Page 7

Better not let the press hear about that. They'd have a field day.

I grin and reach for my phone. Twenty-nine notifications now. By tomorrow, every sports journalist in the country will be trying to figure me out.

They'll want interviews. Access. Answers.

They'll speculate about my motives. Dig into my past.

Turn my grandfather's dream into some kind of billionaire vanity project because that's easier to sell than the truth.

Let them try.

I built an empire by controlling the story. I don't intend to stop now.

Besides, there isn't a reporter alive I'd let close enough to uncover the things I keep hidden.

Not one. I look at Granddad's picture one last time.

Then at my team.

My fucking rugby team.

And I smile.

Game on.

Chapter 1

Layla

I’m going to break my ankle. That’s going to be the story.

Not the Carolina Rovers winning the Championship Cup.

Not their improbable rise from a rugby team half the country didn’t know existed to the hottest sports story of the year.

Not the packed stadium.

Not the screaming fans.

Not the celebrity DJ and singer who somehow turned a rugby anthem into a song currently climbing every streaming chart known to mankind.

Nope.

Tomorrow’s headline is going to read:

LOCAL SPORTS REPORTER EATS SHIT AT CHAMPIONSHIP GALA.

Film at eleven.

I wobble slightly on the borrowed silver heels currently attempting to murder me and tighten my grip on my clutch.

“Worth it,” I mutter.

It damn well better be. Because somewhere inside this obscenely expensive ballroom is Mitchell Knight.

Billionaire.

Media mogul.