Chapter 19
“Cooks…my man, what’s been going on?” Ertan puffed through the line, breathing hard like he’d just sprinted across the world to answer.
Zaire sat on the back porch of the guest house with his elbows on his knees. He made up his mind hours ago that it was time to face the music, and once his mind was made up, that was it.
Because truth was, he’d been feeling this switch coming for months.
Everything Ertan touched made Zaire feel smaller, less like himself and more like a project they could mold into something quiet, safe, and palatable. Every meeting was somebody telling him how to talk…how not to walk…how to adjust his energy so sponsors wouldn’t clam up.
Every photoshoot felt staged…every post felt forced…every room he walked into, he could tell they’d been warned about him beforehand.
The Black kid with tattoos who grew up Crip-affiliated.
The temper problem.
The image issue.
The fucking risk.
Zaire knew he was none of that, but no matter how much of himself he tried to hold back…who he truly was always broke through.
He could hear it in how they addressed him…how they didn’t shake his hand right away…how they spoke to Ertan more than they spoke to him…how they kept telling him they were honored to help refine his brand, like he asked them to.
Ertan did nothing to protect him from any of it. He fed into it, signed off on it…put Zaire in rooms that were never built for men who talked and moved like him.
Zaire wanted people around him who saw value in where he came from, not bitch ass niggas who treated his upbringing like a stain they had to scrub off before they could make money off him.
He needed a team that worked with him, not over him. A team that listened instead of handled. A team that didn’t look at him like a liability they needed to babysit.
Talking to True really ignited the fire in him again.
That and these sacred lands Ray bragged on.
Or maybe it was the sweetness that lay between Meadow’s legs…
or the way she liked to challenge him? Smirking to himself, Zaire knew it was everything about Meadow that had him ready to show the world how they counted him out too soon.
“I ain’t your man,” he told Ertan., “and I ain’t been goin’ through nothin’ you need to know about.”
Ertan laughed under his breath. It was a fake, nervous industry laugh that always made Zaire want to punch him in his shit. “Cooks…come on, talk to me. You’ve been ghost. Press is calling. Sponsors are asking—”
“Good,” Zaire cut in, leaning back in the chair. “Tell ’em I’m busy. Tell ’em I’m takin’ care of my life instead of everybody else’s pockets.”
Ertan’s breathing slowed. “What are you talking about Cooks?”
“Aye cuh, my name is Zaire…I know that shit too Black for y’all little dick muthafuckas but call me by my Black ass name.
” His blood boiled every time they refused to address him by his name.
Yea, it could’ve been chalked up to being professional, but he’d heard how they talked to the other players only using their first names.
“Come, on, Zaire…you know it’s all love. But talk to me…I knew that place wouldn’t help you.”
“I’m done,” Zaire said. “I’m firing the whole team. You, the PR folks, the social media people and all them consultants you keep shoving at me like I asked for ’em? I’m done.”
Silence ate the line up.
“You’re making a mistake,” Ertan sighed. Zaire could hear the anger pinching through. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Zaire scoffed. “Yeah I do. I’m cutting off everybody that ain’t been moving for me.
I been paying for shit I never agreed to.
Y’all book meetings I don’t want, y’all put me in rooms I hate, y’all push narratives that don’t come from me.
I ain’t no PR puppet. I’m a golfer…a man.
I ain’t finna be out here cleanin’ up no mess y’all created. ”
“Zaire—”
“I told you from jump I don’t do all that softening up shit. I ain’t changing who I am cause y’all scared of how I look on a golf course.”
“And look at how that’s been working for you,” Ertan snapped. “Look at the headlines, look at the footage, look at the Board of Directors debating if you’re worth the risk. You think I like babysitting your image? You think it’s fun convincing million-dollar executives that you’re not dangerous?”
Zaire sat forward, eyes narrowing. “Say that again.”
“I’m saying,” slow and slick, Ertan’s tone dropped, “you like to…present yourself in ways that make the wrong people nervous. That’s not my fault.”
“Oh, so now I’m the scary Black nigga in the room?” Zaire asked, voice low enough to make the wind still. “That’s what we doin’?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You ain’t gotta say it. I heard it, cuh.”
Ertan sighed sharply. “Zaire…listen. You’re talented…hell, you’re brilliant, but your background, your…lifestyle—”
“Cuh WHAT?”
“It doesn’t translate the way you think it does. The league wants someone clean, family-friendly, non-threatening…someone who doesn’t curse out fans on camera or argue with reporters or—”
“Or someone that don’t bang blue?” Zaire asked straight up. “Someone who ain’t Black?”
Ertan choked for a second. “Zaire-”
“Nah, say what you wanna say. This why we done! You don’t get me!
You ain’t never tried to get me, and every…
time…I tell you what I need, you do the opposite.
Every time I say stop pushin’ shit on me, you double down.
You don’t represent me cuh! You represent the version of me that makes you look good. ”
“You’re wrong,” Ertan snapped. “Everything I’ve done is to protect your career.”
“And it still made me look crazy,” Zaire said through gritted teeth, “you still didn’t listen, still had me sittin’ in meetings with people who ain’t even respect my existence. So yeah…you fired…all uh y’all fired.”
Ertan exhaled, long and annoyed. “And what exactly are you planning to do without a team? Handle all your press yourself? Answer your own sponsors? Navigate contracts alone? You think this is the hood? You think you can just walk away from management without consequences?”
Zaire’s eyes narrowed at the sky. “Is that a threat?”
“A reality check,” Ertan said sharply. “People in my position…we don’t like being blindsided, and when we feel blindsided, we remember it.”
Zaire pinched the bridge of his nose trying to quiet the demon that reared its head when he felt like his back was against the wall. It was how Chase found his face beating up Zaire’s fist.
“Ertan,” he said quietly, “you tryna tell me I need to watch my back? I know that ain’t what you trying to tell a nigga like me…a nigga that—” he stopped himself from saying too much. The hood had taught him to handle his enemies in the darkness of alleys not sparring with words.
Ertan chuckled, measuring his words, not friendly…not warm…ice cold. “All I’m saying is, in this business, relationships matter. Burning bridges comes with…costs.”
Zaire’s jaw flexed. “You done talkin’?”
“I’ve said what I needed to say.”
“Good,” Zaire answered, “’Cause I’m done listenin’ to you - bitch ass nigga.”
The line went dead. Ertan hung up without another word.
Zaire sat there, phone still pressed to his ear, the silence heavy as wet cement. His chest moved slow. His right hand twitched, tapping against his thigh. The porch felt colder. The entire yard felt still.
Ray’s wind chimes knocked twice, the only sound in the distance.
Zaire set the phone down on the table and stared at it like it was some kind of enemy. His throat tightened…not from fear, but from that old familiar rage that used to get him in trouble back home. The rage that said handle it. The rage that said spin the block on disrespect.
Instead, for a change, he took a breath, then another.
He wasn’t back home…he wasn’t a kid anymore…he wasn’t hittin’ licks to survive…he was Zaire Ahmaud…the one everybody watched, the one rich White men whispered about, the one every camera turned toward when he even blinked wrong.
He felt played, used, discarded, cornered, but most of all…
He was hungry…hungry to build his own shit…hungry to take his career back…hungry to prove he could stand on his own without a single person trying to polish him down to who or what they thought he should be.
His heart cracked through his ribs just enough to remind himself, I been him…before y’all… without y’all.
Slowly, Zaire leaned back in the chair, his chest rising with a deep inhale, relieved.
He didn’t care about Ertan’s threat.
He cared about the freedom he finally felt.
Zaire sat in the same spot for a little, just letting his pulse settle. When he finally picked his phone back up, his thumb hovered over the recent calls.
He didn’t want to think about Ertan no more. He scrolled instead until he found the name he was looking for. He sent True a simple text, letting him know everything was on go.
Once Zaire got his head straight and knocked out the calls he needed to make, he cut across the yard toward the main house.
Ray had the grill smoking, Magnolia was rocking gently in her chair, and Meadow was curled up on the porch swing with a cup of sweet tea like she’d finally sat down for the first time all week.
Music played low from her speaker, some old-school R&B that made the air feel softer than it was.
Ray glanced back when he heard the footsteps on the gravel. “Aye, Zaire. Grab a plate. Food almost done.”
Meadow looked up, eyes lighting before she caught herself. “Oh…you decided to come outside?”
Zaire smirked. “You miss me?”
“Not even a little.”
“Lying ass,” he whispered for her ears only.
She rolled her eyes, but slid over on the swing to make space for him. He sat beside her, his scent overpowering the smell of the grill.
Magnolia smiled when she saw him. “Evenin’ baby.”
“Evening ma’am,” he replied, leaning over to kiss the top of her hand.
Meadow watched with a sad smile on her face. Today was a good day for Magnolia. She had a clear mind and even recognized everyone. That was always a win in Meadow’s book.