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I don’t do red carpets. I don’t gush over celebrities or ask athletes how they’re feeling after a big win.

I do one-on-one interviews with people who don’t give interviews. I’m the woman who corners reclusive celebrities for a living. Politicians. CEOs. Athletes with something to hide.

Powerful people who’ve perfected the art of saying absolutely nothing while using a whole lot of words.

Getting them to talk is kind of my thing. And I’m damn good at it.

That reminder settles something inside me.

I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and scan the room for my prey, Mitchell Knight.

Where the hell are you?

I’ve spent the past three weeks researching him. Mitchell Knight owns companies the way normal people collect coffee mugs.

Media.

Technology.

Real estate.

Investments.

And somewhere along the line, apparently because being disgustingly rich wasn’t enough to occupy his time, he decided he wanted a rugby team.

Not football.

Not basketball.

Not baseball.

Sports Americans actually understand.

Nope. He chose Rugby.

Why? That’s what I want to know.

Because Mitchell Knight doesn’t strike me as a man who does anything without a reason. People keep calling what he’s done with the Rovers a Cinderella story.

But I don’t buy fairy tales. I buy motives. And billionaires always have one.

I spot several players near the dance floor, still riding the high of tonight’s victory. Wives and girlfriends mingle around them, laughing and celebrating like one giant, ridiculously attractive family.

That’s another thing about the Rovers.

They don’t feel like a corporation. They feel like a family. Which makes even less sense.

Professional sports franchises are businesses. Expensive ones. And Mitchell Knight has poured money into this team like he’s trying to prove something.

Facilities.

Staff.

Travel.

Marketing.

Community programs.