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…acontrolledman. 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 youcando 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.
