The 19th Hole

Chapter 1

April

The gates buzzed as they slid open, dragging through the morning like they knew he wasn’t in a hurry to walk inside.

Zaire stepped through them anyway. He adjusted his hat and nodded at the guard who already knew his face.

He came every chance he got, which wasn’t that often due to his fame.

Sometimes before tournaments or sometimes in the middle of the week when the noise in his head got too loud.

A couple threw head nods his way out of respect, and some even sneered because they didn’t wear blue.

One called out, “Cooks, go crazy this season,” and Zaire forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

None of it touched him today.

He wasn’t here to feel important.

He was here because his father was behind these doors and nothing in Zaire’s account could get him out.

It made the money not feel so good anymore.

People talked about money being power, but it seems they left Black people with money off that manifesto.

The C.O. tapped his shoulder. “He‘s waiting on you.”

Zaire exhaled and stepped into the visiting room where the noise hit him like it was his first time.

Voices layered over more voices. Guards watching.

Kids running around their tired mothers.

It was loud, but that wasn’t what got to him.

What got to him was seeing his father stand up when he spotted him.

Antwan Cooks had the same walk, same height, same shoulders. His beard was gray, and his jumpsuit looked stiff on his frame, but his eyes never changed, not even from behind the glass.

Zaire hated that glass more than anything in the world.

“You good, son?” his father asked as he sat down on the other side of the divider.

Zaire could read his lips. He could always read them. Even before he knew how to actually read, he’d learned how to hear what his Pops said without having to hear him.

Zaire picked up the phone. “Yeah. I’m straight.”

“You lying already?”

Shifting in the hard, uncomfortable seat, Zaire didn’t say anything yet. He always had to regulate his emotions and let shit sit when he came to chop it up with his Pops.

Antwan held his gaze like he was peeling back every layer Zaire tried to hide. Zaire looked down at his own hands because it was easier than looking at the man he couldn’t fix.

“I talked to the lawyer again.” Zaire’s voice wasn’t steady the way he wanted. “She‘s filing the motion next week…thinks there’s enough for an appeal this time.”

His father nodded but didn’t smile. “How much you spend now?”

Zaire shrugged. “None of your business.”

Antwan gave him that look. The one that warned him without raising his voice. “Everything about you…is my business.”

Zaire leaned back in the plastic chair and rubbed his jaw. “It don’t matter how much. I got it.”

“I didn’t ask if you got it,” his father said. “I asked what it cost you.”

Zaire felt his gut twist. “It don’t matter.”

He looked to his left and felt his blood climb when he caught somebody staring. Fame was stupid sometimes. It made people forget they were the same as him—just folks coming to see people the system swore couldn’t stay out of trouble.

His father studied him like he always did. Like he was checking for cracks. “You tired.”

Zaire didn’t respond, only licked his lips and found something else to focus on.

“You’re carrying too much,” Antwan expressed. “You always did. Even as a little boy, you tried to fix everything - your Mama…your friends…your school. Fighting boys who talked slick, and trying to take care of a house you wasn’t supposed to be the man of.”

Zaire gulped, feeling his throat tighten.

“You ain’t supposed to raise a father either,” Antwan inferred with a little bass in his voice.

Not a day went by that Antwan didn’t wish he’d done a better job at staying free.

Zaire looked up. “I’m not trying to raise you, cuh.”

“You trying to save me, though.”

Zaire didn’t deny it. “Somebody gotta.”

Antwan sighed into the receiver, gripping it tighter. “I know this place makes you feel like you failed me. But you didn’t. You didn’t put me in here.”

“But I’m the one out there,” Zaire’s voice shook just a little.

“I’m the one with money. I’m the one with cameras in my face.

I’m the one these people root for and talk shit about in the same breath.

And none of it matters. I can buy a car with cash but I can’t buy you out of this. That’s what eats me.”

“I didn’t ask you to buy me out.”

“You don’t gotta ask,” Zaire snapped. “It’s all I think about.”

The hurt in his stomach crawled up until it sat right behind his ribs.

He never said stuff like this out loud - not to nobody.

But today he couldn’t swallow it down…not when every night he fell asleep wondering if the world would ever give him his dad back…

not when he was twelve hours away from being on their turf again, just for them to pick apart every little piece of him like he wasn’t as human as their good ol’ boys.

Antwan straightened up. “Look at me, cuh.”

Zaire lifted his eyes.

“You became everything I wanted to be,” his father said. “You made it outta nothing. I don’t want my son tearing himself apart, trying to drag me into the life he built.”

“I want you there,” Zaire said. “Sometimes, I need you there,” he struggled to say the last part.

“And I wanna see you win,” his father responded. “Not watch you walkin’ around feeling guilty like you owe me anything more than your love.”

Zaire didn’t move...didn’t breathe. He felt the words hit him at every angle.

“I know you tired,” Antwan continued. “I know your head not right. I know you trying to play perfect for a world that don’t even clap for you with two hands. But you’re mine - you hear me? I don’t need you to save me. I need you to save yourself,” he stressed, pointing at Zaire through the glass.

Zaire leaned forward, gripping the receiver. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“And that’s enough,” his father said. “But don’t lose yourself behind this fight. Don’t let them break you before you get the chance to be free in ways I never got to be.”

Zaire pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and nodded. “I hear you.”

“You sure?”

“No,” Zaire admitted, “but I’m trying.”

His father laughed softly. “That’s my son.”

They sat in silence for a little - just a father and a son having to love through thick glass.

Zaire watched the way the guards hovered.

He watched the clock hanging crooked above the CO booth.

He watched the way his father’s hands rested on the counter — steady, unshaken — like he wasn’t the one with a life sentence.

“You playing tomorrow?” Antwan asked, already knowing the answer. He just wanted to break up the heaviness that sat between them, “your mind is.”

Zaire breathed in slowly. “Yeah.”

“Go clear your head,” his father said. “Don’t think about me when you on that course. Don’t think about nobody but that ball. You give these people all this talent… don’t give them your spirit too.”

A heavy soothing warmth moved through Zaire’s chest then, but it hurt at the same time. He hated leaving his father here…hated the sound of the gates closing behind him…hated the thought of walking out free while Antwan stayed locked in.

“I’ll be back next week,” Zaire said.

“I know.”

“I’ll bring the new documents.”

His father nodded, gazing at his baby boy . “I trust you.”

Those three words sat heavily between them.

Zaire held the receiver tighter. “You good, though?”

“I’m alright,” Antwan spoke with just enough excitement in his voice to not alarm his son. “Go be something... Foot on necks and never let up.”

The guard tapped the glass. Time was up.

Zaire hung up the phone and stood there for a moment before stepping away. He wanted to break the glass and hug his father. He wanted to tuck Antwan in his pocket and take him with him. But none of it was possible, so he did the only thing he could.

Zaire nodded at Antwan with a salute that just had to be enough. The small nod felt gigantic. It was a son’s promise.

When he walked out into the sunlight, the weight didn’t lift, it settled in deeper.

It reminded him that all the luxury in the world didn’t fill that empty space in his chest. It reminded him that peace wasn’t something he could buy.

It reminded him that no matter how clean the green looked on TV, his mind wasn’t clear.

Not with his father sitting behind bulletproof glass, telling him to be free when freedom felt like something Zaire couldn’t touch either.

He got in the car and shut the door. The silence wrapped around him. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and breathed out.

He didn’t cry, break, or fall apart.

He just sat there, trying to breathe like a man who wanted peace, knowing damn well he didn’t have it.

This was why his swing felt weak.

This was why his focus came and went.

This was why the first tournament would be hell for him.

His mind wasn’t on golf…it was on the father he couldn’t save, and the life sentence he’d been carrying right along with his dad.

Meadow sat at the dining table with the stack of mail she had been avoiding all week, staring back at her.

Her simple notebook was open but she hadn’t written a thing.

There was really no need to. She knew what needed to be paid and which bills she could sprinkle a little money on, just enough to keep the driving range running.

She rubbed her thumb across the paper and stared at her handwriting from last month.

Same list…same numbers. Nothing changed except the penalties and the monthly usage.

Looking at the unopened late notices, she already knew all she could do was spread the money around and hope nothing slipped too far behind.