His gloves felt heavier now. Every movement was deliberate—breathing, blinking, pretending not to hear the laughter a few yards over. Chase was shaking hands with fans, cameras flashing like fireworks around him.
Zaire’s pulse thumped in his ears.
He’d fought too hard to be here. Every early morning on cracked concrete ranges, every borrowed club, every side-eye in locker rooms that smelled like old money and new arrogance—he carried all that with him.
Every shot, every swing, every breath was a statement.
And losing meant more than just a bad round. It meant giving them proof. It meant letting them whisper that he didn’t belong. It meant that a boy from Crescent Park was only ever good enough until he wasn’t.
He clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the next hole like it was still his to win. The cameras caught him smiling again, but this time it wasn’t for show. It was armor. It was defiance.
Because if they were gonna doubt him, he’d make sure they did it while watching him stand tall.
Even in loss, he wouldn’t fold…not here…not where everything he’d ever worked for was still on the line.
“Just go in there,answer the questions, then we’re out,” Ertan, Zaire’s agent nudged him, giving the best peptalk he could muster.
Ertan knew how much this loss meant to Zaire. He understood the disappointment and regret that sat inside Zaire too. But, the sport was a job and after a game— win or lose - you had to show up for the after-game press. It was non-negotiable.
“I know, nigga.” Zaire rolled his neck to loosen some of the tension that sat there.
Zaire walked into the press room with his hat low. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t have it in him today. The room smelled like cameras and cheap cologne. Reporters leaned forward the moment he stepped up, voices stacking over one another.
He took the mic, looking around, before nodding once to get the show on the road.
“Cooks, rough day out there,” one of the reporters started. “You’ve had a great season so far, but it seems your performance’s been…inconsistent lately. What do you think happened today?”
Zaire adjusted the mic. “Man, I just ain’t play my best game. Ball wasn’t falling the way I wanted. Happens to everybody. Nothing to focus too much on.”
A few reporters chuckled under their breath. Zaire squared his shoulders, he really hated this part. Hated feeling like he was in a glass for them to gawk at and tap the window, ignoring the sign that clearly said,don’t tap the window.
Another hand shot up. “Do you think your lifestyle off the course—your image, your… background…has become a distraction?”
He looked at her. She was smiling that polite, condescending kind of smile.
“My background?” he repeated.
“Yes, the chains, the tattoos, the slang…You’re verydifferentfrom what golf’s used to seeing. Do you think that affects your focus or the way you’re received in this sport?”
Zaire leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Nah, what I wear or how I talk don’t swing the club for me. I play how I play - that’s it.”
The reporters didn’t even give his words time to marinate before they were asking more questions.
An older man with white hair tossed his hand up and fired off another question. “Some critics have said you’re too flashy. That your presence is more about attention than discipline. Golf’s a gentleman’s game, Mr. Cooks. Do you think you’ve lost touch with that?”
Zaire exhaled through his nose. He stared at the man for a long second before answering.
“I think golf’s a game,” he said, being straightforward. “And I play it better than most. Whether I’m in a hoodie or a collared shirt doesn’t change that.”
The man smirked. “But it does, doesn’t it? The sponsors care…image matters. Don’t you feel a responsibility to represent the game properly?”
Zaire nodded slowly. “I representmeproperly. If that ain’t enough for y’all, then maybe y’all problem ain’t with me—it’s with what y’all think golf supposed to look like.”
A low murmur rippled through the room. Cameras clicked faster. The only Black female reporter in the room tried to move the topic along, wanting to keep the questions on the game notthe color of Zaire’s skin. “Let’s focus on today’s performance. Chase Whitmore seemed very composed under pressure. Do you think the two of you have different approaches to the game?”
Zaire half-smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think we just had different days.”
“But he’s been consistent all season,” another reporter added. “Some might say he’s the face of the future for golf.”
