“Go on, son,” he added quietly, “take her.”
Zaire stepped forward, every inch of him humble and terrified in a way nothing on the course could have made him feel. He held his hand out toward Magnolia. “Can I dance with the prettiest girl in the world?”
“Ugh,” Tia hollered, falling into Blain wailing.
Magnolia looked up at him like she was seeing him for the first time, then back at Ray. She placed her hand in Zaire’s.
He lifted her over the rail and led her onto the green as the Isley Brothers’ voices floated through the speakers. Meadow gulped, when she saw it. Magnolia’s small frame wrapped in blankets, Ray joining them - one hand on his wife’s waist, the other resting on Zaire’s shoulder.
The three of them swayed in the middle of the eighteenth while cameras clicked and strangers watched and the people who loved them cried openly.
Meadow put her hand over her mouth and allowed herself to sob. If she had known love felt like this, she probably would’ve been more open to it years ago.
Lesha squeezed her arm. “You see that?” she whispered. “That’s God showin’ off.”
The kids fell quiet for once. DJ held Mya’s hand. Karter tucked himself into his Mama’s side.
Meadow watched Zaire lean down and say something in Magnolia’s ear. Magnolia smiled, laying her head against his chest for just a second, whispering back.
Meadow would ask him later what Magnolia said.
She already knew she’d keep the answer in her heart forever.
Right now, she just watched her fairytale play out on manicured green surrounded by people who’d once tried to pretend Zaire didn’t belong.
They couldn’t deny him now…they couldn’t deny any of them.
By the time the trophy had been kissed, pictures taken, contracts shoved in his face to hold for the cameras, Zaire’s head was buzzing. Not from the weed…from the weight, from the joy, from the way Magnolia’s cheek felt against his chest, from Meadow’s tears and from hearing his full name echo across a space that never wanted it.
He washed his face in the locker room sink and stared at his reflection for a long beat. Blue fitted low, eyes still glossy, chain resting against his chest… A Black man with grass stains on his pants and history on his shoulders.
True popped his head in. “They ready for you.”
“Who?” Zaire asked, already knowing.
“The world, nigga,” True lifted his chin, “press room packed.”
Zaire wiped his face with a towel and took a breath that went all the way down to Crescent. “Aight, let’s go.”
The Sovereign Classic press room was colder than the course. Bright lights, white walls, rows of cameras and microphones lined up like accusing fingers. The front row stacked with big network names and the back sprinkled with reporters who looked like they’d maxed out cards for flights just to get a quote.
He stepped onto the little riser and sat behind the table, trophy gleaming beside the mic. The Sovereign logo sat on the backdrop in a neat pattern, like a reminder of whose house he was in.
They didn’t clap, they just watched and waited…measured his mood.
Zaire leaned forward on his forearms and met their eyes one by one. He thought about shrinking, about putting on that polite smile, he even thought about giving them the playbook answer Ertan used to feed him before everything went left.
But, he didn’t.
“First off,” the moderator started, “congratulations on your win, Mr. Cooks. We’ll open the floor to questions.”
Hands shot up. A woman from a big golf magazine got called on first.
“You’ve had…quite a year,” she began carefully. “The altercation, the break from the tour, the coverage around that ah-situation in Missouri. How does this win feel in light of all that? Do you see this as redemption?”
Zaire let a small humorless smirk tug at his mouth. “Y’all love that word, huh? Redemption.”
A few reporters shifted in their seats.
