“I didn’t know you were that ripped, Brother Samuel.” Jason clicked his tongue. “Before you took off that sweater I was one hundred percent straight. Now I’m really confused.”
Howling laughter echoed across the soccer field.
Kingsley wrapped an arm around Jason’s neck, pulling the teen’s head to his chest. “You need to watch your mouth, young man.”
“No! Let me go!” Jason’s attempt to break out of the choke hold was for naught, mainly because he was laughing too hard.
Smiling, I watched them wrestle a moment longer until Kingsley delivered Jason from his prison. I loved how he interacted with the kids. Sweet with the girls, and just the right amount of rough with the boys. They clearly looked up to him. In a world crowded with bad role models, Kingsley was the kind of example teens needed.
“Seriously, though. Do you work out or something?” Jason shrugged his PSG jersey back into place, blond hair ruffled and face red.
Kingsley’s gaze flickered to me, then back to Jason. “Physical labor and swimming.”
Sensing how uncomfortable he was under the whole group’s scrutiny—even Brother Matthew seemed fascinated—I passed him his sweater. He didn’t miss a beat and pulled the blood-caked piece of clothing over his head. While doing so, he turned his back to me. Now I understood what the girls had been staring at—more muscles strained the shirt, his wide shoulders a sight to behold.
“I think we’re done for today.” Brother Matthew spun the soccer ball on his index finger. “Off to bed.”
The teens groaned and grumbled their disapproval, but they scattered to gather their belongings.
Kingsley didn’t say a single word when the three of us walked back to the van. His gaze came to me over and over, as if to make sure I was okay.
“Something wrong?” I asked once we were buckled up and Brother Matthew pulled away from the soccer field. The teens had hopped on the bus driving back to the city.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Kingsley scraped a hand over his mouth and beard. “I think you were right about Giuliana. That’s not good. I’m way too old for her. She shouldn’t be looking at me like that.”
I chuckled. “Oh, come on. She has a crush on you. Every teenage girl has a crush at some point. You don’t even want to know what kind of crushes I had at that age.”
“I don’t want to make her fall into sin.”
You can most definitely make me fall into sin.I groaned inwardly at the rogue thought. Why couldn’t my filthy mind shut up?
Brother Matthew glanced over at me as if reading my thoughts. Or did he want to gauge my reaction to Kingsley’s statement?
No, it was too dark for that in this cab.
“You can only do so much,” I said. “And I don’t think there’s a whole lot more you can do than dressing modestly—which you do. What women think beyond that isn’t in your control.”
Like the things I thought about him. The last thing I wanted to do was objectify him, yet my thoughts constantly did exactly that.Lord, I’m sorry. Please give me pure thoughts.
Kingsley stared out the windshield at the road only illuminated by the Ford’s headlights. A few lonely houses surrounded by patches of grass or jungle rolled by.
“She’s right, man.” Brother Matthew stopped at an intersection, then turned right. “Being mindful is good, but there’s nothing you can do beyond that.”
“I just don’t want anyone else having to constantly battle their own flesh.”
His admission had me holding my breath. Was that the sin he’d hinted at? The one he was battling? Did this mean we struggled with the same sin?
Except he probably hadn’t crossed all of the lines I had.
“I wish all men were like you,” I muttered. “The church always tells women to dress modestly, but no one bats an eye when men wear tight shirts that display all the muscles or tight jeans or their biceps are on full display or when their shirt rides up and the waistband of their boxers shows. And in youth group, us girls had to wear one piece swimsuits while the guys showed off their six-packs. Some of us women have a high sex drive, too, you know. We, too, struggle with porn addiction or reading spicy books or sexual sin, sometimes everything together”—hello, it’s me—“but the church only offers help to men. Do you see what a paradox this is? Men aren’t held accountable when it comes to dressing modestly, but the offered help is only geared toward them.”
An eerie silence settled in the cab like heavy fog. I was probably preaching to the wrong crowd.
“That’s, um . . .” Brother Matthew cleared his throat. “I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.”
“You wouldn’t believe how many women struggle with lust and sexual sin. It’s just that no one talks about it.”
Kingsley shifted next to me. “I’m working on a homily about the desires of the flesh. I could include that.”