A/N: Chapter 25 guys!This is probably where I should apologize profusely for taking so long to update, but I've been doing a lot of that lately, so instead I'm just gonna go ahead with the chapter. Thank you as usual for all the reviews!

"You don't have to decide now," the doctor offered gently.

I sighed. "Yeah I do. I've gone the surgery route before. This is where it got me. I'm not gonna do it again. Besides, I'm just not at a point in my career where I can just walk away for six months and pick up where I left off. Hell, I really can't leave for a month, but I really don't have a choice on that one."

"I'd urge you to reconsider," the doctor stated firmly, "but I can tell I'd be wasting my breath. Just know that you're taking a huge risk with this."

I nodded. "I know."

The doctor proceeded to explain the process of getting me back into the ring. No weight bearing for at least a week, then I could start physical therapy if the swelling had gone down enough, then at least three weeks of that before seeing if I could be cleared to wrestle. If everything went spectacularly well, I'd be back in the ring in a month, but six weeks was more likely. Better than six months, I reminded myself as my stomach dropped at the thought of so much time off.

They fitted me for crutches, gave me one of those absurd looking skeleton braces, and finally sent me on my way, after I refused pain medications for the umpteenth time.

I hobbled out to find Phil in the waiting room. He stood up when he saw me coming. "Well?" he asked, as we started the slow walk to the car.

"My MCL's gone, and my ACL is most of the way there too."

He groaned. "How long?"

"Four to six weeks, if all goes well."

"You opted out of surgery?"

I nodded. "I can't be gone for six months. You know that."

"I get it," he responded quietly, "but are you sure this is the right call? I don't mean for your career, I mean for you."

I shook my head. "I'm not sure of anything right now, except that I AM my career. I don't have a backup plan, and if I disappear for half a year so soon after starting to have surgery that clearly doesn't work all that well anyway, I might not have a career to come back to. And… I'm scared Phil" I finally admitted. "I feel like I'm fucked either way."

He pulled me carefully into a hug, and my head fell onto his chest. Only then, with my face fully shielded from sight, did I left a few tears fall—the first I'd shed all evening. We stayed like that, his hand gently rubbing my back, until I pulled away. "It's just a month," he finally said. "Trust me, no one's going to forget about you."

"I know," I sighed. "But what if I'm never as strong as I was?"

"There are ways around that." he answered, "every wrestler who ever got past day one has something wrong with them. You just tape yourself up, and adapt your technique if you have to. The only real problem is the pain, and if you're willing to deal with it day in and day out. But I have a feeling you're not unfamiliar with that. How long has your knee been acting up anyway, since the surgery I mean?"

I thought about it. "A year, give or take. Why?"

"See? If you can handle that, you can handle this. You're gonna be fine. Hell, look at Stone Cold."

I smiled as I thought of one of my favorite Attitude Era wrestlers, and nodded, climbing into the car awkwardly. With that, we drove back to the hotel.

I finally made it back to my hotel room around the same time as the sky was beginning to lighten. I collapsed into sleep… only to be woken up about an hour later by my phone's persistent ringing. Suppressing the urge to throw it across the room and go back to sleep, I answered it. "Hello?"

"Amber, hello, Mr. McMahon here. How are you feeling?"

I bit back a response about how I'd be feeling a whole hell of a lot better if I hadn't been rudely awakened after the equivalent of a short nap, who says I don't have any common sense, and instead just responded. "Fine, thank you."

"Good, good. Glad to hear it. Anyway, I just received your medical report, and I'm sorry to have to give you more bad news, but you're going to have to vacate your title. I'm sorry, I know it's your first run and all that, but we can't go that long without an appearance from the champion, not with the title becoming relevant again. Good job, by the way."

I sighed. I had known that was coming, but Mr. McMahon's blunt manner of delivery did little to soften the blow. "I understand, but… can I make a request?" I asked, suddenly coming up with an idea.

"Well, I can't make any promises, but go ahead." he answered, sounding wary.

"Can the match for the title be between Lita and Beth?" I knew Lita would win, just as Vince would, but throwing Beth into the match showed that I wasn't looking for favoritism, just a good match. As much as I hated to admit it, the Glamazon did have skill in the ring. It was her demeanor and wardrobe that I had a problem with.

"I like that." Vince answered. "Consider it done. That match will take place tonight on Raw, after you vacate the title."

"Alright, thank you Sir."

"You're welcome Amber. Good luck on your recovery. Goodbye now." He hung up, and I attempted to go back to sleep.

It became blatantly obvious that my chances of sleeping were all but gone a few minutes later, so I got up, sent Punk a text filling him in on my conversation with the boss, and carefully took a shower.

Not wanting to haul my ass downstairs for the buffet breakfast, I ordered room service and watched some really bad tv until it was time to get on the bus. The trip to the next location was relatively short, but seemed torturous from the amount of pain I was in. Getting off the bumpy roads was a relief, but didn't do much good overall. Seeing the rest of the roster, however, did. I gave everyone the news, and the general reaction was just that I was incredibly lucky that it wasn't worse. I agreed with that, for the most part. I also found out that Randy Orton had defeated Sheamus and Mark Henry for the World Heavyweight Championship last night after I'd departed. I congratulated him, and went off to find the other women.

They were, unsurprisingly, in the locker room. I had already texted them the news, but I took the opportunity to let Lita know about her title match that night. "You better win," I told her, taking a jokingly threatening tone. "I don't want to see Phoenix parading around with my title."

"I will," she promised. "Listen, I really am sorry about what happened…"

I shook my head. "Don't. This is professional wrestling. Shit happens. If I wanted a calm career, I would've become a secretary or something. I just want you to go out there and beat the shit out of Beth tonight, and be ready to defend that title against me in a few weeks."

She grinned at me. "I look forward to it."

With that, I headed out to do my segment, the Women's Championship still around my waist for the time being. Once I hobbled into the ring—you have no idea how difficult that is until you have to do it with one leg, trust me—I was handed a microphone. The crowd's cheers actually drowned out my voice for a moment, filling me with emotion.

"Thank you guys, really. Well, as you saw last night, I messed up my knee pretty badly. I've gotta take some time off to recover, so… I've gotta vacate the championship." The crowd boo'ed. "Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction" I joked. "But it's alright. I'll have this baby back around my waist in a couple months. For now, let me introduce the woman who will be fighting against Beth Phoenix tonight to claim the championship." Lita's music hit, and when I started clapping, the crowd cheered. She got to the ring, and I shook her hand, before raising it in the air. "Good luck Lita."

I stayed on for commentary during their match, and cheered Lita to her ultimate victory. The fans remained firmly behind her as well, and I felt comfortable putting the so-called 'revolution' in her hands. At least she's a deserving champion. If I'd had to watch Eve or somebody win that, I'd probably have thrown myself off a bridge.

I hung out with the girls for the rest of Raw, watching Punk call out Brock Lesnar for a rematch, and cheering when the rematch was granted for the Royal Rumble pay per view, which was five weeks away. I found myself vowing to return by then, however difficult it might be.

After the show, Punk drove me to the airport. I hugged him tightly when I got to security. "See you in a few weeks" he said. "Keep me updated."

"I will," I agreed. "Drop a pipebomb for me or something."

He grinned. "Oh I will."

With that, my flight was called. "That's my cue. Bye Punk."

He waved, and I hobbled away, trying not to look back. I'd miss him. Fuck, I'd miss everyone, but I'd really miss him.

The flight was damn near torture, so I was absolutely thrilled to get home. The feeling, however, didn't last long. I lasted about a day before I was overcome with boredom. The pain was beginning to die down, but I couldn't really imagine four weeks of this.

Finally Monday rolled around again, and I was cleared to begin physical therapy. It was intensive, lasting around six hours a day, so that at least gave me something to do. And I was allowed to walk again, at least for short distances, so that helped too.

The second week passed faster than the first, and ended with an interesting surprise. It was Friday night and I was watching Smackdown when I got a phone call from Phil. "Open your door." he instructed, before hanging up. I walked slowly over to the door, and opened it, to find him standing outside. I squeeled, and jumped into his arms. He laughed. "It's good to see you too."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, breathless from the excitement of finally having actual human contact. Trust me, two weeks of not speaking to anyone in person besides doctors gets fairly dull fairly quickly.

He shrugged. "I have a few days off, and I figured you could use a visitor."

"What about Cabana?"

He smirked. "He'll be fine without me for once."

I stood aside, and tried to help him with his bags. He shrugged me off, dragging the bags into the guest room himself. "You want something to eat?" I offered, gesturing to the more than half-full box of pizza sitting on the coffee table in my living room.

He nodded, and dug into the remaining pizza. "So, what've you been up to?"

I shrugged. "Lots of physical therapy, lots of sleep, and watching as much wrestling as I can."

He laughed. "You really need to get a life."

I swatted at him. "Why bother? If I get a life, I'm just gonna have to leave it behind in two weeks anyway."

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. Any word on when you're gonna be cleared?"

I shook my head. "I would've told you. All I know is that I've got at least two more weeks of PT before it's even an option. They say I'm doing well though, so that's a good sign."

"Good. Just don't push yourself too hard." he advised.

"Trust me, I've gotten that lecture about a thousand and one times from my physical therapist."

"Why am I not surprised," Phil responded sardonically.

We chatted for the rest of the night, and into the morning before I finally started falling asleep. The next day Phil accompanied me to physical therapy, which made it a lot more interesting. I don't know, dirty jokes can speed along any process I guess. Then we went to a movie, and ate dinner by the beach.

The next few days passed very similarly, although the evenings were all different. One night we drove around the city. The next we ended up just sitting on my porch because physical therapy had been too difficult to let me do anything besides sit, then spent the night laughing our asses off at trash TV and backwatching pay per views from the attitude era. The next morning, however, Phil had to take off for a Christmas Eve Raw. We exchanged gifts right before saying goodbye, and I found myself somewhat sad that he had to leave so soon. His visit, however, had lifted my spirits immensely, and I told him so.

"I can't wait till you're back," he said earnestly. "It just isn't the same without you."

I grinned at him. "I'll be there soon. Just gimme a few weeks."

We hugged tightly for a minute, tears starting to well up in my eyes. "Damnit." I muttered.

"What?" he asked, his hands on my shoulders.

"I'm not used to being close enough to someone to miss them," I admitted.

He exhaled heavily. "You're gonna be back before you know it. I promise."

"I know… it's just hard."

He nodded. "I know it is. But you're more than halfway there."

I looked at the clock. "Shit, you're gonna miss your flight. Thanks for coming… really."

"Any time." he smiled. "See you soon. Oh, and Merry Christmas."

I laughed. "Merry Christmas Punk"

With that, he was gone. I had very little time to think about it, since I was late to physical therapy, but when I got home again it hit me hard. "Two more weeks… I hope." I muttered to myself, a note of determination in my voice.

That week was actually easier. The pain was receding quickly, and I could feel the strength returning to my knee and leg. It wasn't the same, but I could feel the improvement. By the end of that week, they told me I could stop wearing the brace, except when I was exercising, and for the first time in three weeks, I had freedom of motion. That was the best (late) Christmas present I got, short of the one Phil gave me, which was a signed, first edition copy of The Lord of the Rings. It ended up being a really good thing that I did all my Christmas shopping early, because I had his gift, a signed Rancid album (we cracked up when we realized how similarly we thought) ready, despite the surprise nature of his visit.

The New Year arrived, and the week dragged on. I couldn't wait for my doctor's appointment, and by the time Friday finally rolled around, I was about ready to jump out of my skin between nervousness and excitement.

The news, however, ended up being good. The doctor, after carefully examining my MRI and the reports from my physical therapist, declared me ready to compete. The first thing I did was call Phil, whose excitement almost paralleled mine. The second thing I did was call Vince McMahon, who gave me cryptic instructions to fly out to Connecticut the next day, before hanging up abruptly. I was puzzled, but agreed readily.

The next day, I got on a plane headed for my previous home, with no idea what was in store for me. I walked into the very same office I'd entered five months previously in the hopes of signing a WWE contract, although this time I was more confused than nervous. Mr. McMahon shook my hand, and jumped straight to the point. "I wanted to talk to you about this in person. I have an idea."

A/N: Yeah, it's kinda short, but I didn't want to drag out the four weeks, and I didn't want to get into the next segment of the story either. I guess you could call this the end of Part 1. For all you shippers, we've got about one more chapter to go before the romance starts up. Also, Amber's career is about to change dramatically. Anyway, please review and let me know what you think!