Page 8

Playboy.

And, for reasons nobody has ever adequately explained to me, owner of the newly crowned Championship Cup-winning Carolina Rovers.

That last one is the reason I’m here.

Well.

That and my editor practically shoved me through the door with orders to get something nobody else has.

Everyone has the victory story. They have footage of the final whistle. And everyone has exhausted the video of the Rovers losing their collective minds on the field when they realized they’d actually done it.

There are already a thousand interviews with the players floating around.

Emotional ones. Sweaty ones. Shirtless ones.

Very shirtless ones.

Apparently rugby players consider clothing optional after winning championships.

Good for them.

But I’m not here for the players. I’m here for the man who owns them.

I take another careful step into the ballroom and immediately regret every decision that brought me here.

Holy shit.

I am so out of my league. And considering I cover professional sports for a living, I understand exactly how bad that is.

Crystal chandeliers hang overhead. Champagne flows like water. Waiters in tuxedos circulate with tiny foods balanced on silver trays, most of which I cannot identify and none of which look substantial enough to justify whatever they cost.

The room is filled with athletes, celebrities, sponsors, politicians, executives, and women wearing dresses that probably cost more than my car.

Meanwhile, mine came off a department store clearance rack in the plus size section. Seventy-nine ninety-nine. Marked down twice.

Thank you very much.

And the shoes belong to my producer, who is a half-size smaller than me and apparently has no nerve endings in her feet.

I smooth a hand over my dress. It’s black.

Simple.

A little too snug across my boobs and hips, but that’s hardly the dress’s fault.

I’m a curvy blonde with enough T&A to make most off-the-rack formalwear surrender on sight. The material is gathered, ruched just over my stomach, strategically hiding bulges and bumps.

Overall, I look fine.

Passable.

Whatever.

Usually, I don’t give a shit.

Tonight? Tonight, I feel like someone accidentally invited me to the Oscars.

Which, okay. That’s kinda exactly what happened.