. afterward, she wraps you up, lifting you clean off the floor. “twice,” she murmurs. you laugh softly. “you’re fourteen and two.” she groans. “please stop saying that.”
“no,” you grin. “i’m framing it.” later, in the hotel room, the noise gone, the weight returns. she sits on the bed, shoulders slumped. “i hate that people expect me to be perfect,” she says. you sit beside her. “yeah.”
“i hate that i expect myself to be.” you take her hand. “you’re allowed to be human.” she snorts weakly. “not according to twitter.”
“twitter is undefeated,” you say solemnly. then softer, “you’re still my favorite player.” she looks at you. “even after two losses?”
“especially after two losses,” you say. “you’re way more interesting when you’re humbled.” she laughs into your shoulder. really laughs this time. “you’re evil.”
“and you’re tall,” you reply. “we all have flaws.” she holds you tighter after that. and when the team drags you out to dinner, when plans turn into topgolf and grace embarrasses herself and looks at you like she wants reassurance—you just grin.
camera down. heart steady. still there. still teasing. still staying. and that’s what keeps her standing. losing at home is different. you feel it the moment you walk back into the building the next time—like the walls remember.
the banners still hang. the floor still shines. the seats still fill the same way they always do. but there’s a quiet under it now, something bruised and stubborn.
you clock it immediately. not through the camera. through her. grace moves through warmups with the same routine, the same discipline, but there’s a tightness to her shoulders you don’t like. she cracks her neck twice instead of once. ties her shoes, reties them. glances at the scoreboard like it personally owes her something.
you’re courtside, camera ready, home badge clipped to your jacket. you know the ushers by name here. you know which floorboard creaks near the corner. you know exactly where the light hits her face best.
she looks back during layup lines. not subtle. not accidental. you lift the camera, snap the shot, then lower it just long enough to mouth, don’t embarrass me. she rolls her eyes. smirks. points at you like you’re on notice. that’s when you know she’s nervous. the loss hits late.
not a blowout. not dramatic. just enough missed chances, just enough silence creeping in between possessions. when the buzzer sounds, the crowd doesn’t explode—it exhales. confused. disappointed. quiet. home losses always sound like that.
you don’t rush the floor. you never do. you take a few last photos—hands on hips, heads bowed, the way players stare at the court like answers might appear if they look long enough. you’re packing up when you feel her behind you. she doesn’t say anything. just slides in close, towering at your back, chin dropping onto the top of your head.
“this is getting embarrassing,” she mutters. you don’t turn around. “for who?”
“me.” you finally look up at her. “grace. you lost. you didn’t commit a crime.”
“at home,” she emphasizes. “again.” you hum thoughtfully. “okay, yeah. that part’s rude.” she presses her forehead to yours. “don’t.”
“i’m on your side,” you say, smiling. “i just think the universe is humbling you in public.” she groans. “i hate you.”
“no you don’t.” on the walk back to the locker room, fans still call her name. still reach out. still believe. she nods, signs, smiles when she can.
but once the door closes behind her, the mask drops. she sits on the bench, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. “they deserved better,” she says.
you set your camera down carefully, like it might bruise if you don’t. then you step between her knees, looking up at her face. “you know what’s wild?” you say. she sighs. “what.”
“you’re acting like you don’t average double digits, like you didn’t fight the entire fourth, like one loss rewrote the season.” she looks away. “it feels like it does.” you reach up, tug lightly at the collar of her hoodie. “then you’re bad at math.” that gets a laugh. quick. surprised. “home court is supposed to mean something,” she says quieter. “it’s supposed to be safe.”
you nod. “yeah.”
“i hate letting people down in this building.” you soften then. press your forehead to her chest. “you didn’t.” she exhales, arms wrapping around you automatically. “you’re supposed to agree with me.”
“i don’t do that,” you say. “i do emotional support and light harassment.”
“you’re really leaning into the harassment.”
“you lost at home,” you shrug. “i’m coping.” later that night, curled up on the couch in your apartment, she watches film while you scroll through photos. you pause on one—her jaw set, sweat on her temple, eyes locked forward. “hey,” you say. “this one’s good.” she leans over your shoulder. “i look mad.”
“you look alive.” she studies it, then nods. “don’t post it.”
“too late.” she freezes. “you’re joking.” you grin. “mostly.” she nudges you with her knee. “you’re evil.”
“and yet,” you say, saving the photo anyway, “you still came home with me.” she leans back, pulls you into her chest, chin resting on your head. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.” you smile into her hoodie. “probably spiral.”
“…yeah.”
“good thing i’m here,” you say. “courtside. always.” she kisses the top of your head. “even when we lose?”
“especially when you lose,” you reply. “someone’s gotta keep count.” she groans, but her arms tighten around you. and for the first time that night, she sleeps. the next day feels lighter.
not fixed. not magically better. just…less heavy. grace texts you late morning, something short and pointed.
grace: wear something cute. i’m stealing you.
you smile at your phone, already knowing that means she’s thought about it. that she didn’t just want to sit around and replay film or scroll through comments or pretend the loss didn’t happen. she wants to do something with you. on purpose.
you meet her outside your apartment. she’s dressed down—hoodie, sweats, hair pulled back—but she’s towering as usual, hands in her pockets, rocking slightly on her heels like she’s nervous. “this a date or am i being kidnapped,” you ask. she grins. “can it be both?”
she takes you somewhere small. not flashy. not crowded. a quiet little spot with outdoor seating, warm lights strung overhead, music low enough that you don’t have to lean in to hear each other—though she does anyway, instinctively.
you sit across from her, knees brushing under the table. “you’re smiling,” you point out.she shrugs. “i like being normal with you.” you tilt your head. “you are normal.” she laughs. “objectively false.”
food comes. conversation drifts. not basketball-heavy. not loss-heavy. she asks about your photos. your favorite shots. which ones you’ll never post. you tease her about missing putts at topgolf. she threatens to revoke girlfriend privileges. at one point, she reaches across the table and laces your fingers together.
“thank you,” she says quietly. “for what?”
“for not treating me like i’m broken when i lose.” you squeeze her hand. “you’re only broken when you skip leg day.” she gasps. “that’s slander.”
“i have photographic evidence.” she groans, then leans back in her chair, looking at you like she’s memorizing the moment. the lights. the calm. you. “next home game,” she says, “i’m winning.” you smile. “i know.” then, softer, teasing, “but if you don’t…” she laughs. “you’re unbearable.”
“and yet,” you say, standing when she does, “you asked me out.” she bends down, presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “yeah,” she murmurs. “i did.” you walk home hand in hand, the loss still there—but smaller now. manageable. something that happened, not something that defines her.
and as she unlocks the door, pulling you inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you realize—wins are loud. losses sting. but this? this is the part she always comes back to.
Salut! I'm Vanessa, a 19 year old hockey enthusiast. My favorite teams are the Devils, the Canucks, the Wilds, and the Canadiens! My favorite players are Sidney Crosby, Macklin Celebrini, Will Smith, and Juraj Slafkovsky.
❥requests are open ❥
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