Chapter 7
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 did not have ‘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.