A/N: Ah, the Alphabet Meme. Well, let's see if I can make it to 'Z'. This'll just be a series of Morgan/Reid short-fics that I'm using to get back into the habit of writing routinely. Hope you enjoy :)

**I do not own Criminal Minds or its associated characters.**

A is for Aversion

Usually, Spencer Reid had an aversion toward most things sports-related. Not that he didn't enjoy the occasional bet on college and professional basketball— it was easy money after all- but beyond the technical and strategic aspects of sports, there really was nothing of interest for him. Until…

"Is that…?" Reid asked from the doorway of his best friend's home as he was being welcomed inside.

"What? Oh- Oh, yeah." Morgan followed his line of vision over to what Reid had often referred to as his 'ridiculously and unnecessarily large' LED television. With Reid's critical eye, a few tools, and some heavy lifting on Morgan's part, it had only taken them 2 hours and 14 minutes to make sure that it was perfectly centered on the wall opposite the overstuffed leather couch. "Come on in, man. I was just reliving the glory days," he chuckled.

"Huh," was the distracted response as Reid entered the room and Morgan closed the door behind him.

Morgan stood there for a few seconds, silently observing his friend who shuffled over to the couch and sat down on the edge of one of the center cushions. He quirked a brow at the intense concentration on the younger man's face. Leave it to Reid to be more into an old college football game than any pro game played in present day.

"We're the guys in purple. I'm number-"

"22," Reid finished automatically.

"Yeah. How'd you know that?"

For the first time since he'd arrived, Reid turned his face toward the other man, mouth gaping and eyes slightly wider than usual. There was a brief flicker in the doe-eyed stare before he answered.

"November 11th, 2007. You mentioned it in a conversation with Hotch about some football player with the same number."

Morgan's brow furrowed as the conversation seemed to dance at the periphery of his memory. "Huh," he breathed and then shook his head. "At least you weren't rootin' for the wrong team. I'm gonna go order dinner. I know how this one ends." He disappeared into the kitchen, wearing the same vaguely ponderous look.

Reid listened for the deep tones of Morgan's voice placing their delivery order before grabbing the remote control, rewinding the footage by several minutes, and hitting the pause button. He wondered if Morgan would eventually remember that on November 11, 2007, Reid was on a consult 141 miles away, with no way of overhearing any conversation between Morgan and Hotch. Probably not. No one ever really questioned him on things like dates and times.

He tilted his head and stared at the huddle of men, with a new appreciation for the size and quality of the gigantic television. As if number 22 could be anyone else. He'd recognize that spandex-covered ass anywhere. A decidedly wicked smile curved the corners of his lips.

"Go team."