#yerrrrnescu

sabrina ionescu x gn¡reader

warning(s): none

summary: teetering on the line of “just friends” for maybe years — or, longer than you can count

author’s note: quick blurb! wanted to dabble a lil so i gave it a shot and here we are!!

The Liberty had just wrapped up a brutal back-to-back stretch to finish the final quarter, and Barclays Center had finally gone quiet—except for the low thrum of post-game music and the occasional echo of laughter from the locker room.

You were lingering courtside, half-helping with media teardown, half-waiting for a certain point guard to emerge. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. You were “just friends,” after all—if you could call the late-night texts, pregame superstitions, and coffee runs that somehow turned into three-hour brunches just friends.

Sabrina found you easily, like she always did.

“You always wait for me?” she asked, slinging her duffel over one shoulder, eyes bright with a mix of exhaustion and mischief.

You shrugged, trying for casual and landing somewhere between totally obvious and comically transparent. “Maybe I’m just here for the post-game snacks.”

“Right,” she said, coming to a stop in front of you. “Definitely nothing to do with me.”

You gave her a look. “Your ego is out of control.”

“Only around you,” she shot back smoothly, and the way she said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world—made your stomach flip just a little.

You reached for her duffel, gently pulling it off her shoulder. “Come on. Let me walk you out.”

A smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t stop you. She never did.

Waiting outside for you both, the summer night was warm, the city buzzing just enough to feel alive but not overwhelming. You walked side by side, her shoulder brushing yours occasionally, and if you let yourself dream it, you’d almost say it was intentionally.

Sabrina was quiet for a beat before saying, “You know, if we’re doing this whole ‘you waiting for me after every game’ thing, I could start calling it a tradition.”

You smiled. “What’s the tradition part?”

“You bring me snacks. I pretend I don’t see you blushing when I say you look good in Liberty seafoam.”

Your heart stuttered, but your voice came out steady. “I don’t blush.”

“You totally do,” she teased. “You’re doing it right now.”

You groaned and bumped her hip with yours. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” she said, stopping just outside the players’ entrance, turning to face you fully, “you keep showing up.”

You couldn’t help it—you looked at her, really looked. Her hair still damp from the shower, jersey swapped for a hoodie, that small tired smile she saved just for you.

“I keep showing up because you’re kind of worth it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

She leaned in, slow but sure, the city swirling around you like background noise. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I was hoping I could finally do this.”

Then she kissed you—gentle, lingering, like it was something she’d been thinking about for a while. Maybe just as long as you had.

When she pulled back, you were grinning.

“So,” you said, dazed and a little breathless. “Is kissing also part of the tradition now?”

Sabrina laughed. “Only every time we win.”