The sky over Lynn Beach had that high, cold blue tint that only touched down in November. The air held a light bite, but the sun still lay across the course like it refused to let summer go. The gallery wrapped around the eighteenth like a living border. Press, fans, sponsors, people who’d never picked up a club a day in their lives, but suddenly cared because this was the Sovereign Classic and the purse was a ridiculously huge.
Zaire rolled his shoulders and tried to make his lungs listen.
Last day…last hole…dead even with Chase Whitmore…again.
He flexed his fingers around the grip, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palms. The club felt right today. His body felt right, even under all the pressure. His mind kept drifting, but every time it did, it strayed to the same place.
Meadow on the balcony that morning, hoodie up, Green Driving Range cap low, hands wrapped around a mug of tea while she prayed to herself. Her lips moved slowly. Her eyes had been on him the entire time.
He carried that with him now.
“Focus Cooks,” True called from behind the ropes, under his breath.
Zaire inhaled through his nose, steady in and steady out, letting the noise fade. The crowd wasn’t quiet the way golf crowds usually were. There was a different energy today…more brown faces…more kids…more people who looked like him,dressed like him, all yelling from behind the line even when they were supposed to be civilized.
Wind whistled through the palm trees. Chase was already walking up, pale and polished, his caddy whispering numbers at his side. The commentators’ voices floated on the breeze.
“Cooks is…remarkably composed,” one of them observed. “Given the controversy earlier in the year, the fight, the recent situation with that family driving range in Missouri…”
They refused to say Juniper Falls.
It was too Black for them.
“The question is, can he close?” another chimed in. “We’ve seen him almost do it before and lose it on the last few holes. Does he have the temperament to finish it, or is Chase still the safer bet?”
Zaire kept his eyes on the flag.
He thought about being a kid in Crescent Park with a driver stolen from a neighborhood yard sale, hitting balls into a busted rim on a cracked court. He thought about his Mama putting her last twenty on his tournament fee instead of the light bill. He thought about his Daddy calling from prison and telling him, over and over, “You got a swing people ain’t ready for, son. Don’t let ‘em tame you.”
He thought about Meadow, sitting in an area she didn’t belong in but claimed anyway, dressed like a Black fairytale on a rich White man’s lawn.
He locked in.
“Wind’s right to left,” his caddy, Mike, said low. “You know what you gotta do.”
“I know,” Zaire answered, eyes never leaving the green. “Cut it through.”
He stepped up, set his feet, and let the world fall away. No cameras…no Chase…no Ertan…no tax headlines…no headlines at all, just him and that flag…him and the beat in his veins.
One-two…back…through.
The club met the ball with a clean crack that made his bones hum. It lifted into the sky, riding the wind just enough to flirt with danger before it bent right back toward the pin.
The gallery sucked in a collective breath as it dropped.
Soft bounce…roll…stop.
Twelve feet out.
Mike whistled low. “That’s grown-man golf.”
Across the way, Chase stiffened. His jaw flexed. He set up, swung and set his ball on a tight rope…good, but not perfect. His landed just outside of Zaire’s, a hair farther from the cup.
“Cooks is inside Chase,” the commentator announced. “This putt could change everything.”
Zaire stepped back and exhaled. Twelve feet felt like a mile and an inch at the same time. He handed Mike his club, wiped his palms, and let himself gaze thru the crowd.
He found them immediately.
