Duty(8)

“Pretty sure I did well enough,” I reply. We're not pushing the pace. The goal is distance today, not time, so even if we're not trying to rip the rubber off our tires, I'm going to be aching by the end. “Maybe even an A if some of my guesses fall my way.”

“Nerd,” Lindsey teases, smirking. “I thought you guys were all brawn and no brains?”

“Only when we wear camo,” I tease back, and she laughs. “What about you? Where do your brains lie?”

“Mostly in writing,” Lindsey replies. “Growing up, I was a big ice hockey fan, and I actually wrote about my high school team for the local paper. Made me fifty bucks a month that way.”

“No shit?” I ask, and Lindsey nods. “I tried out for the Corps Squad hockey team, but my puck handling wasn't good enough. That’s what got me into triathlon, which is probably a hell of a lot better for my long-term health. Fewer concussions and more teeth, you know.”

“So I guess you've got brains and brawn?”

I feel warmth creeping up my neck, and I can’t help but wonder how serious she is. We haven't done much about it. I think Lindsey's kinda shy about telling whoever she's living with that she's going on these rides with a cadet, but as we ride, we like to flirt.

At the top of the hill, we coast, enjoying the break. “So you wrote? Do you still do it?” I ask, and Lindsey shakes her head, blushing. “What?”

“I got some bad reviews the few times I tried to submit stuff for publication after high school,” she finally says, shrugging. “I guess if I wasn't talking about hockey, nobody wants to listen to what I have to say.”

“That's not true,” I tell her, and she looks over, her eyebrow raised. “I like listening to what you have to say.”

It sounded smooth in my head, but maybe it was a little too mushy. I know I can't talk with her like I would the guys around the Corps, or even the girls, where the phrase 'f*ck off' pretty much works for 'you're welcome.' I'm trying my best to be an actual gentleman, even if I feel stupid doing it.

“Thank you,” Lindsey finally says before reaching down and grabbing her water bottle and trying to take a drink. She does okay with it but stumbles with putting it back, dropping the bottle on the pavement. “Damn!”

“Hold on,” I say, putting on my brakes. “No rush.”

We pull off the road and put our kickstands down, but before we can reach the bottle, a guy in a Nissan pickup drives over it, sending it flying away into the woods that border the highway. “Asshole!”

“He probably didn't see it,” I remind her, patting her shoulder.

“Still, it's two in the afternoon,” Lindsey grumbles, but she smiles when she feels my hand on her shoulder. “I guess this is the point where I'm supposed to ask if you mind sharing your water with me?”

“If you don't mind catching anything I have, I sure as hell don’t.”

“I'll take the risk,” Lindsey replies, laughing. “I doubt you've got cooties anyway.”

“You never know,” I tell her, handing her my bottle. “Here. There's a rest stop up ahead. We can refill there, and then head back. Wow . . . are we really thirty miles from post?”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Lindsey asks, and I nod. “You won't get in trouble doing this?”

“I checked out my bike, saying I was going on a long training ride,” I tell her. “As long as I have it back by six o'clock, I'm golden. I mean, I'm sure I'm breaking some rule or another, but nobody cares unless I get hurt or crash or something.”

“Well, you've now done more than your race distance,” Lindsey reminds me, taking a deep drink and handing it back. “So at least you know it's possible. Just try to remember that you've gotta do it after swimming for a mile and some change. That'll be fun.”

“Oh, I’ve got a plan for that.”

“Tell me, Eisenhower,” Lindsey jokes, getting back on her bike. “Got a motor you're not telling anyone about?”

“No.” I laugh, remounting my bike and starting off again. “Nothing rocket science worthy—I’m just going to use my upper body more for the swim so my legs will be fresh for the ride.”

We reach the rest stop and refill my water bottle after getting a deep drink from it. “Hey, Lindsey?”

“What's up?” Lindsey asks, wiping her face with her sleeve. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have a question,” I ask, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. Holy shit, I’m out of practice. It's been over a year since I asked a girl out on a date, and my tongue is practically glued to the back of my throat right now. Face it, I’m rusty. “Uh, you've mentioned before that you really like hockey, right?”

“Right,” Lindsey replies. “Why?”

“Well, I know from the sticker that you live on post, so I was thinking . . . would you like to go to the game Wednesday night over at the arena?”

She stops, surprised, and I can see that she wants to say no. I'm just about to laugh it off and try to wiggle off this big f*cking hook that I've put myself on when she smiles and shakes her head at the same time. “No, I can't say I'd like to do that . . . but what about going to the Rangers game next Saturday at the Garden? The Penguins are in town. We can call Crosby names together.”