Perfect Score (Easton U Pirates 3)

Smirking, I glanced across the room to Morgan, who seemed lost in thought. He had his earbuds in and was holding on to the handrails so he didn’t trip, which sometimes happened with his leg braces. He tried fitting them under baggier sweats or jeans, but sometimes the bottom portion got caught on things, so he’d learned to be careful.

Vickers approached to ask me about the upcoming assignment in a class we shared, and before I knew it, Morgan was finished on the treadmill, and he’d walked over so I could spot him on the weight bench. He was pushing himself today, which made me wonder if he was still working through the wedding stuff we’d discussed.

“Look at those guns,” I said when he’d had enough and sat up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

He blushed. “You know damn well I’ll never be as pumped as you.”

“Nor would you want to be,” I countered.

“Okay, true.” Whether he admitted it or not, he enjoyed his twink status. And someday, the right guy would too. My gut twisted. He better.

“I’m gonna hit the locker room,” Morgan said, “then head to class early so I can review my notes for my statistics quiz. I work until close tonight, so don’t wait up.” He nudged me. “Hey, you listening?”

“Yeah, I heard you loud and clear,” I said, slipping my cell out of my pocket. “Already pulling up my hookup app since you won’t be home tonight.”

“You ass,” he said with an eye roll. “I’m jealous.”

My face fell. I’d already forgotten how he’d been ditched last night. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t you dare!” he said with a mock scowl. “Obviously, my blue balls aren’t a permanent condition. Have fun. Just don’t gloat too much, or I’ll kick your butt.”

He strode off, and I stood there staring after him, for some strange reason thinking about him saying he needed my support at his brother’s wedding.

“What’s with the goofy smile?” Vickers asked.

“Nothing,” I replied, snapping out of it. “Just thinking about a conversation I had with Morgan on the way over.”

He smirked. “I swear the two of you should just hook up already. He was always in the stands at your games too.”

“What the hell, dude? We’re best friends. I’ve known him since middle school.” Though he was right about the stands thing. Morgan would show up at home games and sit by my parents. Even though he hated sports.

“Is there some rule that you can’t date someone you’ve known since sixth grade?”

I scrunched my face. “Date? I don’t think of him like that.”

Though I had over the years, due to natural curiosity, mostly about sex. Of course I batted that idea away immediately.

Vickers lifted his hands in surrender. “I was only messing with you. It’s cool that you have such a good friend.”

“Sorry, I’m being weird. Wanna head to class together?”

He nodded. “Right after this last set.”

The whole way to biochemistry class, and even after I’d slid into my seat, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Vickers said. Guess Morgan just had that effect on me.

4

Morgan

I was behind the counter at the campus bookstore, ringing up a customer who’d bought two notebooks, a pack of Sharpies, and some candy. My right leg was aching a bit, but I couldn’t tell if it was from working out this morning or the general fatigue of being on my feet for so long. I’d been slacking on the exercises my physical therapist assigned me to stretch my rigid Achilles tendon, so it was partly my doing.

I leaned my hip against the edge of the counter to take the pressure off my ankle. There was no cure for Spastic Paraplegia. The kind I’d inherited was a slow-advancing disease, though there were no guarantees. If I didn’t work on keeping myself strong and flexible, the progression could worsen, and that would be nobody’s fault but my own. I’d likely need to use a cane or even a wheelchair someday, and staying on top of my health would help smooth the way. I used to feel sorry for myself, but I was actually grateful now, even if it made my life tricky, to say the least.

“You okay?” Jasmine swept behind the counter to retrieve a key ring for the storage closet. When she’d been offered the promotion to assistant manager after graduation, she’d jumped on it since it helped defray the cost of her master’s in Urban Studies.

“Yeah. Why?” I asked, straightening the display of bookmarks on the counter.

She shrugged. “You had this strange look on your face.”

“I was probably thinking too hard about stupid stuff.”

“Doubt it was stupid.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I enjoyed your post from yesterday.”

My face heated. “Thanks.”

Lately, I’d been tinkering around on my Instagram account, just being honest about the challenges I sometimes faced. My recent posts had become popular for disability rep—or #criprep, because some in the community have taken back the term crippled just like those in the LGBTQ community have taken back the word queer. In my own small way, I was hoping to spread awareness or normalize the things I experienced.