The Chance: A Novel

by Karen Kingsbury

He was weeping.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nolan couldn’t shake the picture, the one he’d seen in the e-mail. The eight-year-old boy should’ve had all his life ahead of him, but instead he had terminal cancer. His name was Gunner. Nolan couldn’t remember his last name, just his first. Gunner. The kid and his family would be at the arena soon. Nolan pounded the ball on the hardwood and circled to the other side of the net. His teammates were serious, focused. Game 6 was two hours away and they were up 3–2. Beat Boston tonight, and the Hawks were in the NBA finals. Lose, and they’d be a game from elimination.

  Nolan kept to himself, focused on the net. Ten quick jump shots and he made eye contact with Dexter, long enough to convey the obvious. They would do this. They would win it. They had to. One of the Celtics starters had spouted off on Twitter that they’d destroy the Hawks in Game 6. That Atlanta didn’t have what it took, and Nolan Cook was overrated.

  Overrated.

  Nolan clenched his jaw. He wasn’t losing tonight. God was with him. He would play outside his own strength and believe—absolutely believe—that when it came to basketball this season, the Lord wasn’t finished with him yet. He had more ways he could shine for Christ. For Him and through Him, in His strength. Glorifying God. That was what mattered tonight.

  That and Gunner.

  The e-mail showed the small boy bald, with big brown eyes. The kid had two wishes. He wanted to play basketball for his high school. And he wanted to meet Nolan.

  The first dream would never happen. Gunner had a month or two at best, from what his parents said in the letter. The second wish would come true today. Nolan sank a dozen free throws. The boy and his parents would be here in fifteen minutes.

  So many sick kids. It was the hardest part of caring, of opening his heart and giving of himself. He wouldn’t trade it. God had given him this platform, and Nolan would use it however he could. Hanging out with a sick little boy, bringing joy to a child who wouldn’t live to see Christmas? Praying for him the way he would tonight? This was what playing basketball was really about. Caring was Nolan’s absolute privilege.

  But it wasn’t easy.

  Most of the kids he hosted were from Atlanta’s foster care system. That or sick kids who still had a chance. So far this year he hadn’t spent time with any terminal children. Not until tonight, with Gunner. Gunner, the boy who loved basketball. Nolan dribbled in for a layup, his heart heavier than the ball. It was wrong. The boy with the name that sportscasters would’ve loved wouldn’t live to see next year’s play-offs.

  Nolan hit two jump shots. Tonight Gunner would give him another reason to win. Nolan was healthy, his body never better. He would play for Gunner today. God, his father, and Gunner. If that didn’t give them the victory, nothing would. He shot around the three-point line, and in a blur of baskets, he heard their voices. The adults bringing Gunner in for his dream visit.

  Most of his teammates had gone into the locker room to stretch and hydrate. He left the ball at the bench, toweled off, and turned toward the voices. Five people made up the group—two couples and the boy. Gunner moved slowly, but his eyes couldn’t have been brighter.

  “Hey!” Nolan jogged the rest of the way. He stooped down so he was eye level with the child. “You must be Gunner.”

  “Yes, sir.” He shook Nolan’s hand. “You’re taller in person.” He grinned up at the couple beside him. “This is my mom and dad.”

  “Hi.” Nolan stood. Gunner’s parents introduced themselves, and they all shook hands.

  At that point the other couple stepped up. The blond woman was Molly Kelly, president of the Dream Foundation, and the man beside her was Ryan, her husband. In a couple of minutes, Nolan learned that Ryan was the guitarist for Peyton Anders and that he was on a short break from the current tour.

  Nolan liked the couple. He wanted to find out more about Molly’s foundation and how he could help. But all of that was second to the reason they were gathered here ninety minutes before game time.

  A terminally ill little boy named Gunner.

  Nolan walked beside the child as he showed them the training facility and weight room. A few other Atlanta players made their way out of the locker room. He introduced them, watching the child’s eyes light up. Every moment that remained of his life, Gunner would remember this day.

  Nolan tried to gauge how easily the boy tired, and by the time they returned to the arena, he felt confident Gunner could handle a little more. The boy’s parents and Molly and Ryan trailed behind, and Nolan looked over his shoulder at the group. “Anyone up for a little ball?”

  “Seriously?” Gunner spun around and looked at his parents. “Please! I’m not tired, I promise!”

  His mother had happy tears in her eyes. She put her fingers over her mouth and nodded. Her husband took her other hand and coughed a few times; both of them were clearly touched. “Yes, he can play. He’ll let you know when he needs to stop.”

  Nolan smiled. His throat was too thick to talk. He patted Gunner on the back while he found his voice. “You ready, buddy?”

  “Yeah!” Gunner gave a few weak fist pumps. He ran for the ball by the Hawks’ bench and dribbled it back. Nolan raised his eyebrows. The kid was good. “Look at you!” Nolan held out his hands for a pass, and Gunner bounced the ball to him. “Wow . . . you’re really great!”

  Gunner’s dad beamed even as his eyes grew wet. “His first-grade coach said he had the ball-handling skills of a middle-schooler.”

  They would never know how good the boy might be or what could’ve happened if he hadn’t gotten sick. Again Nolan struggled to find his voice. Never mind the future. Gunner had this moment, right here. That would have to be enough.

  He cleared his throat. “Hey, I have an idea.” He looked at Ryan and Gunner’s dad. “How about two-on-two. You guys against Gunner and me.” He high-fived Gunner. “Sound good?”

  “Yes! Nolan’s on my team!” Gunner did a celebration dance, both hands in the air, but just as quickly, he dropped them to his sides and his shoulders sank. He caught a few quick breaths. He was tiring, but his eyes stayed full of life. “Okay! I’m ready.”

  The contest lasted fifteen minutes, but in that time Nolan swept Gunner into his arms and lifted him high enough that he made two shots. Combined with six buckets from Nolan, the two of them were the clear winners. When it was over, Nolan crouched down to Gunner’s level. “You’re awesome, buddy!”

  “Thanks!” An exhausted Gunner threw his arms around Nolan’s neck. “That was better than the championship of the whole world!” He looked out at the empty court, seeing things that would never be. “I could probably even play for the Hawks tonight. That’s how good I feel!”

  His mother wiped silent tears, and Molly kept an arm around the woman’s shoulders. Nolan knew one thing for sure. He would remember Gunner always. They sat down on the bench. Someone from the Hawks’ office had delivered a tray of healthy snacks—grapes and string cheese and sunflower seeds. Gunner sat next to Nolan, replaying every moment of their brief game. After they ate, the boy left with his parents to get his next dose of medication.

  When they were gone, Ryan talked about the timing of his days off and how glad he was to be here. “I drove in from Savannah. Had some important business there and then this. The timing was perfect.”

  “Savannah.” Nolan could smell the summer air, feel the rough bark of the old oak tree against his back. “I grew up there.”

  “Really?” Ryan tilted his head. “I didn’t know that.”

  Nolan felt the sadness in his smile. “I don’t talk about it very much. The girl I was going to marry moved away when we were fifteen.”

  Ryan winced, but his expression said he wasn’t sure if Nolan was serious. “That hurts.”

  “Yeah.” He paused and looked down for a few seconds. “Later that year I lost my dad. Heart attack.” He kept his tone light, because he barely knew these people. But he sensed that he didn’t need to hide the truth. Especially with them. Pain
was a part of life—something that people who worked with Molly’s foundation absolutely understood.

  “I think I read about that.” Ryan lowered his water bottle and leaned over his knees. “Your dad was a coach, right?”

  “He was.” Nolan let his eyes drift to the court. Left side, three-point line. “He coached me until the night he died. I miss him every day.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ryan reached for Molly’s hand. They were both caught up in Nolan’s story. “Your mom, what happened to her?”

  “She’s great.” Nolan popped a few grapes in his mouth. “Lives in Portland near my sisters. They make it out to a few games every season.”

  “And the girl?” Molly smiled, her voice tender. She looked at her husband. “Sometimes someone moves, and the feelings never quite go away.”

  “Exactly.” Nolan chuckled, but only because that was the expected response. He’d been fifteen, after all. “You sound like you know.”

  “Our story’s a little crazy.” Ryan reached for Molly’s hand.

  “I’d like to hear it. Maybe after the game. The front office is setting up an ice cream bar for all of you.”

  “Thank you.” Molly’s eyes shone with sincerity. “This means so much to Gunner.”

  “I can tell.” Nolan nodded and stood, shaking their hands again. “I have to go. After the game, meet me at the bench.” He had started for the tunnel when Molly called his name.

  “You never said what happened with the girl.”

  “Oh, that?” Nolan hesitated, picturing Ellie, feeling her in his arms again. He found his smile. “She moved to San Diego with her dad. I never heard from her again.” He waved. “See you soon.”

  And with that he reined in every emotion, every feeling and thought fighting for position in his head, and forced them into just one.

  Beating the Celtics.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The question of Kari Garrett came up at halftime.

  With the Hawks trailing by four points, three reporters asked him about her. Three sportscasters. As if they couldn’t find some aspect of his game to talk about. Nolan didn’t let his frustration show. Yes, she had planned to attend the game . . . no, they weren’t officially dating . . . and no, she wasn’t here. Something had come up.

  His answers were kind but short. As he jogged to the locker room to join his team, one of his father’s favorite lessons from Luke, chapter twelve, whispered through his soul. To whom much is given, much will be expected. A reminder his father referred to often. There was no room for grumbling or complaining. God had given him a dream job, a public place to shine for Him. He could be kind to reporters.

  Inside the locker room, Nolan found his teammates looking exhausted, gathered around their coach. The man looked frustrated as he pointed at Nolan. “Maybe you have something, Cook. Something to make these guys play like they care.” He looked at the sweaty faces around the room. “You have to want this with your whole heart, men. Your whole heart.”

  Dexter turned to Nolan. “Tell them about the kid.”

  Nolan grabbed a towel from a stack on the closest bench and rubbed his neck. “The boy’s name is Gunner. He’s got terminal leukemia, a few months to live, maybe less.” He moved to the front of the group, next to Coach. “The kid’s lifelong dream is to play ball for his high school. His second is to be here tonight.”

  The sobering reaction in the eyes of his teammates was undeniable. No one had to point out the fact that the boy’s first dream wasn’t going to happen. “I told Gunner we would win this game.” Nolan paused. “For him.” The Scripture came to him again, screaming through his mind. “My dad died when I was a kid. Most of you know that.” He looked at the faces of his teammates, and the intensity in his voice grew, his tone more passionate. “But when I started playing ball, he would tell me this: ‘To whom much is given, much will be expected.’ ” He stared at them. “That’s in the Bible.” He waited again. “Look around this locker room. No matter what you believe, the truth is this, guys: We have been given so much.” He didn’t move, didn’t blink. “I think of Gunner, believing that we’re playing this game for him.” His voice rose once more. “So let’s give something back! Let’s win tonight. Let’s do this!”

  The fire was back in his teammates’ eyes. A chorus of shouts rose from the group, and the team came together in a huddle. The coach stepped back and watched, nodding, satisfied. Nolan put his hand in the middle, and the others did the same. The energy had completely changed, the electricity ten times what it had been coming into the locker room. “Beat Boston!”

  A chorus of voices echoed the shout.

  Nolan felt more on fire than at any time all season. “Gunner, on three. One . . . two . . . three.”

  “Gunner!”

  And with that, they took the floor a different team.

  In the third quarter, the Hawks forced four turnovers in the opening couple of minutes, and Atlanta took a two-point lead. They played defense with a frenzied aggression, stunning Boston. A few minutes more, and the Celtics began to unravel. Even Boston’s leading scorer fell apart. The guy couldn’t hit a shot the rest of the quarter. At one point, he drove in for a dunk and missed it. The arena flew to its feet, celebrating the moment. Later, the announcers would peg it as the turning point. The contest was over after that. Long before the Hawks notched an eighteen-point win and a place in the NBA finals.

  As the buzzer sounded at the end of the game, Nolan jogged with the game ball over to Gunner, sitting courtside with his parents and Molly and Ryan. Nolan was sweaty and out of breath, but he handed the ball to Gunner and leaned close so the boy could hear. “We won it for you, Gunner!”

  The crowd missed the exchange. The fans were on their feet, shouting for the Hawks. A horde of media filed onto the court, surrounding the players, while police officers kept fans back. Little Gunner didn’t notice any of it. He took the ball and hugged Nolan’s neck, not minding the sweat or the circus atmosphere.

  Nolan nodded to Ryan. “Meet you here in half an hour.”

  He joined his teammates, chest-thumping and high-fiving and hugging. Dexter came up and slapped his arm. “We did it, man! It was that halftime speech.”

  “You know what it was, Dex?” Nolan looped his arm around his friend’s sweaty neck. Then he pointed up, and for a full couple of seconds, he stared toward the rafters. “It was God Almighty . . . meeting us here. Because maybe we finally got it.” He winked at Dexter. “You know, as a team.”

  “He was definitely with us!” Dexter laughed and raised both fists in the air. “I didn’t think I’d ever know this feeling. It’s amazing!”

  “Nolan . . . over here, Nolan!” A group of sportscasters approached them. Dexter was a phenomenal swing man, but they didn’t want him. Nolan’s friend patted his shoulder. “Go get ’em.”

  They shared a quick smile, and Nolan turned his attention to the reporters. Ten minutes later, as he headed for the shower, he looked back one more time to the place where Gunner sat with his family. The craziness around them was finally lessening a little.

  Gunner sat between his parents while the adults talked around him. Even from across the court Nolan could see that the boy was in his own world. He had the game ball on his lap, staring at it, running his hand over it. Nolan knew what the boy was thinking, what he was feeling. Despite his losing battle with cancer, in this moment—even for a fraction of time—the boy had won. He was a Hawk and he was a champion.

  Nolan blinked back his tears and joined his teammates.

  Gunner’s dream came true: And that made tonight’s victory the greatest of all.

  The dots needed connecting.

  That was all Ryan Kelly could think as they sat down with their ice cream on the suite level of the Philips Arena that night. Even with courtside seats, he couldn’t stop thinking about the last things Nolan had said before the game, how he’d grown up in Savannah, same as Caroline Tucker. And how the girl he was going to marry had moved away to San Diego when she
was fifteen. A girl who would be about the same age as Nolan. Caroline’s daughter—Ellie, if he remembered right—had moved with her dad to San Diego when she was fifteen, too. He could picture the sad blond woman, wringing her hands, trembling, her only prayer that she might reconnect with her daughter.

  Hadn’t she said something about a basketball player? Ryan stared at his ice cream. Nolan had arrived, showered and changed, a few minutes ago. He chatted with Gunner and his parents, and beside him, Molly touched his shoulder. “They’ve made a new batch.” She nodded to the sundae bar. “Hot fudge.”

  “What?” Ryan caught the glances from Gunner’s parents and even from Nolan. “Sorry . . . I was distracted.” He stood and nodded to the ice cream bar. “I’ll be back.”

  The others laughed lightly, and even Gunner smiled. Still lost in the details, Ryan found the hot fudge and returned to the table. He took a few bites of his ice cream, then he set his spoon down. “Nolan, can I ask you something?”

  Nolan leaned his forearms on the table. “Sure.”

  The question might be crazy, but he had to ask. Ryan’s heart slammed against his ribs as he looked straight at Nolan. “Does the name Caroline Tucker mean anything to you?”

  Nolan Cook had a reputation for being poised and easygoing, whatever question came his way. But here, in light of Ryan’s question, he simply froze. The color left his face, and he seemed unable to respond. Ryan wasn’t sure how much time went by. It didn’t matter.

  He had his answer.

  Gunner’s parents seemed to sense that something had changed around the table. They used the moment to take the boy to the restroom. Molly looked confused, but she slid closer to Ryan.

  Nolan found his control. He uttered a single laugh. “How do you know Caroline?”

  “She’s an old friend of Peyton’s.” He could feel Molly grasping the situation beside him. “I met with her when I was in Savannah.”

  “Caroline Tucker and Peyton Anders? They were friends?”