Mr. Fiancé(139)

Duncan thinks about it, then nods. "I've got a laundry list half a mile long. I can't begin to name them all. When Coach B first came around, I said it was for me, to become the man that I want to be instead of the person I am. I told him it was for you for the same reasons. But that's only part of the truth."

"What do you mean?" I ask, already moved by what Duncan said.

Duncan puts his arm around me and gives my shoulders a squeeze, smiling. "I do want to be a man who’s good enough for you. That's not a lie. But when you don't have a model to base yourself on, you have to base it off what you don't want to be. So, I looked at my father. Did you know he used to be an athlete?"

"Not really, no. Was he a football player too?"

Duncan shakes his head. "Nope, or else, I never would have gone near the game. He was a basketball player, actually. From what I heard from my grandfather before he died, he was a pretty good shooting guard. Not pro-caliber, but when you add that to Mom, you get me. She was a near-Olympic level heptathlete. I double-checked recently. Anyway, I looked to Dad. And what I said to myself was, what would Winston Hart do?"

"And what would he do?"

Duncan pulls me closer. "He'd take the easy way out. He'd take the surgery, cruise past the pro combine or the school's pro day, and then cruise into a rookie contract if someone offered it to him. You see, for all his venture capitalist act, he's always cut and run when the going gets tough. So skipping the Sunshine Bowl—that's something he would do."

I nod, not liking Duncan's thinking, but at least understanding it. The game is as much about personal development as it is the team, and there's nothing wrong with thinking that way. After all, being a team player doesn't mean you need to be a masochist. Just partly so. "Then can I ask you a favor?"

"What's that?"

I raise my head, whispering into Duncan's ear. "Can I help out?"

The bus stops, and Duncan and I get off, walking the half-block up to the Vista Apartments before taking the elevator up. Duncan's thinking the entire time, and when we get inside, he closes the door behind us and goes into the living room. "Carrie, it's not that I'm not happy that you offer, but you know with the Honor case still pending against you, that you're technically under suspension. If some jealous bitch like Chelsea Brown catches you working any sort of rehab with me, you're putting your future of getting back into the intern program at stake."

I nod. "I know that. But I know something else, something you haven't thought of yet."

"What's that?"

"Us. What you’re doing could be dangerous, and I want to do whatever I can for you. Besides, after I’m cleared, I really doubt they’d ever do anything to me. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Actually, I'd like to go one better."

“What do you mean?” Duncan asks, and I point to the bedroom. "I think I'm a little banged up for that."

"No, you horndog," I say with a laugh. "Look."

Duncan goes into the bedroom, where I've fully made the bed and cleaned, something that he, despite being neater than most men, didn't do a great job of before. I set a bag next to the dresser, where it sits face up. "Two sets of pillows. Nice, and I appreciate the cleaning job, but what are you saying?"

“What I'm saying is . . . maybe you'd like a live-in rehab specialist?"

Duncan turns to me and shakes his head. "No . . . but I'd love to have a girlfriend who wants to live with me for as long as she wants. How about that?"

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, blinking away the tears that are forming in my eyes. "You have no idea. Actually, there’s one more thing, if you don't mind me being positively domestic."

“Huh?”

I laugh again. "Actually, I was thinking . . . after we talk, would you like to meet my parents? Skype, of course . . . at least for now.”

Duncan nods, then his face clouds. "I get the feeling from what you’ve said, though, that your parents don't like me."

I nod. "Dad doesn't. Mom's just . . . Mom."

"Why?"

I sit down on the bed, and Duncan takes a seat next to me. He undoes the strap on his sling and slowly lays back, resting his arm on the bed while he begins to slowly curl and relax the arm. He's gritting his teeth. It has to be hurting him, but I know he's trying to keep his joint mobile, not stiffening up on him.

"Dad's a long-haul trucker," I tell him as I shift sideways, sitting cross-legged next to his arm. "But he used to be an athlete too. Baseball player, actually. I guess I take after him that way. At his high school, at least my grandmother told me, baseball was a very distant second to football, and the players at his school were, in general, assholes."