Page 74 of Courting Trouble
Cassie dropped onto the bench by the fence, finally giving her arm a rest. She leaned back and watched.
The first rally was scrappy, full of nerves and half-swings. But as the points stretched on, Delilah started to move sharper, react faster. Whitney was better than Delilah, no question. But she was cocky, lazy, letting shots sail long just to see if Delilah would chase them. And Delilahdid. Every time.
This was exactly what Delilah needed. To play someone unfamiliar and infuriating. Someone who couldn’t wait to see her lose. Delilah had always played like she was playing against herself. It was the only thing she really needed to figure out. How to get the fuck out of your own way and focus on beating her opponent. Cassie hadn’t known till this afternoon how to get her there, how to tap into Delilah’s competitive side. But it was much like Cassie’s own way—anger.
It got a bad rap. It could be difficult to manage. But if you figured out how to use it, it was endless ammunition.
Point after point, game after game, the hours blurred together. The sun dipped low. Sweat darkened Delilah’s shirt, plastered her hair to her face, but she never quit. Whitney’s grin grew strained, her cocky little comments tapering off as Delilah’s stubbornness began to wear her down.
Cassie sat on the bench the whole time, arm resting, just watching. She didn’t need to bark corrections anymore. Delilah was learning on her feet, adjusting, growing sharper with every mistake.
By the time they finally stopped, both players bent double, panting hard, the court was littered with dead balls and long shadows. Whitney dropped onto the ground, sprawled and knackered. Delilah staggered to the fence, gripping it with both hands, sweat dripping off her nose. Though Whitney had won, it wasn’t by much. Delilah had made a serious stand of it.
Cassie knew Delilah was ready. And from the looks of it, so did Delilah. She had a slightly delirious smile on her face. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t won. She’dplayed.
‘Hey, good game, Whitney,’ Delilah said.
‘I want to play you again,’ Whitney said, sitting up. ‘I took it too easy on you.’
‘You won,’ Delilah pointed out.
‘Yeah, but I should have wonagesago,’ Whitney said.
Delilah nodded. ‘I’ll be here from nine tomorrow, all day. Come and kick my arse.’
‘Fucking right, I will,’ Whitney told her.
‘Come on, tiger. You need to rest,’ Cassie told Delilah, dragging her off the court.
‘Let’s get a drink first,’ Delilah said, a certain look in her eye. Cassie didn’t hate to see it, but she was amazed. ‘You can’t have a drop of energy left in you.’
Delilah laughed as she trudged off the court with Cassie. ‘We’ll see.’
Seventy-Three
Later, they sat in a tiny, casual bar just around the corner from Delilah’s flat. The place smelled faintly of fried food and old beer, with a sticky floor and vinyl booths that had seen better decades.
Delilah’s T-shirt clung to her damp skin, and Cassie’s tank and shorts were dusted with chalky grime. Showers were needed, but both seemed willing to put off that comfort a little longer.
Delilah hadn’t won today, but she didn’t care about that. She’d faced mouthy, cocky Whitney, and she hadn’t been destroyed, hadn’t been humiliated. She’d played to her limit, her real limit. Not an imaginary one she’d set herself. She’d play to the end.
Her legs were still shaky, thighs tingling from the endless sprints and lunges on the cracked court. And she felt incredible. She felt like a tennis player.
Cassie ordered a beer, and Delilah went for a soda. They didn’t speak at first, just sipped, letting the quiet hum of conversation and clinking glasses fill the space.
Delilah’s gaze drifted to Cassie, noting the tiny things: the way her braid swung a little when she turned, the tautness in her calves even when seated, the sparkle in her blue eyes. All day, she’d been aware of Cassie, but she’d had to keep a lid on it.
But it was the end of the day. No more Coach.
‘You played well today,’ Cassie told her.
‘I know,’ Delilah said with a grin. ‘I had no idea I could actually handle her until we kicked off,’ Delilah admitted. ‘But I just kept thinking, I really want to beat her. And I know Ididn’t, but…’
‘You stopped playing you, and you played her. That’s the difference. That’s what a tennis player does. That’s what Tamsin Rowe did,’ Cassie told her. She looked, Christ, was she proud?
Delilah lifted her glass toward Cassie. ‘To trusting myself, then,’ she said, grinning widely. ‘And to a hell of a teacher.’
Cassie clinked her bottle gently against it, letting her fingers brush Delilah’s hand. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of warmth right through Delilah.
