Meadow looked around again, overwhelmed in the best way.
She dropped her bag and sat beside Tia.
“So,” Tia asked with a grin, “you ready to tell me everything about how you’re falling in love with your rich nigga?”
Meadow groaned into her hands. “Oh Lord… where do I even start?”
The room filled with laughter, warmth, and the comfort of best friends who finally had each other in the same space again.
Zaire steppedout of the black SUV, stretching his arms behind his head as the humid South Carolina air wrapped around him. Mossbury wasn’t big, but the whole town felt alive with tournament energy. Flags, banners, camera crews, and golf carts buzzing like bees.
They booked a five-star hotel for him with a glass front, and tall palms lining the walkway. Nothing too flashy, but it was clean, modern, and it was expensive, exactly how Zaire liked it.
As soon as he walked in, True was waiting in the lobby - fresh cut, tailored suit, gold bracelets, smiling like he just landed the client of the century.
“Zaire,” True said, clapping him on the back. “The man of the hour. You good?”
“Yeah,” Zaire nodded, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Long ass flight.”
True motioned to the concierge to handle Zaire’s luggage. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. I want you settled before we run through tomorrow.”
Zaire followed him to the elevator, pressing the button for the twentieth floor. His mind was on the tournament, but not fully. Half of him was here. The other half, was in Emerald City. With a loud, mouthy, stubborn, fine-ass woman who already had him pacing hotel rooms like he was sixteen again.
They stepped into the suite, a large space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view overlooking the golf course. Zaire dropped his bag by the entrance and nodded in approval. “This is nice. Thank you.”
True grinned. “Get used to it. My clients stay right…always.”
“Your clients?” Zaire laughed. “I’m your only client.”
True cracked up. “Shit, with all that comes with you, you’re a few all on your own.”
Zaire couldn’t disagree with that. He knew his image was fucked up, but his talent should’ve done all the talking.
A knock sounded at the door.
“That’s them,” True announced, giddy like a kid in the candy store.
Zaire raised an eyebrow. “Them who?”
True opened the door wide, revealing a tall Black man with broad shoulders, locs pulled back neatly, and calm eyes that read everything in the room at once.
“Zaire,” True introduced, “this is your new caddy, Mike Johnson.”
Mike stepped forward, firm handshake ready. “Good to meet you, brother. Been studying your game all week. I’m excited to work with you.”
Zaire looked him up and down, appreciating the confidence but checking for ego. He didn’t pick up any. “You’ve been caddying long?”
“Seven years,” Mike replied. “Played before that, got injured so I decided to stay in the game another way.”
Zaire nodded. “Bet,glad to have you.”
True clapped his hands. “And that’s not all. I got you a nutritionist, Black woman out of Florida and a trainer, Black dude from Houston who starts Monday. Your new social media team is Black-owned. So everybody with you from here on out…looks like us.”
Zaire’s jaw clenched, but not from anger, from something else, something that tightened behind his ribs…appreciation. “You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.
“I did,” True corrected. “Because you deserve a team that believes in you, and because I see where you going.”
Zaire swallowed that down, steadying himself. He used to dream about this…about being surrounded by people who didn’t see him as a problem, or a project, or a brand risk.
