Chapter Eighty-Six
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 racket guide the 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.
Nearby, fourteen-year-old Maisie, brimming with energy, wound up for a backhand and sent it skidding off to the side. Cassie stepped forward and demonstrated a smooth, fluid stroke. ‘You don’t need to rush it. Watch the bounce, then strike.’
Maisie tried again, giving the ball a bit more breathing space for its bounce before hitting it. This time the ball flew straight down the line.
‘Much better,’ Cassie commended.
Liam, lanky and left-handed, scowled at the net again. ‘Did you raise the height on this net? I can’t seem to clear it.’
‘I didn’t raise it. I’m pretty sure you’ve just had a growth spurt. Your centre of gravity is different.’
He nodded. ‘I have been hitting my head on the doorframe lately.’
‘Get low,’ Cassie advised. ‘Bend your knees more than feels natural, keep your bum back a little, and spread your weight across the balls of your feet.’
He did as he was told and cleared the net more easily.
By the time the last set of drills was finished, the kids were more focused than when they’d started. And despite all the moaning and frustrated yells, she could tell they were happy. Which made Cassie happy.
Cassie blew a whistle, signalling the end of the session. ‘OK, everyone, that’s a wrap. Pack up, change, and be ready to hit the courts again tomorrow.’
The last of the teens slung their bags over their shoulders, laughing and joking as they headed for the exit. ‘Great work today. Don’t forget to hydrate,’ she told them.
Whitney lingered a moment longer than the others. ‘Saw your girlfriend the other day in a trailer for that tennis movie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Looks shit. Her drop shot’s a joke.’
Cassie laughed. ‘I thought it was pretty good, myself.’
‘Well, anyway… You still taking me to that tournament next week?’
‘Of course. Now go on, get home, eat, rest.’
‘Can’t, going out now. My mates are waiting.’
Cassie raised her eyebrows. ‘Whitney, you need to take care of yourself. You get one body, and if you want to turn pro, which I think you could, you need to learn to slow down and give yourself rest time and proper nutrition. Trust me.’
Whitney rolled her eyes. ‘God, fine, I’ll go home and eat food first if you’re gonna go on about it.’ She sloped off.
Cassie exhaled, letting herself sink against the net post on the now quiet court. That’s when she noticed Delilah standing near the far baseline, racket in hand, a smile lighting up her face.
‘I thought you’d be at home getting ready!’ Cassie cried, delighted.
‘I’ve got a little time before the premiere. Mind if we hit a few?’
Cassie glanced at the now-empty courts. She exhaled, torn. ‘We should probably get changed soon,’ she said. ‘I don’t want us to be late.’
Delilah shrugged, carefree. ‘A few hits won’t hurt. Let me enjoy the fresh court while it’s kid-free.’
Cassie smiled and tossed her a ball. Delilah caught it on the bounce, racket loose in her hand, and sent it back easily. They fell into a rally, the rhythm light and playful, nothing like the drills Cassie used to run Delilah through.
‘Busy day?’ Delilah asked between shots.
‘The usual chaos,’ Cassie replied, striking cleanly. ‘Whitney’s pushing herself too hard. Told her to rest, but she’s eighteen. Rest isn’t in her vocabulary.’
Delilah grinned, jogging back to catch the lob. ‘She’s lucky she’s got you watching out for her.’
Cassie shrugged, though she liked Delilah’s compliment. ‘She’s got real talent, if she doesn’t burn herself out first.’
The ball came back, lower this time, and Cassie stepped into it. ‘What about you? You’ve barely had time to breathe this week.’
‘Press tour madness,’ Delilah said, a little laugh in her voice as she flicked the return cross-court. ‘But it’s part of the job. I’ll be thrilled to actually do some acting next month. Shame it’s in Bulgaria.’
Cassie nearly fumbled but caught the ball at the last nanosecond. ‘But it’s only four weeks, right?’
Delilah knocked it softly over the net. ‘You should come. Be my tennis advisor.’
‘It’s a movie about World War II,’ Cassie said, raising an eyebrow.
‘I’m top of the call sheet. I’ll force them to do a tennis scene.’
‘Sounds like a weird movie.’
Delilah tapped the ball back across lightly, like a question. ‘I’ll miss you.’
Cassie floated it back. ‘Me too.’
Delilah smiled. ‘Your arm OK?’
Cassie nodded. ‘Holding out.’
The rally stretched, their movements less about precision and more about watching each other. Delilah’s hair slipped loose as she swung; Cassie caught herself staring a second too long, nearly missing the return.
‘Eyes on the ball, Coach,’ Delilah teased.
‘I’ve got my eyes where they need to be,’ Cassie replied, sending the ball back with a controlled swing.
Delilah’s return clipped the tape and dropped just over. She stepped forward, racket resting against her shoulder, a spark in her big dark eyes. ‘Point to me, then.’
Cassie laughed, letting her racket fall. ‘Let’s call it match to you.’
Delilah crossed the court slowly, closing the distance. They met at the net, the thud of the last ball echoing like applause.
‘I’m serious about the offer, by the way,’ Delilah said, resting her hand lightly on the net.
‘You’d make them put tennis in a movie about the French resistance?’ Cassie asked dryly.
Delilah rolled her eyes playfully. ‘You could come on my days off, if they happen to match any of your days off. It’s only a three-hour flight.’
‘I want you to enjoy this time,’ Cassie said seriously. ‘This is it. What you’ve worked for. I don’t want you to miss your big break thinking about, ya know, me.’
‘Cassie, I love my work. But I love you more. Please promise you’ll come?’
‘You can’t live without me for a month?’ Cassie asked, suddenly feeling oddly shy with the woman she’d lived with for six months.
‘Yes. But I don’t want to,’ Delilah said softly.
Cassie’s throat tightened. For years, she’d kept herself in check, convinced that love belonged to other people, not her. Yet here Delilah was, choosing her without hesitation.
‘OK. I’ll come.’
‘About time you admitted defeat,’ Delilah murmured.
Cassie smiled, leaning in, their foreheads touching. The pause felt like the moment before a serve—anticipatory, electric. Then, like a perfectly timed volley, Delilah brushed her fingers along Cassie’s jaw, tilting her face up. Their lips met.
When they finally drew back, foreheads still pressed together, neither spoke. Neither needed to. In that quiet, empty court, they both knew what they had: Love-all.