A/N: I'm mathematically challenged, so goodness knows I couldn't have written this chapter without help. I'll list the sources in a review so that they won't get deleted. I'd like to thank everyone who's reading and reviewing—it means a lot to me. And once again, a big thank you to Psyched for her invaluable assistance and advice.
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"Good, you're here," Sara said as she looked up from her notepad.
Grissom sat across from her on the bench. "Why am I here an hour early?"
"We need to practice." Her eyes caught the gray bag at his feet. "And you got a ball. How heavy?"
"14 pounds."
"14 pounds. That's...6.36 kilos..." Grissom could almost see her mind work as she performed the quick mental calculations.
"Do you have an experiment in mind?"
"It's a very scientific game. Let's take a scientific approach to it," she responded, brow furrowed in concentration. "If you center a hit on the headpin, you get a split. Therefore, correct entry angle to the pins is critical. Right-handed people like you and I have the best outcomes hitting the 1-3 pocket." She pointed to her notepad. "Entry angle in the 4-6 degree range is the goal."
"That's not easy to do."
"No. It can't be done without the right hook on the ball," she concurred.
Grissom suppressed his grin, choosing to display a mask of mock-seriousness. He always enjoyed watching her razor-sharp analyses. "That seems like a difficult thing to manufacture."
She flipped to the next page of her legal pad. "The components are friction and the rotational kinematics of the ball."
"But the lanes are coated with oil to reduce friction," he supplied.
"Yes, but they can't make it zero." She reached into her bowling bag and retrieved a roll of thin tape, tearing off a small piece. "Where's your ball?"
Grissom placed it on the ball return. He looked at Sara expectantly as she stuck the tiny bit of tape on it. "To check your rotation," she explained. "We count the number of times the tape goes around as the ball rolls down the lane."
"Won't that create more friction? And alter the trajectory?"
"Some. But right now we're looking at rotation," she grinned. "Bowl."
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By seven-thirty, Sara had the information she needed. "The friction is pretty low in this alley."
"Should we sample the oil they're using and send it to Hodges?" Grissom teased.
"Maximum ball speed is at the point of release," she continued as though she hadn't heard him. "It typically loses three to three and a half miles per hour as it travels the 18.3 meters from the foul line to the pins."
"Our friend friction again."
Sara nodded. "It's really hard to calculate because it varies depending on the type of oil the alley uses and the mass of the ball. And balls made after 1991 don't work with linear models anyway. They're reactive resin, thermoset elastomers with liquid polymers that soak up oil."
"So friction remains the unknown variable in our equation."
"Two unknowns, actually. The other is balance."
"Which means?" He tilted his head slightly.
"Bowling balls vary in their weight distribution. If it has a negative balance, it has a tendency to move away from the pins."
"And a positive balance turns toward the pins," Grissom finished.
"Yes."
"So what have we learned from all of this?"
Sara looked over her notes a final time. "That based on your ball mass, ball speed, rotation and the height of release, you should aim for the second arrow from the right, and hold your wrist like this." She grasped his wrist lightly to demonstrate the desired angle. The contact caused an air of awkwardness to settle over them, and she quickly withdrew.
Grissom glanced at the arrow and back at Sara, trying to ignore the pleasant tingle in his arm in the wake of her touch. "What about you?"
"I should aim for the third." She took a deep breath in an effort to free herself from the flustered feeling. "I'm, uh, I'm gonna go to the snack bar. You want anything?"
"No...thank you."
He focused on the bulletin board as he crossed the room. The figure scanning the league assignments appeared eerily familiar from behind.
"Oh, Gil and Sara, isn't that cute?" Hodges muttered acidly to the young man standing beside him. "The Gruesome Twosome."
"Lane eight, Hodges," Grissom said evenly.
The lab technician spun around with a start. "Oh, Grissom, hi. I didn't know you were here already." A forced smile was plastered on his face.
"Obviously."
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"We're doing better than last week," Grissom noted as he dropped onto the bench next to Sara. "We make a good team." He fixed an appreciative gaze upon her.
Confusion and suspicion clouded over her eyes. She quickly averted them, choosing to bring the focus back to the game. "We're up by 22 pins."
Grissom scrutinized the scoring, but continued to surreptitiously observe her as she sipped her soda and sampled her french fries. It was same fare she'd chosen the previous week, and he was certain to make a mental note. When her turn came around, she positioned herself at the lane and began her approach. He couldn't help but appreciate her form as she released the ball. How did she manage to make that gaudy blouse look so...good? And she wasn't just beautiful—she had a brilliant, inquisitive mind that captivated him. He'd thoroughly enjoyed listening to her earlier analysis. He cursed himself again for taking so long to work up the courage to pursue the attraction; many injuries had been inflicted upon them both by the far-reaching effects of denial. Those wounds would need time and patience to heal. Sara's reactions showed him that she had constructed a protective wall of her own, and getting through it was not going to be easy.
The CSIs walked side by side to their cars. They won all three games handily, leaving Grissom to wonder if perhaps Hodges and his teammate were sandbagging. If that man was brown-nosing again...he gave himself a mental kick. Why waste energy thinking about Hodges when Sara was walking with him? She deserved every bit of his attention, and he was going to give it to her. From now on, he would devote himself to making up for the mistakes of the past and building a future. With her.
"Grissom?" On the third call, her voice got through.
"Hmm? Sorry, I was distracted."
"Where were you?" She asked softly. "Sorry—not my business. Anyway, um, I'll see you tomorrow."
The embarrassed, pained expression on her face recalled a prior aborted conversation they'd had. "I'm always over-talking around you." He wasn't sure he knew what she'd meant then, but now he thought maybe he did. It stabbed at his heart to realize how gunshy was around him. Had he really been that distant, that dismissive? If only she knew that this time, he'd been about to answer her question.
"Good night, Sara," he answered quietly. Next week, he supposed, he would have to step up his efforts to make amends.
TBC