“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 notdangerous?”
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’ttranslatethe 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 makesyoulook 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 saidhandle it. The rage that saidspin 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…
