Duty: A Secret Baby Romance by Lauren Landish

now.
    But as I gaze into her eyes and see nothing but desire back, I’ve already made up my mind.
    Her needs are not only mine to fulfill. They’re my duty.

    * * *
    T he sweat is dripping off my face, the spring warmth bouncing off the blacktop to suck the energy from my body. Why the hell did I sign up for a half-Ironman anyway?
    Actually, that's not a fair question. All the work I've done on the bike since meeting Lindsey has more than paid off, and I've been flying on the bike for weeks now. And the day started off nice and cool.
    But it was during the bike that the sun came out, and to be honest, I can't do anything about that. West Point is in the Hudson Highlands, where summers are certainly hot, but winter grabs hold in December and hangs on like a motherfucker until late March. When I left West Point, the average high was only seventy degrees during the day, and it was a dry seventy at that.
    But this triathlon is in Virginia. The Army likes us to do it here because the team can stay on the nearby military base for housing the three days of the event. On the other hand, Virginia is at sea level, and it’s a hell of a lot hotter and more humid than New York. It wasn't too bad at the beginning. We started at seven in the morning, and the sky was a bit overcast, but now, the sun's out, and I'm struggling.
    “You can do it!” some fan yells, and I glance over, seeing that it's a soldier. The military sponsors this event, and the winner of the pro group gets their ticket paid to the full Ironman qualifiers in California in September. So, a lot of the fans and the volunteers are military. In fact, I'm busting my ass right now to try and stay ahead of a guy from the Air Force Academy. I've already been passed by three people from Navy. They're on their home turf and know this course perfectly, but I'm not going to get passed by the goddamn Zoomie.
    My feet are aching, and my knees feel like someone's shoving hot pokers into the backs of them with every step, but I still give the soldier a half-nod and a little wave and try to pick up the pace. With only a mile to go, I just have to suck it up for eight more minutes.
    I round the curve at the bottom of the last hill, my lungs crying out. The air here is thick, heavy, wet soup, and I look up at the half-mile hill, my heart quivering in my chest. It looks like a heart attack waiting to happen, with my name written about every fifteen feet saying, 'die here.'
    Suddenly, I hear a voice in the crowd, and I'm shocked. “Push, Aaron! Beat the Zoomie!”
    Lindsey's here? How did she . . . it doesn't matter. Her smile and pumping fist drive me, and I find the energy deep within me to push harder into the pavement. I drive hard, lifting my knees as much as I can muster in the effort to accelerate. I hear the Zoomie trying to kick past me. He's a better runner than I am for sure, and it's been thirteen miles of him whittling away at the lead I had from the swim and the bike. That high-altitude training helps his lungs more than the heat is hurting us both.
    But Lindsey's cheering pushes me, and I go hard. It's not a lot, but his rate of catching up slows. As I cross the line, I'm three steps ahead of him, and I stagger, dropping to the pavement and scraping my knees on the blacktop. Someone, I don't know who, helps me up, leading me over to the grass, where they've laid down a sheet. They make me stretch out, covering my body with cool, damp sheets. It takes me a while. The world is swimming, but when medic comes around, he says that I don't need an IV or anything like that.
    “Nice run, Aaron,” Captain White, who's been helping everyone as they cross the finish line, says about fifteen minutes later when I can actually think, handing me a cup of lukewarm sports drink. Not all that refreshing, but I know if it had been cold, I'd probably have puked it out. “Sip. I didn't think you'd beat the guy. What happened?”
    I nearly let my secret spill out, but I shake my head.