Signs and Wonders

For a full three seconds, I seriously considered slamming the door in E. Shaw Alvarado’s face.

Not because he’d insulted me.

Not because he thought I was a drug dealer.

And definitely not because he’d implied his boosters had access to better narcotics than whatever he thought I was selling out of a rented kitchen.

No…

I considered slamming the door because the kid hadn’t even said good morning.

At forty-four, I’ve learned manners matter.

At twenty?

Apparently sarcasm does the heavy lifting.

Shaw stood on my porch in designer sweats, mirrored sunglasses, and the kind of confidence only youth, talent, and too much money can produce.

He looked past me.

Into the house.

Toward the kitchen counter.

Toward the small, deeply depressing pharmacy I had left spread across it.

Then back at me.

Not nervous.

Not scared.

Evaluating.

Quarterbacks do that.

The good ones especially.

They don’t just read coverages.

They read people.

I folded my arms.

“You always accuse strangers of felonies before breakfast?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Only the suspicious ones.”

I stared at him.

He stared right back.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t check his phone.

Didn’t break eye contact.

And right then…

I understood why half the NFL already had his name circled in red ink.

I stepped aside.

“Come on in, Shaw.”

He walked past me like he owned the house.

Kids today.

No fear.

No manners.

A terrifying amount of confidence.

Honestly…

I kind of respected it.

He stopped in the kitchen and looked at the collection on the counter.

Still wearing the sunglasses.

Still calculating.

I grabbed a paper grocery bag from beside the refrigerator and started dropping bottles and baggies into it.

Shaw watched.

“I was planning to call the police.”

“Sure.”

“I was.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I bought them from a drug dealer.”

He slowly turned his head toward me.

I nodded.

“That sounded better before I said it out loud.”

A tiny smile appeared.

Then vanished.

I finished filling the bag, folded the top over, and left it on the counter.

“You know who I am?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

That was it.

No excitement.

No autograph request.

No my dad used to watch you.

Just…

Yeah.

I leaned against the counter.

“Well, that’s humbling.”

He shrugged.

“My grandpa thinks you’re cool.”

I put a hand over my heart.

“That one hurt.”

The corner of his mouth moved again.

Barely.

But it moved.

Good.

Cracks.

You look for cracks.

In football.

In business.

In ministry.

Same game.

Different uniforms.

I pointed toward the stools.

“Sit down.”

He stayed standing.

“Am I in trouble?”

I smiled.

“Depends.”

“For what?”

“For wasting God-given talent.”

That got his attention.

He slowly removed the sunglasses.

Dark eyes.

Sharp.

Smart.

A little tired.

A little angry.

And carrying way more weight than a twenty-year-old ought to carry.

He sat.

I took the stool across from him.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Outside, campus sprinklers ticked over fresh grass.

Inside…

I could hear a kid deciding whether to lie.

Finally, he leaned back.

“So what’s your angle?”

I smiled.

“Angle?”

“Yeah.”

He gestured around the kitchen.

“Retired NFL legend. Millionaire. Religious nonprofit. Traveling around helping athletes.”

He leaned forward.

“Nobody does that.”

I nodded.

“Fair.”

He pointed at me.

“So what do you really want?”

I thought about it.

Then answered honestly.

“I want you to still like yourself ten years from now.”

He blinked.

Didn’t expect that.

Good.

Nobody expects honesty anymore.

He looked away first.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

Of course it did.

I closed my eyes.

“Lord…”

Shaw smirked.

“Friends of yours?”

“At this point?”

I stood.

“Probably probation.”

I opened the door—

—and for half a second, I saw the old Marcus Reed.

Not the guest speaker.

Not the man people called Preacher.

Not the walking testimony I’d spent two years putting on stages and presenting as proof that grace worked.

No…

For half a second, I saw Vegas.

Minibar bottles.

Borrowed sunglasses at three in the morning.

One more night.

His shirt was wrinkled.

His jaw unshaven.

His eyes puffy.

His smile arrived half a beat too late.

“Preacher.”

His grin widened.

“There’s my team captain.”

Marcus had played beside me in San Diego.

He had also been the first person I helped after going home to Texas.

Before Lost River had a name, a board, or a bank account…

it had Marcus.

Watching him rebuild his life was what first made me believe I could help other athletes do the same.

I had told his story in churches all over the country.

Sometimes he stood beside me and told it himself.

He looked rough that morning, but people look rough after traveling.

That was what I told myself.

“Red-eye?” I asked.

“All the way.”

There it was.

An explanation.

I accepted it before I examined it too closely.

I pulled him into a hug.

He smelled like too much vanilla body spray covering something sour.

Airports.

Bad coffee.

No sleep.

Could’ve been anything.

That was what I told myself too.

He slapped my back.

“Busy morning?”

“You have no idea.”

Marcus walked inside and immediately noticed Shaw.

“Well, well.”

He pointed at him.

“Future Heisman.”

Shaw didn’t smile.

“Who’s this?”

Marcus extended a hand.

“In this life, they call me Preacher.”

Shaw looked at the hand.

Didn’t take it.

“Technically, I’m not a preacher,” Marcus added. “I just talk a lot.”

Marcus laughed.

I laughed too.

Shaw didn’t.

Marcus dropped his hand.

Still smiling.

Still smooth.

Still slightly wrong.

Then his attention shifted toward the kitchen counter.

Toward the folded paper bag.

His pupils widened.

Just a little.

He drifted toward it.

Too casually.

I noticed.

Of course I noticed.

I’d spent my life reading men who wanted me looking in the wrong direction.

But this was Marcus.

My friend.

My former teammate.

The first piece of evidence that Lost River could work.

He was curious.

That was all.

At least, that was what I chose to believe.

I turned back to Shaw.

“Where were we?”

Shaw looked at Marcus.

Then at me.

Then toward the front door—

just as it flew open.

A black lab exploded into the house like she paid taxes there.

She hit the living room at full speed.

Shaw shot to his feet.

Marcus cursed.

I stepped back—

—and a young man with a week-old beard came charging in behind her like a man who’d forgotten doors had owners.

“Rachel!”

He blew right past us.

“Rachel!”

Bedroom.

Bathroom.

Hallway.

“Rachel!”

Shaw looked at me.

“What…”

I held up a finger.

“Honestly?”

I pointed toward the man.

“I have no idea.”

He reappeared in the living room.

Wild-eyed.

Breathing hard.

Hair a mess.

The dog circling his legs.

Then he saw Marcus.

He pointed at him.

“You.”

Marcus froze.

“Me?”

“You told me she’d be here.”

For the first time since Marcus arrived, his smile disappeared completely.

“I told you this was where she was headed.”

“Where is she?”

Marcus opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Shaw grabbed his sunglasses.

“Yeah.”

He started toward the door.

“I’m out.”

“Shaw—”

He shook his head.

“Nope.”

He pointed toward the kitchen.

“Bag full of drugs.”

Then at Marcus.

“Wrinkled preacher.”

Then at the young man and his dog.

“Dog guy screaming about some woman named Rachel.”

Finally, he pointed at me.

“And you…”

He smiled.

“You’re weird.”

Then he walked out.

The front door slammed.

And just like that…

my morning’s work walked away.

I stood there staring at the closed door.

I’d lost him.

Not to drugs.

Not to boosters.

Not to women.

To us.

I turned slowly.

Marcus stood beside the kitchen counter with one hand inside the paper bag.

He slipped a small plastic bottle into his pocket.

Our eyes met.

For one long second…

neither of us spoke.

Every kind explanation I had constructed since opening the door collapsed at once.

Then tires screeched outside.

A Jeep braked hard against the curb.

Doors slammed.

Heavy footsteps crossed the porch.

The front door opened again.

A man almost as large as I was filled the doorway.

Maybe larger through the shoulders.

Black leather.

Tattooed arms.

The kind of build that told me he didn’t visit a gym to socialize.

He carried a small woman against his chest like she weighed nothing.

Like she might die if he loosened his grip.

Behind him walked one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

Not pretty.

Not attractive.

Beautiful in a way that changed the temperature of the room.

Calm.

Composed.

Watching everything.

The man with the dog stopped breathing.

“Rachel…”

The beautiful woman looked at him.

Her expression softened.

“Bodhi.”

The dog stopped circling.

Every muscle in her body went still.

The woman looked down.

“Sasha?”

She extended her hand.

Sasha leaned forward.

Sniffed once.

Then drew back.

A low growl rolled out of her chest.

Not loud.

Not frightened.

A warning.

The woman’s hand stopped.

For the briefest moment, something cold passed across her face.

Then the softness returned.

She withdrew her hand.

Bodhi stared down at the dog.

“Sasha.”

His voice shook.

“It’s okay. It’s Rachel.”

Sasha didn’t move.

Her eyes remained fixed on the woman.

Three years was a long time.

People changed.

Dogs got confused.

Grief did strange things to everyone.

Bodhi seemed to settle on some version of that because the alternative was standing ten feet away, wearing Rachel’s face.

The biker looked at me.

His desperation swallowed the entire room.

“Somebody do something.”

He wasn’t asking.

He was begging.

I straightened.

Squared my shoulders.

Took command.

Because that’s what I do.

Football field.

Boardroom.

Church basement.

Chaos doesn’t care where it finds you.

Leadership shouldn’t either.

I pointed toward the living room.

“Couch.”

The biker didn’t argue.

Didn’t posture.

Didn’t growl.

He just obeyed.

That told me everything I needed to know.

Whatever was happening…

it scared him.

And a man built like that didn’t scare easily.

He laid the smaller woman across the couch as gently as a father putting a child to bed.

Her skin looked wrong.

Too pale.

Too still.

Her lips carried the faintest hint of blue.

I knelt beside her.

“What’s her name?”

“Kristy Lee.”

His voice cracked around it.

I placed two fingers against the side of her neck.

Weak pulse.

Shallow breathing.

I tilted her chin slightly and checked her airway.

Clear.

No obvious obstruction.

No injury I could see.

I wasn’t a doctor.

Never claimed to be.

But I’d spent enough years in locker rooms, training rooms, emergency flights, and postgame medical tents to recognize serious trouble.

And this was serious.

I looked up at the biker.

“What happened?”

He ran both hands through his hair.

“I don’t know. She was fine, and then she wasn’t. At first, it was just chills. Like a cold or the flu. Then she started breathing hard. Then not breathing enough. Then…”

He looked down at her.

Swallowed.

“Then this.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“Preacher.”

Marcus blinked like he’d forgotten where he was.

“Yeah?”

“Call 911.”

The room exploded.

“No hospital,” the biker said.

“Don’t call anyone,” Bodhi added.

“No cops,” Marcus said.

Even the dog barked.

I stood.

Slowly.

Looked at every face in the room.

One by one.

For the first time since the circus began…

everybody got quiet.

“I didn’t ask for a vote.”

Nobody answered.

I pointed at Marcus.

“Call.”

His hand shook as he pulled out his phone.

He looked at the screen.

Frowned.

“No service.”

“We’re three blocks from a university.”

“I know where we are.”

“Try again.”

He did.

Nothing.

I pulled out my phone.

No bars.

No Wi-Fi.

No emergency connection.

Nothing.

I tried anyway.

The call failed before it rang.

I looked at every face again.

The biker.

Bodhi.

Marcus.

The beautiful woman.

“I don’t know who any of you people are.”

I pointed down at Kristy Lee.

“But she is dying.”

Nobody argued.

Nobody moved.

Nobody even blinked.

I knelt beside her again.

Her pulse was still there.

Barely.

Her airway remained clear.

She was breathing, but each breath came weaker than the last.

Nothing I could fix with my hands.

No help coming through the phone.

So I did the only useful thing I had left.

“Well…”

I looked down at Kristy Lee.

Then back at the others.

“We’re going to pray.”

For half a second, nobody moved.

I extended my hand.

Bodhi reached out first.

Then Marcus.

Then the biker.

Reluctantly.

Suspiciously.

The beautiful woman came last.

Her fingers settled into mine.

Cold.

Not cool.

Cold.

Like river water in January.

I looked at her.

She smiled.

Softly.

I ignored the chill.

Closed my eyes.

Tightened my grip.

Bowed my head.

“Lord…”

The word had barely left my lips when flashing blue lights painted the front bay window.

Behind me…

Kristy Lee sucked in one violent, ragged breath.

Like something had just handed her back.

My eyes snapped open.

The beautiful woman was still holding my hand.

Her other hand rested gently against Kristy Lee’s forehead.

She was smiling.