Page 88 of Courting Trouble
Her gaze snagged on the darkened clubhouse, and the stupidest idea imaginable lodged in her head. ‘Is there one in there?’ she asked.
Cassie just stared, baffled. And Delilah, reckless and desperate, bolted before she could think better of it.
The front doors rattled, locked. Fine. She darted around the side, spotted a narrow window propped open above the bins. One shove, one graceless scramble, and she was inside, crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses. Her ribs hurt, but she was up again in a second, eyes scanning.
There it was: the vending machine. Row five. Bananas wrapped in plastic. She dug through the tip jar on the counter—vowing to replace what she took times five later— and jammed coins in the machine, snatching the fruit before it dropped. Her hands shook as she wrestled the wrapper open, clambered back out through the window, and stumbled into the night.
Cassie was still out there, jaw practically on the ground. ‘You just committed B and E forthat?’
Delilah raised the banana like a trophy. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I committed B and E for romance.’
Delilah peeled it, forcing ceremony into her movements, then bit down. Sweet, mealy mush filled her mouth. She gagged, but chewed. Cassie looked on, half-horrified, half-fascinated.
Delilah forced the words out around the gluey bite. ‘I’m… nn… lug… wi… you.’
‘What?’ Cassie asked.
Delilah swallowed a bit to make room for words that exploded from her. ‘I’m in love with you!’
Cassie froze. ‘That’s not true.’
Delilah swallowed hard, throat burning. ‘It is. And I know it’s not exactly roses and violins, but I wouldn’t eat a banana for anyone else.’ She grimaced, choking down the last of it. ‘God, how do people eat those things?’
Cassie stared at her, disbelief warring with something softer. ‘But yousaid…’
‘I was telling Ashley to shut up, that I didn’t have time for the conversation. I wasn’t talking about you. I would never have said that aboutyou.’
Cassie looked utterly thrown. ‘So I just… misheard?’
Delilah edged closer, voice steadier now. ‘Yes, you fool. I love you, Cassie. I want to be with you.’
‘You reallywouldn’teat a banana for anyone else, would you?’ Cassie said, almost to herself. Her next words were almost a whisper. ‘I love you too.’
Relief cracked Delilah wide open. She closed the distance, pressed her mouth to Cassie’s, and kissed her hard and certain. Cassie clutched her back like she’d been drowning and had finally surfaced. The world fell away: no clubs, no absurd fruit, no directors, no tennis. Just them.
When they broke apart, Cassie’s eyes were dazed. ‘You taste like banana.’
Delilah laughed, giddy. ‘Worth it.’
Eighty-Six
Eighteen months later, the thwack of tennis balls echoed across the courts Cassie had played on as a teen. They were in much better shape now, along with Cassie.
She’d applied for a Beckett Foundation grant on a late night in her flat, more out of hope than expectation. A month later, she was standing on these very courts, contractors tearing up the broken concrete, new nets and paint on the way. The funding had covered everything. Repairs, equipment, and, crucially, enough of Cassie’s time to build a proper programme for the kids who showed up with nothing but energy and love of the game.
Now the place was transformed. The cracked courts were smooth and clean, lines painted crisp and white. The chain links were fresh, floodlights installed for evening play. And best of all was something Cassie couldn’t purchase. How the air was alive with the sounds of playing: rackets meeting balls, trainers squeaking, teenagers shouting at each other across the nets, ‘That was out!’
Cassie stood near the baseline, clipboard in hand, watching a group of teenagers drilling their backhands as the ball machines spat out steady feeds.
Whitney, now eighteen, smacked a backhand shot with more power than grace. It smacked the fence opposite, well out of bounds.
‘Whitney,’ Cassie called, voice calm but firm, ‘control, not force. I know you’re strong. We all know you’re strong. The park keeper you hit in the face with the ball this morning knows you’re strong. Let the racketguidethe ball, don’t try to punch it across the net.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she muttered, her lips pressed into a thin line, clearly annoyed, but she adjusted her stance and swung again, gentler. The ball sailed cleanly down the line.
‘Good,’ Cassie said.
Whitney glared at Cassie, but she didn’t say anything. Which, with Whitney, could be considered progress.
