Chapter 2 #2
“I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that hockey is an institution.”
He sits back again, eyes glittering with interest. “I’d agree with that.”
“People worship it. And anything people worship gets away with things it shouldn’t.”
Rowe’s mouth curves. “You think my team is hiding something.”
“I think every institution is hiding something,” I correct. “Sometimes it’s big. Sometimes it’s small. Sometimes it’s a truth that doesn’t look good on a billboard.”
Rowe studies me for a beat, then nods like he expected that answer.
That’s when he says it. “Sanctuary.”
The title of my first major documentary sounds like a lit match dropped on dry paper. My expression stays neutral because I’ve had years of practice. I don’t flinch, but my blood remembers where I got the inspiration for the film.
The closed community, the hymns and the rules. The way they preyed on innocent little girls.
Rowe smiles at me and I see the respect peeking past the empathy. “I admire that you used your own personal childhood experience to focus the direction of that film. It was very brave.”
Yes. I’ve been called brave before, and I accept that.
Rowe doesn’t dramatize it. “You won awards for that documentary,” he continues, calm. “But more importantly, you exposed truth without turning it into spectacle. You took down a system that had used moral authority as a weapon.”
Sanctuary was a feature-length film exposing a fundamentalist church in rural Alabama that used corruption and manipulation to fill its coffers.
While it wasn’t exactly like the church I was raised in, it had enough similarities.
Along the way, people were traumatized, powerful men went to prison, and I captured every bit of it on film.
That documentary made my career what it is today, and why I can command pretty much any project I want.
It’s also why I get paid the big bucks.
“People love the ‘survivor’ narrative,” I say lightly. “It sells. Much the same way, the Wildfire will be viewed as an underdog story, and that narrative sells just as well.”
Rowe’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We will be considered underdogs, but this team will be competitive. I’m glad you’re going to capture that all on film.”
I’m not sure what possesses me to challenge him, but I speak before I think. “You’re very confident in your abilities and that of your team. Almost to the point of being cocky.”
“And the interview has started already.” Patrick grins at me.
“I’ve been called worse. I think I’m going to very much enjoy working with you.
” He flicks at an invisible piece of lint on his pant leg.
“You’re a rebel, Juno, and you let your passion drive your creativity.
I want people to be mesmerized by this documentary and given your, shall we say, experiences…
you’ve proven yourself in ways others can’t. ”
It should be off-putting for him to be talking about my childhood trauma in such a blatantly forward manner, but I’m not bothered. My story has been public for a very long time, and that was my choice.
The cult. The church. The “faith community.” Whatever label you want to slap on it.
I was thirteen years old and positioned to become the leader’s wife on my fourteenth birthday. And I wasn’t the only girl slated for matrimony. We were being groomed to believe it was holy, but even though I didn’t know much about the outside world, I knew in my gut it wasn’t right.
My story didn’t end in marriage but in collapse. I escaped, went to the authorities, and brought the whole damn cult to its knees. There were investigations. Arrests. News vans. Headlines.
Then foster care.
That part doesn’t get romanticized because it isn’t romantic, but I survived.
I didn’t become a documentarian because I love storytelling. I became a documentarian because I learned early that truth only matters if someone is willing to drag it into the light.
Rowe’s gaze holds mine and he understands full well the league didn’t hire me to produce fluff or shiny PR. “Here’s what you need to know,” Rowe says, shifting forward slightly. “You will have full access to the team.”
“Define full,” I say, because words matter.
“Facilities. Players. Staff. Offices. Training camp. Travel to all the away games on our plane.”
“And I’ll have access to you?” Because he will be central to this story.
“Absolutely,” he says, and that cocky swagger shines through.
“And so you know, I’m not interested in curating a version of this team that doesn’t exist. I don’t care if you find a mess when you start digging because I have a vision of what this team will become, and trust me when I say, they will become what I want. ”
I study him because I don’t trust easily, and because men with money often don’t play by the rules.
“What about medical?” I ask.
A faint smile. “Within legal limits. HIPAA. Team policies. But you’ll be allowed closer than most.”
“Locker room?”
Rowe’s eyes flick once, like he expected that question. “The players have all signed releases. You’ll get full locker room access.”
“Practices,” I continue.
“Absolutely.”
“Private meetings?” I press, because if he says yes, he’s either fearless or foolish.
Rowe doesn’t hesitate. “If they’re relevant, yes.”
I glance down at my phone as it buzzes, but I don’t pick it up. Evan can wait. Dana can wait. Marta can definitely wait because Marta is the kind of tech genius who probably hasn’t slept since 2019 and still somehow produces miracles.
“Do you want to focus on anyone in particular?” I ask.
“Not really,” Rowe drawls. “But if you want to narrow in on the man who will be the glue for this team, it’s Crosby Hale. He’s the go-to veteran. Steady in a way few are and elected captain. He’s the type of player I want all my players to model themselves after.”
“A goalie captain?” I ask, unable to hide the edge of curiosity. “I thought they didn’t have those.”
Rowe nods. “Honorary. He can’t manage the refs from the crease, so the assistants will handle on-ice matters.”
“Why do you think he was elected?” I ask.
“Because he’s respected. Because he doesn’t create drama.”
My mouth curves. “So, he’s boring.”
Rowe’s laugh is short. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what people mean when they say, ‘doesn’t create drama,’” I counter. “Often it means no personality.”
Rowe chuckles. “He has personality. But he doesn’t give it away easily.”
Ah.
That’s better.
Rowe leans back again. “If you run into problems, you come to me.”
“I handle my own problems,” I say automatically.
“I’m not offering help,” Rowe replies, calm but absolute. “I’m telling you that so this project happens the way I intend it to happen.”
There it is.
Not offensive. Not threatening.
Fact.
Rowe gets his way because Rowe has built a life where no doesn’t exist unless he allows it.
I respect that more than I want to.
“Fine,” I say. “If Crosby Hale tries to stonewall me, I’ll let you know.”
Rowe stands, signaling the meeting is over. It’s subtle but unmistakable. A pure power move.
“Janine will give you a full tour,” he says. “You’ll get credentials, access points, security clearance for your team. Anything you need.”
As if on cue, Janine opens the office door and I turn that way, but Rowe’s voice stops me. “Juno.”
I glance back, eyebrows raised.
Rowe’s gaze holds mine, steady and direct. “Make it spectacular.”
I blink once, caught off guard not by the simplicity of it but because it’s so genuine.
I’ve decided that I like Patrick Rowe.
I smile. “Always.”