Chapter 2
Juno
By the time I hit Beaverton traffic, I’ve already done three things I swore I wouldn’t do today. I answered an email before coffee, moved a meeting without asking Marta first, and checked my text messages while sitting at a stoplight.
I know better and still I did it all anyway.
The problem with being a go-getter is that the “go” part doesn’t come with an off switch.
My brain has a dozen browser tabs open at all times, and I’m not effective unless I’m juggling multiple balls simultaneously.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text against the cup holder, but I don’t even look. The car is in motion and while I’ll pick it up when fully stopped, I draw the line when my foot is on the gas.
Besides, I already know it’s Evan, and I know what it’s going to say. I’m excited. Tell me you’re excited. I’m definitely excited.
He’s a huge hockey nut and he’s been telling me nonstop that this is his dream job.
He’s not only my cameraman but my right-hand man and about the closest thing to a best friend I have.
We’ve been together as a team since our graduation from college and I wouldn’t want anyone but him by my side for this project.
The sky is gray as I pull into the Portland Wildfire Performance Center, but from what I understand about the Pacific Northwest… that’s par for the course. I eyeball it suspiciously, noting the bulbous clouds waiting to dump rain, and realize I forgot an umbrella.
I park in the guest lot and for half a second, I stand outside my car to stare up at the massive building, the air biting at my cheeks.
It screams power and money, and maybe that will end up being the theme of this documentary I’m going to create. But you never know until you’re in the thick of it.
Inside, the lobby is empty, but that’s not surprising since there are hardly any cars in the lot. I understand the players had a team meeting this morning, but I’m not ready to start filming yet, as I need a better lay of the land. Today is going to be about me checking things out.
A security desk stands dead ahead, staffed by a man with shoulders like he played football and a face like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Juno Paxton,” I say before he can ask. “Meeting with Patrick Rowe.”
He checks a list. “You’re early.”
I smile, all teeth. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t smile back as he slides a temporary badge across the counter. “Return this on your way out.”
Charming fellow.
I take the badge and clip it to my jacket. “Which way?” I ask.
He gestures, sounding thoroughly bored. “West wing. Doors to your left, elevator up two floors. Follow the signs to the executive suite and a receptionist will check you in there.”
“Thank you,” I say, and he responds with a large yawn. I wonder if his demeanor will change when a camera is rolling.
I follow his directions, and my brain starts doing what it always does in places like this—mapping angles, noting potential acoustic problems, envisioning how to pull off an effective wide-angle shot.
On the third floor, I push through a set of heavy mahogany double doors into a carpeted lobby. Behind a desk sits a beautiful woman in a sleek black outfit. She looks efficient, polished, the kind of assistant who could probably run the entire organization if Rowe disappeared for a week.
“Ms. Paxton,” she says as she stands, offering me a bright smile as well as her hand to shake. “I’m Janine. You’re right on time.”
“It’s Juno,” I correct with a wink, because I hate formality. “I very much like my first name better than my last.”
Janine’s lips twitch and she comes around the desk. “It’s a beautiful name, Juno. This way.”
I follow Janine through a maze of offices before she brings me to Rowe’s. His name is in bold lettering on a brass plate.
Patrick Rowe, Team Owner
As we step inside, I take in everything all at once.
His desk is dark wood, masculine with severe edges.
There’s a separate seating area arranged like it was designed for conversations that end with signatures.
I’m stunned to see floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook one of the ice rinks, giving him a view that makes it clear he likes to watch his investments in motion.
The man himself stands at the windows, dark gray suit with no tie and the collar open. His hands are tucked casually in his pockets.
“Patrick,” Janine says. “Juno Paxton is here.”
I’m shocked she calls this multibillionaire powerhouse of a man by his first name and the cynic in me wonders if they’re sleeping together.
I brush that thought aside because it’s none of my business, although if that happens to be naturally revealed during filming, well…
so be it. It will make the final cut if it’s pertinent.
Patrick Rowe turns as I enter, and his smile is brief but clearly genuine. His tone is warm as he moves my way, walking with the grace of a panther.
The man is undeniably handsome with dark hair threaded with silver and more heavily salted at the temples.
His eyes are a vivid blue with laugh lines that make him seem like a mere mortal.
I did my homework on him, just as I know he did his on me, and I know he’s never been married and has no kids.
His wealth is generational, the sources of which are varied.
“Juno,” he says, as if we’re old friends. He crosses the room and holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you in person finally. Zoom meetings somehow don’t always feel as genuine, do they?”
“Mr. Rowe,” I say as we shake. “It’s definitely nice to meet in person.”
“Patrick,” he corrects, as he gestures to the seating area of two low-slung couches facing each other. “Have a seat.”
I glance over my shoulder and note that Janine has melted away, the door closed behind her. When I turn back, I see Patrick giving me a very quick once-over, and he doesn’t try to hide it.
I know what he sees.
I’m an award-winning documentary filmmaker, but I don’t look like it.
My long hair is nearly jet black, features elfin.
I’m wearing faded jeans with holes at the knees, a black camisole and leather jacket, and black high-heeled ankle boots.
He can’t see the tattoo on my shoulder, but my nose and eyebrow piercings are obvious.
I’m dressed like the type of person he might cross the street to avoid walking past on any given day.
Because he studied my appearance in that brief glance, I can’t help but poke at him a bit. “I hope you don’t expect me to wear business suits during this project.”
To my surprise, Patrick’s head tips back and he gives a hearty laugh. He takes the couch opposite me, crossing one leg over the other and draping an arm over the back. “Not at all. I like your vibe.”
“Good to know, because I dress for comfort most days.” I lift a leg with my spiky boot. “This is my dressed-up look.”
“Oh, not true, Juno. I’ve seen pictures of you in formal gowns at awards shows.”
“Well, I’d wear jeans to those things if they’d let me.” I look around his office, and it reeks of luxury, which I have nothing against. If you got it, flaunt it. My eyes come back to him. “This facility is pretty amazing from what I’ve seen.”
“Janine will give you the grand tour when we’re done,” he says. “I wanted to touch base before training camp starts. Make sure you’re good to go and find out what else you need from me. I want this documentary to shine, no holds barred.”
While the league is funding part of the documentary, the real powerhouse behind it is Rowe.
It’s going to be an insider look at how a new expansion team is built from the ground up.
It’s the first sports documentary I’ve ever done and at first, I wasn’t interested.
But after a series of meetings, I saw the potential for a unique product and well… I love a good challenge.
Plus, the amount of money I’m being paid sweetened the deal to the point I simply couldn’t say no.
“I want to start filming sooner rather than later. We’ll work on B-roll immediately—empty spaces, first arrivals. This building is part of the story. The first week is part of the story. The first time they realize they’re being watched—definitely part of the story.”
Rowe’s brow lifts slightly. “You want to film before they’re ready.”
“Of course I do,” I say. “Ready is curated.”
“Some would call that intrusive.”
I smile. “Some would be correct.”
There won’t be any apologies for what I’ll be doing, but I might offer an explanation if the situation warrants it.
Rowe leans back, clasping his hands loosely. “Tell me your plan.”
“Skeleton crew,” I say, crossing one leg over the other.
“Me and my cameraman, Evan Langdon. He shoots and I direct. We’re efficient and invisible when we need to be.
We’ll use lavalier mics for interviews and a camera-mounted shotgun for ambient.
I’ll want to install some other mics in the common areas as secondary audio.
I rarely use boom mics because they make people self-conscious.
I want your folks to forget we’re there. ”
Rowe nods slowly. “And if they don’t forget?”
“Then I wait,” I say, because that’s the part that makes people nervous. “Or I push.”
His eyes sharpen, not disapproving but rather curious. “You’re probably going to ruffle some feathers.”
“I don’t know a single documentarian who doesn’t ruffle feathers,” I reply glibly.
“Fair enough.”
I study him for a long moment, and although we’ve discussed this many times, I feel the need to reiterate it. “I won’t do a fluff piece on this team. If I find dirt, I’ll expose it. Just as I’ll highlight the good stuff.”
“Juno,” Patrick says, leaning forward so that I feel the weight of his stare.
“I know you did your research and I vetted you very thoroughly, so trust me, if I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.
” I hold his gaze. “I know you’ve built a career on dismantling institutions.
The only thing I expect you to do is report with integrity. ”