Page 6 of Courting Trouble
As she headed for the court, the distant thwack of tennis balls echoed in the air, sharp and rhythmic and entirely alien. But this had to become a world she could live in if she wanted to get her break at long last. She was so close…
Cassie Thorne was the only person standing between her and the role she desperately wanted. And, of course, herself.
Six
Cassie sat on the wooden bench beside the courts. She cradled her racket loosely in one hand, the worn grip rough against her fingers, her mind looping over the spat in the car park.
She’d gone too far. No two ways about it. Yelling like that at someone who, frankly, hadn’t done anything wrong—just a small bump on a car—had been shitty enough on its own. But who the bumper had turned out to be was the icing on the cake.
Should she say sorry? Or should she just grit her teeth and move on? Pretend the whole thing never happened?
Her thoughts broke when the door to the changing rooms creaked open, and Delilah appeared, hesitating in the doorway. Small and vulnerable in her oversized tracksuit, with wide, expressive eyes, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and soft, chestnut hair tucked into a half-up ponytail, she looked like a mouse waiting to get eaten by a vicious cat. And Cassie was the cat.
‘I’m sorry again,’ Delilah said quietly, eyes flickering up to meet hers. ‘About the car. I shouldn’t have left it so close.’
The apology made Cassie feel even more like an arsehole.
Cassie forced a tight, awkward smile, the edges of her mouth twitching. ‘It’s alright,’ she said gruffly. ‘Hard to saywhose fault it was, anyway.’ She slapped her knees lightly and stood. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’
It was a dreadful start.
Seven
Cassie paced in front of Delilah, watching every twitch of her body like a hawk. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘now that you’ve got the grip and stance sorted, it’s time to get a feel for the swing.’
Delilah’s stomach was still in knots. She didnothave ‘the grip and stance sorted.’
‘Start slow,’ Cassie instructed. ‘Just bring the racket back like this.’ She demonstrated a smooth, controlled backswing. ‘No rush. You’re not trying to win Wimbledon today. All we’re doing is starting, OK?’
Delilah nodded, but she didn’t feel Cassie’s words at all. She was struggling to quiet an inner monologue that wasn’t being very kind. But she tried, copying the motion hesitantly, the racket cutting through the air awkwardly, her muscles tense and uncertain.
‘OK, now bring it forward,’ Cassie said. ‘Like you’re hitting a ball. But without the ball first. Just the motion.’
Delilah exhaled sharply, trying to push aside the doubt and the embarrassment, and swung the racket forward. The motion felt beyond clumsy.
Cassie’s face didn’t change, and she didn’t say anything, but Delilah knew she must have been appalled. ‘Again,’ she said. ‘Slow and controlled.’
Delilah repeated the swing, slower this time, not adjusting to the awkward weight of the racket. She felt like she was swinging a dead cat.
Cassie stepped forward, holding a tennis ball now. ‘Alright. I’m going to toss the ball gently. Just try to meet it with the racket. No pressure, yeah?’
Delilah nodded, swallowing hard. She raised the racket, breath caught and waited for Cassie’s toss, the moment she’d been dreading and waiting for all morning.
Cassie’s toss was gentle, almost casual, but to Delilah it felt like a cannonball aimed straight at her. The ball arced through the air, bright and round.
Her hands shook as she lifted the racket, muscles stiff and uncooperative. Time seemed to stretch and slow, the world narrowing to that small, flying ball and her awkward, uncertain movement.
She swung.
Eight
An hour in, and Delilah still hadn’t made proper contact with the ball. Not once. Not even a glancing hit. She should have connected by accident at least a dozen times by now.
Cassie folded her arms, her jaw tight. She’d seen bad beginners before, but this was something else. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this shocked by someone’s complete lack of coordination.
She’d tried to keep things encouraging and low-pressure in her words, but it wasn’t doing anything. Delilah was the worst player Cassie had seen in all her life.
‘Look, try just watching the ball and letting your racquet meet it, like you’re catching it instead of hitting it,’ Cassie suggested, holding the ball in a gentle underarm.
