Chapter 73
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 I didn’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.
She felt ready to let herself simply enjoy Cassie. Not the coaching, not the tennis, not the victory, just Cassie. Sitting across from her, laughing softly, being that extraordinary blend of tough and tender that only she was.
This could be love, Delilah thought, unsurprised.
She’d been single for a while. Years, in fact. The last relationship she’d attempted had been with another actress, Emma. They’d met on a shoot. It had lasted exactly three weeks. Not three months, not three years. Three weeks.
Delilah remembered how it had begun: coffee, compliments, shared jokes on set, the kind of effortless chemistry that made her think, This has to be it.
Week two had been a whirlwind of manufactured crises: arguments over imaginary slights, whispered “secrets” meant to provoke jealousy, and late-night phone calls that ended with tears or shouts over things that hadn’t even happened.
Everything was a performance, and Emma was addicted to the chaos.
Delilah had tried to keep up, tried to keep it calm, but the energy was exhausting, relentless.
By week three, Delilah had learned two things: she was good at spotting when drama was staged in real life, and she was terrible at keeping up with it.
The relationship ended quietly, with Emma storming off in a cloud of fury because Delilah hadn’t responded “correctly” to a minor misunderstanding she’d invented.
Three weeks, all-consuming drama, and not a single calm moment.
Emma was famous now, in an American procedural. Delilah would occasionally see the show pop up on a streaming service. She’d click the thumbs-down review button and move on.
And now, Delilah thought, sipping her soda, Here I am. With Cassie. It was night and day. She was so much more genuine than Emma could have dreamed of being. That was what Delilah was drawn to. Though she could be stoic, there was nothing fake about her. She was the real deal.
Then Delilah realised something she didn’t like.
In a few days, they’d have no reason to be around each other anymore.
And they hadn’t talked about what would happen then.
Whether Cassie would want this to keep going.
Whether she took it seriously. Delilah knew Cassie was a serious person and didn’t do anything lightly.
But she’d have been a fool to assume she could read Cassie’s mind.
Delilah, despite her current confidence, didn’t want to jump into that conversation. Firstly, she didn’t know what the answer would be. Secondly, she loved how it was now. Chemistry. Unbelievable sex. Unlimited possibilities.
Cassie Thorne. There was still so much to know about her. And Delilah wanted the chance to know it.