AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this has been so long in coming. I would try to explain why but it would probably take up a lot of your valuable time and just get plain confusing. Just by the by, I have changed my mind and decided that the tournament in this fic will feature the other labs that have TV shows – namely NY and Miami.
Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. Personally, I don't like this part as much as the others and think the fic as a whole is going a little stale. For this reason I'm thinking that this only has another couple of chapters to go.
DISCLAIMER: Nope, still not mine.
To cut a long story short, the next week is filled with work and practices. Eating and sleeping become even more unimportant than normal and are simply inconveniences in my life. My wrist remains sore but gets a little better every day so that by the time of the tournament it is at least something approaching what it had been like for the majority of the last thirty years or so.
This would be the time in a movie that I would tell you that the day of the tournament dawned a bright and sunny one, that we were all totally psyched for it and that all the omens were good for a thrashing of the labs from Miami and New York – now apparently the only ones able to fly personnel over to Vegas. In fact, it's raining as I make my way to the rink. And not the kind of rain that gives a scene character and reflects mood only to reveal a rainbow later on. It's drizzling in a miserable fashion – not quite enough to merit an umbrella and yet enough to somehow soak into your shoes and leave your feet wet for the entire day. Add to that the fact that I have just finished working a double and that my specially made 'high-energy, post-shift snack' has just been discovered to have spent quality time in the break-room fridge with one of Grissom's experiments and you may well gather that I'm not in the best of moods when I arrive to find everyone else fully kitted out and waiting for me.
And, of course, I'm not at all bothered when I find Greg talking rather intimately to one of the CSIs from Miami. Calleigh - I think that's her name at least. I mean, I know it shouldn't bother me that one of my friends is talking to another CSI who is just visiting the city but… well, I'd be lying if I said that perfectly happy about it. OK, I admit it, it isn't helping matters that she's looking good even fully kitted out and having spent a good five hours in an aeroplane while I've gone for the wet, bedraggled look.
I change into my kit as quickly as I can and get chance to warm-up a bit. Maybe it's just me, but I've never quite been able to get my head around warming up on an ice rink. Anyway, Greg hits a couple of pucks in my direction and I set up a few for him to smash towards Grissom in the goal. I can't help but notice his gaze go over towards Calleigh once they rocket into the net though.
We move on to doing a few team drills. Catherine and Warrick are formidable in defence – making me rather grateful that I'm not going to be facing them – while Greg and Nick also seem to have formed a fearsome partnership upfront. And then there's me… I'm still working out what my role is. Greg seems to have moved on from the caring, supportive Greg of the last couple of weeks to a competitor with only winning on his mind.
And then it's time to start. We're up to play New York first. As a city, I've always been rather daunted of New York. It's just so big and the people so street-smart. Their team, captained by their supervisor, Mac, doesn't do much to help dispel my fear. I've seen them warming up and they certainly appear to be ice-smart.
As everyone takes their places on the ice I suddenly find myself fighting the urge to simply skate back off again. And I must look as terrified as I feel because I glance round to find everyone smiling reassuringly in my direction and Grissom giving me a thumbs-up from the goalmouth.
It's agreed that each game will have two periods of ten minutes – just to fit the matches into the evening - and, before I've even really realised what's happening, the first of these has started.
To be honest, I can't really tell you much about the first period, it's all a bit of a blur. I find myself skating around hopelessly, getting the puck now and then but not being able to do much with it. We're winning 2-1 at the break with Nick and Greg scoring a goal apiece. There's an immense sense of excitement surrounding Grissom's short team-talk.
'Nick, Greg – you're doing a great job. Their keeper doesn't look all that great – you might want to try a couple of shots from longer range to test him out.
'Catherine, Warrick – I'm nearly falling asleep in the goal you guys are doing so well. That tackle near the end of the period, Cath – I never knew you had it in you.'
'Sara….' Grissom pauses, 'just keep doing what you're doing.' This is followed by a repeat of the reassuring smiles all round. Needless to say, I am not impressed. No, in fact 'not impressed' wouldn't even start to cover it. Suddenly I find a new passion burning inside me. Sure, I might not be the greatest player in the world but the effort that I have put into the past couple of weeks is not going to go to waste.
As soon as there is a blast of the hooter to mark the start of the second period, I'm off. Where-ever the puck goes, I'm after it – one hundred percent focussed on the lump of rubber flying all over the place.
At one point I swear that I even get close to scoring. I receive the puck from Warrick near the centre of the rink and skate forward a little before seeing Nick unmarked just to the right of the goal. I concentrate on his stick, aiming to be able to give him a simple tap him and yet somehow find the puck sailing just past the left hand post. I hear murmurings of 'great shot Sara' coming from the crowd and am simply too happy and/or embarrassed to admit that it might have been an attempted pass.
It can't be more than a minute after this when it happens. One of the New York team receives the puck from a team-mate. Suddenly I find myself with them dribbling towards both myself and the goal. Gritting my teeth I concentrate on the puck, blocking their route to the goal. And yet they are still dribbling right at me and suddenly it becomes a game of chicken-on-ice – a battle to find out who'll flinch first.
She's now less than two metres away with apparently no intention of anything but the direct route to the goal. Still I stand firm.
One metre. I confess, I'm starting to panic just a little bit but still I don't flinch. I refuse to let myself flinch. In fact, I think I'm too paralysed by fear to do anything other than stand my ground now. And apparently I'm not the only one too stubborn or afraid to change course.
A tangle of bodies falls downwards, everything in slow-motion.
'Not again' is the first thought into my mind as my skates fly into the air.
'Where the heck is the puck?' is my last thought before I crash down.
TBC