Page 26 of Courting Trouble
Delilah took a deep breath, searching Cassie’s face for any sign of annoyance at her wasted efforts or the future lessons she wouldn’t get paid for. But Cassie’s eyes held a surprising amount of quiet empathy.
‘I just want to say thank you,’ Delilah continued, voice faltering slightly. ‘For everything you’ve done. I’m sorry if I wasted your time. I’ll make sure you’re paid for the week.’
Cassie’s lips pressed into a small, understanding smile, but she said nothing.
Delilah turned away, a slight ringing in her ears as she walked off the court. The role was gone, and with it, hope for thekind of life she’d been trying for. It was too much to comprehend all at once.
She wondered if she’d ever see Cassie again. Probably not. What cause did they have to stay in touch?
Twenty-Eight
Cassie stood on the surface of the court that afternoon, her eyes fixed on the man awkwardly attempting another serve, Jeff.
‘Stop muscling it,’ she said, her voice carrying across the baseline. ‘You’re trying to force power instead of letting the motion do the work. You’ll just burn your arm out that way.’
Jeff straightened, frowning. ‘This is how I do it.’
Cassie ignored that. ‘Watch your toss, loosen your grip, let your body turn.’
Jeff’s mouth flattened, annoyance sparking in his eyes, but he said nothing. He just reset, tossed the ball again, and hit another strained, awkward serve.
Cassie felt the familiar prick of irritation. The way Jeff ignored her corrections, shrugged off her advice like it was some meaningless noise—it was exhausting. She’d repeated the same drills for what felt like hours, and still, he made the same mistakes. The fundamentals, the basics. He wasn’t interested inmastering them, only in going through the motions. What did he expect to gain from this when he didn’t really care?
‘Keep your wrist firm,’ Cassie said, trying to keep the boredom out of her tone. ‘Focus on the ball. Follow through.’
Even as her voice guided him through the steps he clearly wasn’t absorbing, her mind was miles away. It kept circling back to the message from Delilah, that sudden, shitty news about the movie. Cassie found herself truly disappointed on Delilah’s behalf.
And then, amid the clatter of balls and Jeff’s half-hearted grunts, she had a thought: she knew who ‘the estate’ in question was.
Tamsin Rowe’s sister, Rena Rowe, had also been a player, never quite knowing the heights of her sister, but respected enough. She’d long retired and was now a tennis pundit. And if Cassie wanted to get in touch with her, she might know someone who might know someone.
Cassie immediately tried to push the thought away. It wasn’t her business. The movie, the drama with the estate—she had no stake in it. She was a coach. She was here to train people, not to get tangled up in that bullshit.
But beneath that rational dismissal was something smaller, but unignorable. She wanted Delilah to have that role. Delilah had worked so hard, had been so determined. The idea of all that effort going to waste because of something out of her control felt wrong.
Jeff flailed through another serve and missed entirely, the ball bouncing off the chain link with a dull clank.
Cassie checked her watch. ‘Right, that’s time.’ She’d have liked him to end on a more positive note, and Cassie could have given him that. But what was the point?
Jeff gathered his racket, mumbling thanks, clearly eager to leave. Cassie stayed behind, thankful to have a quiet court to herself for a minute. But once she had it, the thought of trying to help Delilah became even louder.
Maybe it was none of Cassie’s business. It wasdefinitelynone of her business. She probably couldn’t even reach Rena. She was just going to make one phone call, figure out that she couldn’t do shit, and leave it at that.
Twenty-Nine
Delilah was waiting to pretend to be a nosy neighbour in a crime drama. She had one line.
She wasn’t even given a chair to sit on while she waited. Just a bottle of warm Highland Spring and a spot on the floor, next to a recycling bin.
Time stretched. She counted the cracks in the wall. She counted the floor tiles. She counted the seconds in her own pulse.
Finally, her name was called.
The panel barely glanced at her before waving a hand toward the taped-off square on the floor.
‘Your line, please?’ someone said, voice flat.
Delilah nodded and spoke. ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Carter? I saw your bin was still out front this morning.’
