AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to everyone who had reviewed. I would love to name you all individually but sadly I am hard pushed for time as it is and thought it would be better if I got this part out rather than making you wait a couple of weeks for it just to have some names at the top.

Sorry that it has been so long in coming. I hope that you find it to have been worth the wait. On the apologies front, sorry if you got an alert a few hours ago saying that I had posted in one of my other fics 'Learning How to Deal' when I hadn't. I made a one word change to the last part and it caused a little confusion!

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this part and thank you for reading! I really hope that you don't find this chapter too short and/or too slow. I assure you that the next chapter will have lots more action.

I manage to shower and to throw on some clothes that I would class as normal, trying to block out the throbbing pain through steaming hot water and a sense of normality. Even by the time that I have left the changing room my wrist has turned an interesting combination of blues, purples and blacks, leaving me thankful that it is mostly covered up by my long sleeved top.

'OK?' Greg asks as he greets me outside where he has been waiting. I smile as a form of response, adding in a 'Yeah' for good measure.

'C'mon, let's see the damage then.'

I admit that I hadn't exactly been expecting this one. If I'm honest, I thought that Greg might have forgotten. Thinking quickly, I roll up my right sleeve to show him one perfectly healthy wrist – rotating it gingerly as he looks for good measure.

'I'm paid to be observant, Sara, show me the wrist that you actually injured.'

I find it difficult to tell what Greg is thinking. He seems a little hurt that I think that he could be so easily fooled, yet at the same time both amused and confused that I am so keen to hide the injury from him. A part of me is screaming inside my head that I can't possibly show him the swollen and multi-coloured excuse for a limb as he'll never let me play in the tournament but in reality I know that I have little choice. Gently, I roll up my left sleeve to reveal the true nature of the injury.

'I'm pretty sure it's not broken, just a sprain or strain or something…' I trail off as Greg takes a look.

After a few seconds he looks up. 'Pretty nasty yeah, but add some ice now and then a wrist-brace and you'll be back on the ice by the morning.'

I'm shocked but can't help but grin. Now that was what I wanted to hear.

'We're due on shift in just over an hour if you want to head over to the lab early. We can grab some food on the way and then get some ice there…' It's Greg who trails off now, not as sure of himself as usual, seemingly wanting to cover himself in case I suggest that I have other plans.

'Sounds good' I reply and begin to make my way down the street. Greg walks beside and I don't think that I have laughed so hard in years as he tries to describe my wipe-out and then moves on to enthusing about a case that he had been working on a couple of nights back involving a carrot, a computer game and a grand piano – and a dead body of course.

We both order sandwiches and coffees to take-out from a small sandwich bar close to the lab before going into the break-room in order to eat and drink our purchases. By this time I have almost forgotten about my wrist. That is until Greg raids the fridge to find some ice.

'Really Greg, don't worry. I prefer my coffee hot anyway.' I joke but still find myself with an icepack being thrown in my direction. Rather impressed by a one handed low catch to my right, I smile, put the ice down on the table and proceed to sip my coffee and un-wrap my sandwich.

'Sara. Ice on wrist! Now! Really, you don't want to make me come over and do it for you!'

Greg's attempt at being authoritative has me cracking up with laughter once again and almost actually physically unable to carry out a task as simple as moving an icepack a matter of centimetres.

Greg rolls his eyes at my laughter and stops to think for a few seconds before raiding a drawer in the corner of the room with a grin on his face.

I try to ask him what he's looking for but struggle to form a sentence through my fits of laughter. Soon enough though, my question is answered as he walks over with a roll of masking tape and promptly uses it to wrap it round my wrist and the icepack.

'It's cold!' I exclaim as he completes his handiwork, suddenly able to control my laughter and to put on my 'I am not impressed' face.

'That's the idea.' Greg replies through a mouthful of his sandwich. 'Frozen H2O, works a charm.'

I munch on my own sandwich, trying to think about all the fantastic goals that I SO will score rather than the fact that I think my football sized wrist might be on the verge of dropping off from the cold.

Throughout the shift I find myself explaining to just about everyone who is breathing (OK, I admit it, and a couple who weren't...) what happened to my wrist as I seem to keep receiving questions regarding why it's such an interesting colour and why writing and I don't seem to be getting along very well. Perhaps more worrying though is the enthusiasm with which I seem to tell the story. In fact, every time that I describe the wipe-out, it seems to become more spectacular and every time I show my injury, I become every so slightly more proud of it.

'So I take it that you're going for an X-ray and won't be able to play anymore?' Grissom asks, still smirking from my vivid account of the event.

'You're joking, right?' I look at him stunned, as though the thought had never crossed my mind.

'If I was joking, you'd be laughing right now.' Grissom replies in a typical witty manner. 'Seriously though, I'm not joking. You should get it looked at.'

I think about it for a while – ok, I admit, maybe a second or two. It is quite painful, and what if I have chipped a bone or something?

'It won't kill me.' I conclude out loud. 'I'll see you at the rink after the shift? I think a bit of shooting practice wouldn't go amiss.'