Page 67 of Courting Trouble
Cassie jogged after the journo, catching up with her at her car. ‘Wait. How did you find out we were here? Did you get a tip?’ she asked, expecting to hear Petra’s name.
But the answer was something else entirely.
The journalist shook her head, eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. ‘No tip. I’m chasing the lead from, ya know, the video.’
Cassie’s stomach lurched. ‘What video?’
The journalist paused, a smirk forming. ‘You don’t know?’
Sixty-Seven
Cassie was unusually quiet as she motioned for Delilah to sit beside her on the creaky wooden bench near the courts. Her stomach had tied itself into a knot as tight as the strings on her racket.
‘There’s something you need to see,’ Cassie said, voice calm but serious. She pulled out her phone and tapped a few times, then handed it over like it was a ticking bomb.
Delilah took the phone reluctantly. The screen lit up with a grainy, slightly fuzzy security camera video, captioned, ‘This is Delilah Day, playing at Larchfield. This is who they picked to play Tamsin Rowe,’ followed by five crying-laughing emojis. The footage was from high up, a security camera, the angle wide and merciless.
And there, front and centre, was Delilah.
The video began with Delilah awkwardly swinging and completely missing a serve. The ball dribbled across the court like it was on a leisurely stroll. Then came a baffling series of missteps: a stumble here, a wild backhand there, and anaccidental double bounce that looked like it belonged in a slapstick comedy.
‘Cassie,’ she muttered, voice cracking under the weight of her embarrassment, ‘this looks terrible.’
Cassie reached out and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘That was literally your first day here,’ she said gently. ‘You were thrown off by the location change.’
Delilah gave a dry laugh, half a sob. ‘Thrown off? This is comedically bad.’
‘No, really. I remember it. This was the first hour after we got here,’ Cassie smiled. ‘You weren’t this bad, really. You’d improved by then. And you’re even better now. This doesn’t show the reality of your playing whatsoever. But I have to show you, because…’
‘Because it’s out there.’
‘Yes.’
Delilah stared down at the phone. ‘Welp. I’m fucked. If this is everywhere…’
Cassie shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s exactly viral.’ She pointed out the view counter. It was under three thousand.
‘A journalist found it.’
‘Journalists—if that’s even what you can call that person—are looking for stuff they can turn into a story. I think you just got unlucky.’
As calming a presence as Cassie was, Delilah wasn’t pacified. The urge to cry felt dangerously close.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, and the name on the screen made her stomach drop: Ashley.
Well, this couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
Sixty-Eight
Cassie lingered behind the chain link, fiddling with it absent-mindedly; her eyes fixed on Delilah as she paced near the edge of the tennis courts, talking to her agent.
Cassie didn’t need to hear the words to get the tone. Delilah was hunched and tense. She wasn’t having a good time. But then she wandered a little closer, and Cassie could hear something.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Delilah’s voice was low, hesitant. ‘No, I need to know exactly what they want first…’
Petra had crossed a line. Putting that video out wasn’t just some petty sabotage; it was a calculated strike meant to throw Delilah off balance, to shake her confidence, and maybe even to ruin her chances. If Cassie had been pissed about Petra’s continued attempts to get under Cassie’s skin, this? This was war.
***
