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.”
