Chapter 3
Zaire sat at the kitchen island with his head resting in his hands. His phone had been blowing up all morning but he was too anxious to answer any calls. He’d rather drown himself by listening to his name being tainted all over live television.
“Cooks might just be out,” John Batiste’s voice filled the open living space like a bad omen.
True Bruns disagreed. “I don’t know, John…I feel like the league rides him too hard. From what I heard, Chase might’ve deserved that.”
“Oh, here you go, True,” John groaned.
Zaire turned his body to actually look at the people discussing him like they were familiar with him.
It was the third time he’d heard his name mention in the last twenty minutes.
Each time, the trash talking got worse and worse but it seemed now that another Black man was on the screen, there was a little compassion being shown.
“Not here I go…I know what it’s like to be a Black man in golf. We aren’t received well and sometimes that messes with your head and has you doing crazy stuff like punching the new champion.”
“But you never did anything like this True, and you were just as good as Cooks.”
“You don’t think I wish I could’ve used my fists to greet a few of those cats? This is a new day and age and not everyone will let that locker room talk fly.” True was trying to make his cohost understand and maybe not go so hard on Zaire because he understood what happened and why it happened.
John shook his head. “The sponsors aren’t letting Cooks actions fly, seems they are all pulling back and that has to be a well-deserved lesson.”
True rolled his eyes. “Whatever the lesson is, I just want to tell Cooks not to give up. He’s too good of a player to let golf go so soon…
come back stronger young man,” True looked directly into the camera and said, “I’m rooting for you.
And Zaire - I’m trying to reach you king,” True went into Black talk.
“It’s starts with management…get at me, brother. ”
Zaire wondered what True needed to reach him about and what his underlying message really meant.
He sat there, fingers pressing into his temples like he was trying to hold his head together. The TV voices blurred and sharpened in waves every time they said his name. He flinched, not visibly, just a small twitch in his jaw.
He wasn’t scared. He was disappointed in himself. He knew better than to swing on Chase. But he also knew what Chase muttered under his breath. And nobody on that damn broadcast would ever repeat that part.
Zaire’s mind kept replaying the punch - how fast it happened, how satisfying it felt for a split second, and how he instantly regretted it.
That’s what people didn’t understand. He wasn’t too proud.
It wasn’t some ego trip or way to show the world he was really ‘bout that life. It was simply a moment where everything he’d been carrying broke his back.
His whole life had been about control.
Quiet your emotions…lower your tone…smile on camera.
Don’t scare the sponsors.
Don’t look too hood, too sharp, too Black.
Golf didn’t make room for men like him, and now they wanted to kick him out.
Because he slipped…because he snapped…because he reacted like a human being instead of a brand.
His phone lit up again, this time with a group call from his agent, two sponsors, and his PR manager.
He let it ring until it dimmed again.
Zaire groaned, knowing he’d have to face them all soon. But right now, he didn’t have the energy to argue his side or try to explain some shit they didn’t even want an explanation for.
This wasn’t just golf for him, this was his life.
His way out…his purpose…his dream…his mother’s prayers…his neighborhood’s hope.
It felt like everything was slipping through his fingers—his endorsements, his contract, and a legacy he had barely started building.
That was the part nobody on TV understood.
This wasn’t a scandal for him, it was survival.
True’s voice came through the tv, cutting through Zaire’s brain fog.
“Don’t give up…come back stronger. I’m rooting for you.”
Zaire swallowed.
He didn’t know True personally, but hearing encouragement from another Black golfer cracked something in him…something tired and aching and scared of becoming just another headline instead of a history maker.
Don’t give up.
Come back stronger.
Zaire wanted to.
God knew he wanted to.
But right now, all he could think about was how loud the world had gotten and how small he felt in his own damn kitchen. He pushed his palms across his face and exhaled.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
His agent wanted him on damage control. The league wanted him quiet. Sponsors wanted statements he didn’t believe in.
Everyone wanted a version of him he didn’t even like anymore.
Zaire glanced at the TV again.
The next segment had started. Yet another panel forming an opinion about a man they didn’t know. The screen changed to a slow-motion replay of the punch, and Zaire felt his stomach twist.
Before the commentators could get the next sentence out, the TV clicked off.
Zaire blinked, snapping out of his fog. “Ma…”
Lesha stood in front of the television with her hands on her hips, her bonnet tilted slightly because she’d rushed downstairs after hearing the last commentators drag her baby.
Her face was carved with that familiar mix of love and warning. A Black Mama classic that you could look at and tell she’d given her kid all she had.
“Baby,” she sighed, “you not gon’ sit in here and let these people talk about you like you can’t hear ‘em. I know you upset, but you ain’t gotta let them drag you in yo’ own house.”
Zaire sat up straighter, tension still heavy in his shoulders.
“Ma, it’s everywhere. I can’t escape it, so I might as well hear what they’re saying behind my back.”
Lesha walked around the island, tapping his shoulder twice like she was testing if he was still solid under her hand. “You can escape it. You just don’t want to.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Everything’s falling apart.”
“No it ain’t.” She pulled the stool next to him and sat down, choosing comfort over dignity like she always did. “It might be fallin’ out of place, but Zaire…sometimes things gotta fall wrong before they fall right.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “Ma…”
“No, listen to me. You messed up. You hit that boy. I ain’t gon’ sugarcoat that shit. But I raised a good man…a smart man…a controlled man. So, if you swung…” She pointed to her chest. “I know you ain’t do it, just to be doin’ it.”
Zaire clenched his jaw. “He said something he shouldn’t’ve said.”
“I’m sure he did - they always do.” Lesha’s voice dropped a little. “But you worked too hard to let somebody pull you out your character like that.”
He dragged his palms down his face. “I’m losing everything, Ma.”
She turned his chin so he faced her. “You losing what don’t belong to you anymore. Sponsorship money? Image control? The league having their foot on your neck? Baby, you always been bigger than all that.”
He gulped.
Lesha’s tone softened. “Com’ere Z.”
He leaned into her side like he used to when he was a kid with scraped knees. She rested her hand on his back, her voice barely a whisper.
“You still my baby. You still a good man. You still a helluva golfer. One punch don’t undo all that talent. You’re better than them even on your worse days…never forget that.”
Zaire shut his eyes, savoring his mother’s touch. “I just don’t know what to do next.
That’s the problem.”
She tapped his head. “You tryin’ to strategize when your mind ain’t quiet. You can’t think straight with cameras parked outside, folks calling nonstop, reporters sniffin’ around like you owe them your soul.”
“Feels like I do,” he muttered.
Lesha snorted. “Zaire please! You don’t owe them nothin’ but a scorecard and a polite ‘no comment.’ Everything else? They can take it up with Jesus.”
He cracked a tiny smile. “Ma…”
“What? I’m serious.” She squeezed his shoulder. “But what you can do is find somewhere to clear your head - somewhere quiet - somewhere you ain’t gotta pretend to be perfect.”
Before Zaire could respond, his phone lit up again.
The number wasn’t saved.
He hesitated, but his gut told him it was time to face the music.
Lesha nudged him. “Answer it and cuss they ass out if they don’t mean you no good.”
“Ma—it.”
“Zaire,” she insisted, “answer it.”
He sighed and swiped to answer, placing it on speaker. “Hello?”
A man’s voice spoke. He sounded professional, older too. “Zaire Cooks? This is Dalton Freeman. I work with True Bruns. He asked me to reach out to you.”
Zaire sat up straighter. “Yes sir…I’m here.”
“I’ll make this brief,” Dalton continued.
“True thinks you need time off the grid. Somewhere you can train quietly, get your mind right, get away from the noise. There’s a place in Juniper Falls, an old-school driving range owned by some good friends of ours.
They’ve helped a few athletes bounce back over the years.
Not many know about it, which is the key point. ”
Zaire rubbed his thumb over his knee, absorbing every word.
Dalton kept going. “True believes it’d be the best spot for you to lay low and get back to the basics. Cheap, private, tucked away. If you want the address, I’ll send it.”
Zaire hesitated.
The silence stretched long enough for Lesha to arch her brow at him. “Son,” she whispered, “what do you have to lose?”
He didn’t have an answer.
Not a real one at least, just the vain shit and the ego shit that made him feel less of man by running. Niggas from Crescent didn’t run. They faced their shit head on, whether jail, a gun, or the police. They were taught young to never fold.
Dalton spoke again. “Look, young man…greatness is still in you. You just need space to breathe.”
Lesha pointed at the phone, mouthing, ‘This is your sign.’
Zaire exhaled slowly, “Send it.”
“Will do. Good luck, Mr. Cooks.”
Click.
The call ended.
The room went quiet again.
Just Zaire, his mama, and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Lesha placed her hand on his knee and squeezed. “Baby…you can’t fix your life from a kitchen stool. And you damn sure can’t heal while you watch folks tear you down.”
He stared at the counter, mind racing. “Ma…what if this doesn’t work?”
She tilted his chin toward her, eyes steady and warm. “Then you come home, regroup, and try again. But you not gon’ sit here and rot. You hear me? Men like you don’t rot. They rise.”
Her voice steadied him, soft but carved from steel. Lesha was bred in Crescent too. She’d never been on a plane or left the city before her son started swinging a club and changed their lives. Regardless, she was a hood baby and repped it with pride.
“Pack a bag and get outta here ,” Lesha suggested, standing up and stretching her back, “before those reporters outside figure out you still home. Go where it’s quiet. Go find you.”
Zaire nodded.
Lesha kissed the top of his head. “Now hurry up. I’ll put some food in your bag. You ain’t slept and you ain’t ate. That’s why you over here crashing out.”
Zaire laughed under his breath. “Yes ma’am.”
She walked toward the pantry, grumbling to herself. “Punchin’ people, not eating, not sleeping…you gon’ give me a stroke. Lord, give me strength…”
Zaire watched her, feeling a strange, quiet gratitude settle in his chest.
He didn’t know what Juniper Falls would bring.
He didn’t know who awaited him there.
He didn’t know if he would heal or crumble.
Whatever came from having a quiet place to get himself together, he knew it was better than sitting in the house hiding from the blogs.