Page 14 of Royal Crush
“Disability,” he said slowly, like I was five.
My cheeks burned. “Right. Disability.” It was hard not to trip over a word that I’d been taught was the wrong thing to say up until I’d started doing research. “Everyone’s experiences are different. Some people have pain so badly they can hardly function. Some people only notice it on bad days. I read blogs and shit by people who walk with, uh…I forget what they’re called. These things strapped to their legs?”
“Mm.”
I didn’t know if I should have kept talking, but I also didn’t want this to be over. It was the first time all day he was giving me more than an annoyed glower. “Everything I looked up about you was always about the accident and what happened after. Nothing about how you, like, lived your daily life.”
“Did you read my book?”
“Ihaveit,” I said. He blinked at me, and I felt like a chastised schoolboy. “I skimmed a few pages.”
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Read it. And I’m not saying that to be narcissistic. That was the first time I was willing to get graphic about the reality of my disability. In my words,” he added, “not some asshole reporter’s.”
I understood what he meant. It was his own story—raw and uncensored. It was something I’d always wanted to do with my own past, but I had no idea when I was ever going to be brave enough to tell the truth about what it was like growing up on set.
“I’ll read it,” I told him.
He regarded me for a few breaths, then gave a stiff nod, spun his chair, and left the bathroom before I could say another word.
All the air rushed from my lungs, and I sagged against the sink. It felt like I’d gone into battle with some absurdly hot warlord who knew exactly how to bring me to my knees.
Ireallydidn’t like him.
And yet, if I was willing to face the most brutal honesty, being in his presence also made me feel safe. I had no idea whatto do with that, so I let it go. What other choice did I have? I wasn’t as though Camillo was ever going to like me. He was barely tolerating me. I had to make do with what he was willing to give me, and if this was it, I’d take it.
I didn’t care how pathetic that made me feel.
Five
CAMILLO
The soundof the dribbling basketball, along with the squealing wheels on the court, was threatening to give me a migraine. I had no idea why I bothered showing up anymore. I’d started playing for the league when I was seventeen—just as a way of getting some strength into my upper body and so I could connect with people who understood what my life was like.
My parents had been so opposed to it, which was another reason I insisted on going. There was little I could do to rebel against the king and queen of Caverna. I had to take those moments where I could get them.
But I wasn’t good at sports. I never had been, and being in a wheelchair didn’t give me some sudden and spectacular talent at hand-eye coordination. I was on the team because I was the prince. Not because I’d earned my way to a spot. Most of the people who played alongside me were amazing.
Several of them had gone on to the Paralympic Games or played for the Royal Wheelchair Basketball Association.
I was still the weedy little spoiled jackass who couldn’t make a shot even if my life depended on it. And yet, I showed up every Thursday to make an ass out of myself.
“Okay, seriously, what’s lodged up your ass, and how much lube do we need to remove it?” Erik was probably my oldest and best friend. In fact, I think he was probably my only friend on the team who liked me for who I was. Everyone else tolerated me because they had no choice…and probably because I didn’t complain that I was benched almost every single game.
Erik was also the one who’d talked me out of quitting every time I wanted to drop the ball and leave. I don’t know why he did it. We both knew I was terrible at it, but I think he also knew I needed something like this. A way to talk to people who weren’t part of my family.
People willing to be real and raw about what life was like. It was rare, and although I usually didn’t want to be there, I always felt better when I left.
“I’m just not in the mood today.”
He lifted a very pale brow at me and came to a rolling stop beside my chair. When the ball came flying in our direction, he caught it with one hand, reminding me why he was a gold medalist and I was just some chump with a weekday hobby.
“We’re taking ten,” he called, then jerked his head toward the doors.
My arms were aching as I followed him into the corridor, but the immediate quiet was a balm. He led the way into the training room, which was dark and empty and even more insulated than the hallway.
He paused at the little minifridge and pulled out one of his disgusting green juices. “Want one?”
“No, thanks. I’m getting a burger after this,” I told him. “With extra bacon.”
