Page 50 of From Ice to Grace
His eyes widen and his face splits into a massive grin as he turns in his seat almost comically.
“Watch the road man,” I tell him, shoving him so he can turn back.
“Whoa…Murphy, I thought sisters were off-limits. Does EJ know you’re knocking boots with his little sister?” Lindgren asks, his voice bordering between teasing and concern. Whether it’s concern for my safety or for Avah’s, I’m not sure.
“Nobody is knocking any boots. Calm down.” I run a hand through my hair, the image of Avah in her tight golden dress from last night, popping up in my mind for some reason.
“Doesn’t look like it. You look like you had a great shower just now, hair’s still wet and everything.”
“That’s because I did,” I bark. “She’s not even there.”
She’s at church.
This morning when she told me she’s going, something akin to discomfort stirred inside of me. It’s no secret that most of my teammates are Christians, but since Lucas got married, it feels like I’ve seen…more of it. Now, I can see him praying with Hannah before a game. I’m noticing how EJ prays before a meal, even when we’re out for dinner. Nothing big or major, but he bows his head and closes his eyes before he digs in.
And now, Avah, the woman I’ve had a weird…situationship with for the past year is going to church, after she literally picked me up off a dirty bar floor.
I run my hand over my face, forgetting about my cut—again. For some reason I don’t like the fact that she might think less of me because of my behavior last night.
Not that I think she really thought much of me before.
But she took care of me like she might.
“Did you break into her place?” Lindgren asks, his eyebrow quirking.
“Is that the next logical option?” I ask him, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “An affair or crime? Nice to know you think so much of me.”
I’ve never doubted my teammates' friendship before, but these past few months, it’s become clear what they think about my character. They obviously only love me for my game. EJ’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t think I’m suited for any woman, let alone his sister. And now Lindgren.
“Nah, that’s not what I meant, man,” he says apologetically. “Come on, Murphy, you know I love you.”
“You sure know how to show it,” I mumble.
“It’s just, it’s no secret that the two of you don’t really get along. You’ve been at each other’s throats for a year now. So sue me for thinking the worst.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I sigh, not really wanting to go into the fact that she had to come to my rescue last night—and that I owe her big time. Not to mention that I definitely owe her a new car. “She went to church,” I add.
Lindgren nods, keeping his eyes on the road and his lips sealed shut. He’s obviously holding back on me.
“Do you go to church?” I ask, wondering out loud.
“Not anymore.” He shakes his head, his voice tinged with sadness…or is it disappointment.
I nod, not knowing what to say. I used to go to church since my mom’s second husband made a bigger deal out of it than my dad did. But as soon as I was old enough to decide for myself, I stayed home on a Sunday. My Aunt Kat has tried to get me to go with her a couple of times, but every time I hear her talking about Jesus and his ability to bring us healing, I can’t help but think she’s naive. Because I’ve heard her praying for my dad, for his salvation, and still he’s neck deep in a bottle before 9AM every morning.
“I know I should go,” Lindgren says suddenly. “It would be better for me to find a place where I feel comfortable, but ever since I left Minnesota…I don’t know. It’s not the same as my church back home.”
That makes sense. For a big, Minnesota mamma’s boy like Lindgren, the home factor would play a role. New York City is nothing like Minnesota, or even Boston. Maybe my faith would look different if I grew up in a small town.
Then again, maybe not. Small towns have liquor stores too.
“So you believe that God is looking down at us? That He’s in control of everything?” I ask, unable to keep the scepticism from my voice. I’m not trying to be a jerk to Lindgren. It’s just that I’m genuinely curious, and for some reason my rookie roommate who weirdly resembles a golden retriever seems like a safe option to ask a question like this.
Maybe it’s because I know he won’t tell anyone I asked.
And if he did, I’m not sure they’ll believe him.
“I do. That’s why my number is 56—for Psalm 56,” he says, the corner of his mouth tipping into a confident smile. “Don’t get me wrong, doubt creeps in. Many times. But I always come back to the same conclusion…there has to be a God up there, otherwise we’re all screwed.”
