A/N: Something positive needs to come out of the NBA Finals, right? The following is an attempt to give some purpose to this hiatus.

I've taken a few creative liberties; namely, that Sam and Andy are even marginally interested in the NBA, and specifically, the Heat vs. the Thunder. Be prepared for some sports-speak. And randomness. This is like nothing I've ever written before. Or will write again, in all likelihood.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue, nor do I have any particular allegiance to the aforementioned teams. (I do, however, love me some Steve Nash...)

"You're watching this?"

Her voice carries across Sam's living room as she leans against the entryway. Twisting her hair into a tight knot, she loops a hair tie around the wet, messy strands.

He raises his head at her greeting, dark eyes flickering to hers. "Not a superfan, I take it?

"And you are?" she questions, a teasing lilt to her voice. "Sixth man in the stands, is that right?"

He merely smiles, silently tipping his beer in her direction. His eyes return to the TV as he stretches his legs, body sprawled across the length of his couch. "Slim pickings tonight. Thought I'd give Bosh a chance to impress me. You know, wax poetic about what we lost in Toronto."

She laughs heartily, sorting through the nearby laundry basket until she recovers a clean tank top. With a start, she realizes how many articles of her clothing have mysteriously made their way into Sam's laundry. Slipping the tank over her sports bra, she swallows hard, trying not to dwell on the implications.

"I haven't followed the Raptors since Vince Carter played," she says thoughtfully, eager for a reprieve from her internal monologue. "Sophomore year of college, maybe?"

"Ah, too busy for sports," he observes, teasing. "Had to keep those grades up, huh?"

"Too busy to watch sports, maybe," she corrects, hand on her hip as she moves to stand in front of him. "Not too busy to play. Game with 27 Division ring a bell?"

"Sure, sure. Andy McNally, MVP," he says, curling a hand around her knee, thumb brushing softly against her skin. "Marginally Versatile Player."

"Oof. That's rich, coming from you," she teases, pushing his hand away. "Not such an 'excellent driver' in the paint, as I recall. You've got a nice jumper, sure. But those things you call lay-ups? Probably better titled 'lay down and take a breather, Grandpa.'"

He sets his jaw, a foreboding gleam in his eyes. "I think you mean lie down," he offers in retaliation, his tone reminiscent of another conversation about chaises. "Thought you were an A-student, smarty."

She ignores his obvious jab, mouth twisting primly. "I will lie down, thank you." She nudges him gently, black yoga pants brushing his leg. "Now budge over."

"Yeah, I don't think so," he replies immediately, pillowing an arm beneath his head.

"What?"

"My couch, my rules," he explains. His voice is infuriatingly calm, and she hears his smile – two parts smugness, one part false sympathy. "You're welcome to stretch out here, but I'm not moving."

She stares at him incredulously, mouth agape. "Seriously?"

He tries to keep the grin off his face, but the corners of his mouth twitch suspiciously. "Armchair is all yours if you want it."

"Sam," she whines. Bending forward, she picks up a throw pillow that was haphazardly tossed on the floor and chucks it at his stomach. "C'mon, move."

"Not a chance," he replies with a quick flash of his teeth. He skates a calloused hand across the back of her thigh, tugging her closer to the couch. He makes a gesture down the length of his body, smirking. "But, uh. Like I said. Room for two if you wanna get comfortable."

"That position is comfortable for about five minutes," Andy protests, eluding his grasp. To hope for more is optimism, not experience, and she knows it. "And then I get too heavy, and your old man bones complain, and I get the boot because I'm on top and your arms are cramped."

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Thought you liked it on top, McNally."

"You know what I mean!" she answers exasperatedly. This is punishment for her teasing; she knows it. "Why can't we both sit on the couch?"

"Rules are rules," Sam says simply, shrugging.

"Yeah, and you're definitely a rule-follower," Andy retorts, folding her arms across her chest. "A regular goody two-shoes, that Sam Swarek."

She stares at him for a long moment, waiting for him to reconsider. When he makes no move, she huffs in frustration and drops into the neighboring armchair. "Fine. Your loss."

Propping a throw pillow behind her back, she eyes him steadily. "I was feelin' snuggly," she sing-songs.

His eyebrows skyrocket as he chokes out a laugh. "That's a thing now?"

"Not for you," she replies with a shrug. "Enjoy the couch, cushion hog."

By halftime, Andy is on the edge of the adjacent ottoman, eyes glued to the television. Her competitive side has emerged in full force, and Sam can't help but be amused by her profanity-laced critiques.

"I only get like this with sports, I promise," she admits halfway through the second quarter. "My dad was always after me for my bad mouth during games, how 'unladylike' it was, but I basically learned it from him, so…"

She smiles sheepishly. "Sorry you're dating a curse-prone sports fan. Can't take me anywhere."

Wrong, he reflects silently, a tiny smile on his lips. You just tell me where…

Chuckling quietly, he hoists himself off the couch and wanders into the kitchen. He returns a few minutes later, two beers in hand. Andy is still curled on the ottoman, arms looped beneath her knees.

Setting the beers on the coffee table, he walks over to her and extends a hand.

"C'mere," he orders, gaze soft as he tilts his head toward the sofa. "Come sit with me."

She eyes him speculatively, pursing her lips. "Are you trying to bribe me with beer? Make amends for earlier behavior?"

He shakes his head minutely before shrugging, mouth curled in a familiar half-smile. His gaze remains trained on her, and he catches a glimmer of amusement in her expression.

With a roll of her eyes, she accepts his proffered hand. "Only because the couch is like, a million times more comfortable than this ottoman."

He bites back another grin, pulling her up. "Can't cede any ground, huh?" he teases.

"You're one to talk," she remarks. Dragging him to the couch, she fumbles for the remote. "Now be quiet, I wanna hear the analysts, biased though they are."

He slides an arm around her, thumb stroking the warm skin of her shoulder. He catches snatches of commentary - Stephen A. Smith arguing about something, Charles Barkley decrying something else - but his focus is elsewhere.

Lazy nights on the couch have never seemed so comfortable. Basketball games, never quite so appealing.

A feeling I could get used to, he decides.

"So, overall: Not a big NBA fan?" he asks, well into the third quarter. His arm is still draped across her shoulders, fingers lightly brushing her temple and hairline.

Closing her eyes, Andy silently relishes the feeling before speaking. "I mean, the athleticism is off the charts, no question. But this obsession with payroll... And then we wind up with a lockout, which pushes the play-offs back, which totally interrupts my summer TV schedule," she concludes with a wry smile.

Sam shakes his head at her valley-girl intonation, suppressing a laugh.

She leans against his shoulder, body humming with energy. "I'm fond of my Thursday night line-up, thank you. Not to mention that Ron Artest has, like, singlehandedly ruined the NBA for fans everywhere."

"No love for World Peace?" he teases.

"Ugh, World Piece of Shit," Andy mutters. "No love lost for him, I promise."

"Or for idiots who take dumb shots," she adds a moment later, pointing to the screen. "Seriously, Westbrook is killing me tonight. A point guard passes the ball and runs the team. He doesn't take every available shot."

"They need a viable shooting guard to feed it to Durant," Sam says, fingering her hair absently. "He finishes."

Andy is silent for several moments, watching the action. "College basketball, that's where the real game is. Five players working as a unit, and far fewer egos."

"But then you miss a player like Lebron," Sam argues. "Say what you will about the guy; he's the single-best out there right now."

"Maybe," Andy admits begrudgingly. "I mean, there are a few players I like. Steve Nash has managed to restore my faith in humanity, for one. But I still prefer collegiate."

Sam nods in assent, a quiet smile on his lips. "Interesting," he murmurs.

His gaze remains fixed on the television as he sweeps an open palm across her shoulder. "Me, I prefer a little one-on-one."

Stilling at his admission, Andy drops her head to his shoulder, stifling a groan. "Sam, you can't see my eyes, but rest assured, I am rolling them. Repeatedly."

"What?" Sam asks innocently, tangling a hand in her hair. "You don't want to turn up the Heat? Make this couch Thunder a bit?"

She pulls back, staring at him soberly while arcing an eyebrow. "Okay, just so you know... Those jokes are license for me to never speak to you again. Like, total deal breakers."

"Mm," Sam acknowledges. "That right?"

She bobs her head silently, tight-lipped. "Terrible. Awful. New joke book, please."

He grins slowly, sliding a hand underneath her top and shifting his weight as he leans forward. "Hmm..."

"Sam..." she begins warningly.

"I played point during that game against 27, remember?"

"Yes," she says slowly, allowing him to guide her into a horizontal position. She threads her fingers through the hair at his nape, gazing at him suspiciously. "Although I don't know what that has to do with..."

"Well, uh," Sam interrupts, pursing his lips. "A point guard reads the floor, reads the signs."

He skates a hand over her rib cage, sweeping his thumb over the sensitive skin.

"And right now," he continues in a low voice, watching her inhale sharply. "The signs are telling me that you're not as vehemently opposed as you pretend to be."

He leans forward, pressing his lips to her ear as his hands drift over her body. "Those, uh, shaky breaths send a different message, McNally."

Her body warms at the timbre of his voice, and she can't help but wonder how easily he gets under her skin, how much she wishes she could control the rapid thrum of her heart. The glow spreads as his mouth brushes her throat, her jaw, and finally her lips.

"Sam," she gasps breathlessly, shoving at his shoulder. "Sam, seriously. Okay, okay..."

She exhales slowly, resting her forehead against his. "What about the game?"

He smiles against her lips, fumbling for the remote and switching the TV off. "We'll check the scores tomorrow, McNally. In fact…"

She breaks away from him momentarily, narrowing her eyes. "One more artless joke about scoring and I'm out, I swear…"

He grins, dimples flashing, before silencing her with his mouth.