Grand Slam

by Tracie Delaney

  “I’m not miserable.”

  “Why don’t you call him?”

  “No.”

  Em exhaled a breath of frustration. “You two are both as bad as each other. Neither wants to be the one to blink first. And you know where that gets you? Singleton city.”

  Tally rubbed her eyes. “It’s not that simple, Em. You weren’t there the night he threw me out, or when we got back from Paris. He would flip out over nothing.” She allowed the memories to slip into her mind. “One minute, he’d be unbelievably loving and attentive, the same Cash as always. The next, he’d be furious. Throwing things. Punching walls. Yelling at everyone, including his mother, Anna, Rupe. Me.”

  “He’s hurting, babes. Must be so confusing for the poor sod.”

  “Since when were you his biggest fan?” Tally said, trying to keep her tone calm. “It doesn’t matter anyway. According to the Internet, he’s disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?” Em’s voice shifted up a notch.

  Tally tossed her half-eaten sandwich in the waste bin and flopped onto the bed. “He hasn’t been seen in public for weeks.”

  “So you’re still looking, then?”

  Tally sighed. “Can’t help myself.”

  “Give it time. If you do want to know where he is, I can ask Rupe.”

  “No. Cash would have called me if he wanted me to know.”

  “You changed your number.”

  “That wouldn’t stop him. Remember how quickly he found me in Brighton? If he wanted to, he could. Like that.” She clicked her fingers even though Em couldn’t see her.

  “Do you want him to?”

  Tally frowned. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Honestly, babes, I’m confused. This is Cash, your childhood obsession, adult reality, and the man you were going to marry. Yes, he clearly has anger issues, and you probably did right to leave that night, especially after he threw the vase, but maybe if you talk to him, you could persuade him to get some help.”

  “I left because he doesn’t love me anymore,” Tally said, her voice breaking up.

  “If you love him, you’ll fight for him.”

  “There’s no point. I can’t make him love me.” She inhaled a shuddering breath. It didn’t matter how many times they had this conversation—she couldn’t make Em understand. “When the feeling has gone, it’s gone.”

  Em paused. When she spoke, her voice had a slight tremor. “I’m worried how quickly you’ve put down roots in a place you barely know, hundreds of miles from home.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I needed somewhere to ground me. Somewhere I could come to terms with losing him.” As tears threatened, she bit down on her lip. “It wouldn’t work in London. Not the way I’m currently feeling. I don’t plan on staying here forever, but right now, it’s good for me.”

  “I only want to make sure you’re doing the right thing.”

  “I am,” Tally said gently, smiling to herself at Em’s sigh of surrender.

  “I just want you to be happy, babes.”

  “Give me time. It’s so tranquil here, and the people are lovely. Once you come and see for yourself, you’ll understand.”

  “I’ll need the break after a mad London party season,” Em said with a laugh.

  “Speaking of parties, how’s David?” Tally said, jumping onto the change of subject.

  “He’s fine,” Em said in a dreamy tone.

  “Oh, come on. How long have you been seeing him now? Two weeks?”

  “Three.”

  “Exactly. A Fallon record.”

  Em chuckled. “You make me sound like a right tart.”

  “Nah. Just picky.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “But it’s going okay?”

  Em hesitated. “I’m scared to jinx it, but I really like him, Tal. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  “Don’t bring him out in January,” Tally said, inwardly cursing her selfishness.

  “Not a chance. January is girl time. There will be plenty of opportunities for you two to meet.”

  Tally yawned loudly. “I’m off to bed. Early start in the morning. I’m on breakfasts. I’ll call you in a day or so.”

  “Make sure you do, Shirley,” Em said. Tally heard her giggle before the phone went dead.

  She changed for bed and climbed under the covers. She reached for her phone, opened the photos app, and scanned through the hundreds of pictures of her and Cash—personal pictures that weren’t on social media or the Internet.

  A searing pain speared her chest. She retrieved his number from her contacts, her thumb hovering over the eleven digits. What she wouldn’t give to hear his voice, the tone of his soft Northern Irish lilt causing a flash of desire to speed through her as he spoke her name.

  She pressed the number but hung up before the connection was made. The craving to speak with him was overridden by fear. What if he repeated the horrible things he’d said? The longer she avoided calling him, the more she could keep hope alive that one day he’d realise he’d made a huge mistake and beg her to come back.

  “Idiot,” she muttered to herself. Switching off the bedside lamp, she turned onto her side. Tomorrow was another day. She’d feel better after a good night’s sleep.

  Of course she would.

  8

  “It’s definitely improving,” Dieter said as he scrawled notes onto a chart. “What do you think?”

  Cash flexed the fingers on his right hand. “I agree. More movement, less pain and stiffness.”

  “You’re still doing the daily exercises in between our sessions?”

  “Religiously,” Cash said. “You’re pretty bolshie for a physio. I wouldn’t dare skip a routine.”

  “Good. That’ll be why you’re seeing so much improvement.” Dieter stood and opened the door to his office. “Come on,” he said, cocking his head.

  Cash narrowed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

  Dieter smiled. “You’ll see. I want to try something.”

  Cash tried not to groan. Dieter had some outlandish ideas, and very few of them were fun, but Cash couldn’t deny the results he was getting. He’d only been in Germany six weeks, and already, his hand had massively improved. It hadn’t completely recovered—nowhere near that—but it was much better.

  He’d set two goals: to win back Natalia, and to play competitive tennis once more. He wasn’t about to compromise on either, no matter what it cost him.

  He followed Dieter towards the back of the facility, immediately guessing where they were going when Dieter turned left at the end of the corridor. Fear grabbed Cash by the throat as his confidence plummeted. “Wait,” he called out.

  Dieter stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not bailing.”

  “I’m not ready for this.”

  “Yes, you are.” Dieter set off walking again, but Cash’s feet might as well have been nailed to the floor. When Dieter reached the door that led to the gardens, he rested his hand against it and paused. Without turning around, he said, “Move your fucking arse, Cash.”

  “What if I can’t do it?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Dieter pushed at the door, and weak winter sun seeped inside the artificially lit hallway. Without another glance at Cash, he walked through, letting the door swing closed behind him.

  Cash expelled a resigned sigh. He’d known this day was coming. Dieter had hinted a couple of times after Cash’s grip began to gain strength, but he’d chosen to ignore his physio’s insinuations.

  Cash followed him outside. Dieter was already several feet in front, purposefully striding towards the tennis court on the far side of the gardens, behind the gym. The cocky bastard didn’t even look behind him to see whether or not Cash was there.

  By the time Cash reached the tennis court, Dieter had already set up. Two tennis rackets—shit makes—were propped against the fence, and he was uncorking a tube of tennis balls.

  “If I’m playing, I want my own racket.�
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  “Fine,” Dieter said. “Go and get it. You’ve got five minutes, so run.”

  Despite himself, Cash grinned. Dieter was a hard taskmaster, which was exactly what Cash needed. He reminded Cash of Brad. Christ, he missed Brad and Jamie. They’d been like family, an unbreakable team. Except that team had been broken by a fuckwit of a drunk driver. Even though Cash knew Brad and Jamie had no choice but to leave him, to go and work with other players, it didn’t stem the ache and the emptiness in his chest as he thought about how complete and perfect his life had been before the accident.

  He was back within the allotted five minutes, albeit out of breath, and he lightly tossed the racket from hand to hand. It felt good to hold it again.

  “Now, remember.” Dieter took up position at the far side of the court. “I’m not a bad tennis player, but I’d get killed by number two hundred in the world, let alone former number one.”

  Cash tried not to wince at the word former. “I’ll go easy on you,” he said with a smile he wasn’t feeling.

  Dieter stood on the baseline, bounced the ball on the ground, and then hit it over the net. The ball landed in the deuce court, and Cash tightened his grip and swung his racket. An intense joy swept through him as they hit the ball back and forth. There was no power behind the shots, but nonetheless, it felt so bloody good.

  “Go on,” Dieter said after they’d been playing for a few minutes. “I know you’re dying to tell me I was right.”

  “Take a pew, buddy, coz you’ll be waiting a while for me to admit that.”

  Dieter threw his head back and laughed. “More?” he said, holding a yellow tennis ball in the air.

  “Yep.”

  After half an hour playing, Cash’s hand began to ache, and Dieter suggested they stop. Cash could barely keep the grin off his face. It was the first time he’d even held a tennis racket, let alone hit a ball, since he lost in the Wimbledon final back in July. Almost six months.

  “Don’t forget to do your exercises tonight. We need to make sure your fingers don’t stiffen up.”

  Cash clenched and unclenched his right hand. “I will. See you day after tomorrow.”

  He jogged back to his on-campus apartment. For the first time since he’d arrived in Germany, optimism stirred within him. Perhaps his former life wasn’t completely out of reach after all. Dr Bauer seemed happy with his progress in managing his anger, although Cash wasn’t, and Dieter was confident that with the correct treatment and commitment, Cash would get back the full use of his right hand. Until that day, he hadn’t really believed it, but after the short stint on the tennis court, he was starting to come around.

  Alone with nothing but his thoughts, Cash yearned to speak with Natalia. He wanted to share his news, to tell her he was working his bollocks off to find the person he’d been before. Rupe hadn’t been able to get anything out of Emmalee when he’d visited the other week, although one thing was certain—Natalia wasn’t living with her best friend. There’d been no sign of her, and Emmalee had stubbornly refused to tell Rupe anything about her whereabouts.

  With a fear of rejection weighing heavily on his shoulders, he picked up his phone and dialled her number. His heart thundered in his chest as he waited for the call to be connected.

  “The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

  Cash frowned and redialled.

  “The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

  What the fuck did that mean? He opened the Google app and typed the message into the search bar. After reading about three responses on various forums, his heart headed south. She’d changed her number. He couldn’t exactly blame her. He’d been far too convincing that night in October, and she’d believed him.

  If she wanted nothing more to do with him, why was he bothering with all this? His recovery only had meaning if they had a chance of a future together. Without that hope, he might as well give up. And even if he did carry on, maybe she wouldn’t want the damaged Cash. What if she had this perfect image in her mind that she’d harboured all those years, and when he deviated from that…

  No. Nope. Not going there. He wasn’t giving up.

  She’d loved him once. He could make her love him again. He had to treat this recovery process like training for a Grand Slam—all in, one hundred per cent, because he couldn’t risk trying to rekindle his relationship with Natalia until he had enough coping mechanisms to curb his anger. He had to be confident he wouldn’t hurt her.

  Pain tore through his gut as he realised that he hadn’t recovered yet, but he clung tightly to the belief the day would come.

  Because if it didn’t, there was fuck all to live for.

  9

  Tally rolled over in bed and hit the snooze button. Cracking open one eye, she confirmed that she could afford another five minutes, although the way she was feeling, another five hours still wouldn’t cut it. She was absolutely knackered all the time lately. She shouldn’t have been surprised, considering she hadn’t stopped to rest since meeting Nerissa. Renovating the flat and then moving in had taken its toll.

  At least working the soup kitchen and writing the article—which she’d decided to turn into a series of articles—gave her little time to think. That suited her perfectly. Thinking led to regretting—and regretting led to hankering.

  The alarm went off for a second time. Tally groaned and forced herself out of bed. She shoved her feet into her slippers and trudged into the bathroom. As she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she grimaced. Dark circles framed her eyes, and she looked closer to thirty-five than twenty-five. She’d need a ton of concealer to avoid the sympathetic looks and kind words of the refugees, who constantly told her how she should be taking better care of herself. Considering their lives had been completely destroyed by war and they faced an uncertain future, their thoughtfulness always brought her to the brink of tears.

  Christmas Eve had arrived, and they were closing at three. Based on how hard it was to wake up, she’d be back in bed by three fifteen. At least she didn’t have a shift the next day or the day after. Nerissa had roped in some help from a couple of her neighbours to work over the festive period to give them both a break. Normally, Tally would have insisted on working, but she’d actually been relieved when Nerissa had organised the time off. Her plans for Christmas Day and Boxing Day started and ended with catching up on sleep.

  Unable to face breakfast, she made a strong cup of coffee, added a good dollop of cream, and sank into a chair at the tiny kitchen table. Feeling lightheaded and nauseous, for a brief moment she thought about telling Nerissa she was too sick to work. But skiving never had been her style, regardless of how unwell she felt.

  She swilled out her cup and set off downstairs. It was still dark outside as Tally began prep for the day. She hadn’t been there long when Nerissa arrived. She gave Tally a horrified glance and immediately pulled out a chair.

  “You look terrible. Sit down, please. Why didn’t you call me?”

  Tally waved her away. “I’m fine. Stop fussing.”

  “I’m not kidding, Tally. You really don’t look well. Have you eaten?”

  “Can’t face it.”

  Nerissa placed her hand over Tally’s forehead. “You’re a little warm but nothing excessive. Shall I call Clio?”

  “I don’t need a nurse. I need a good night’s sleep.”

  Nerissa frowned. “You’re not sleeping?”

  “Fits and starts, but I haven’t slept through the night for weeks.” Tally pressed her fingertips to her temple. “I keep having these weird dreams. They wake me up, and then it takes me ages to drop off again.”

  Nerissa tilted her head to one side. “What are you dreaming about?”

  “All sorts of things. Driving a bus that tips over and kills everyone on board. A tsunami hitting the island and wiping everyone out. The other night, I dreamt I was working in a car factory and I was in charge of fitting the engine. I don’t know a thing about cars.”

/>   “You’re right,” Nerissa said with a laugh. “Very strange. No wonder you’re so tired. What was last night’s treat?”

  Tally’s face heated, and she stared at the floor. “Sex,” she mumbled. “Lots of sex.”

  Nerissa grinned. “Lucky you. Was the guy hot?”

  “Very. My ex.”

  “Ah.” Nerissa nodded. “You don’t say much about him, but I’m guessing he’s the reason you’re here, because he’s an ex?”

  “Yes,” she said, ignoring the bite of pain in her chest. “He was hit by a car on the same night he proposed to me. He was in a coma for over two weeks, and when he came around, everything had changed. He’d changed. We had a row one night, and he told me he didn’t love me anymore and threw me out. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Nerissa whistled through her teeth. “That’s rough.”

  “Yeah, it was.” Tally lurched to her feet. “Right, let’s get prep done. Otherwise, we’ll have a riot on our hands in about thirty minutes.”

  Nerissa picked up Tally’s cue to move on from discussing Cash, and the morning passed quickly, but by midday, Tally was barely clinging on. Exhaustion swamped her, and every single action took a momentous effort. She was reaching into one of the top cupboards for some gravy granules when a severe dizzy spell hit her. The tub clattered to the floor, and Tally grabbed the counter top, barely keeping herself from tumbling after it.

  “Tally!” Nerissa caught her as Tally’s knees buckled. Rhea, one of the other helpers, pulled out a chair, and Nerissa eased Tally into it.

  “Go and get Clio,” Nerissa said to Rhea.

  “No, I’m fine,” Tally said, wearily waving her hand in the air. “I’m overtired, that’s all.” But it was no use. Rhea was already pushing past the long queue that snaked out of the door and down the street, her small figure wrapped in an oversized coat as she disappeared around the corner.

  “Humour me,” Nerissa said, pressing a glass of water into Tally’s hand. “Let Clio give you the once-over, and then I’ll stop nagging.”

  “Promise?” Tally said with a wry grin.