Chapter 10
Juno
Evan steps aboard the new Wildfire team plane, camera already rolling, and I hear him suck in a breath. “Holy shit,” he mumbles.
I push past him to see what garnered such a reaction and my jaw drops as I take it in.
The main cabin stretches ahead of us, a single wide aisle flanked by staggered suites.
Not seats—suites.
Each one is wrapped in curved leather and brushed metal, angled for privacy, with soft amber lighting tucked into seams instead of glaring overhead.
Patrick Rowe stands there, pride etched on every line of his face. “Welcome aboard,” he says, gesturing us forward. He invited Evan and me first so we could get the grand tour for the documentary.
He rests a hand on one of the leather seats, done in the same saddle brown and black that runs through the performance facility.
“Each pod goes fully flat,” Rowe says as Evan circles him, the lens gliding over the curve of the pod’s privacy shell.
“Turns into a bed long enough for our tallest guys. Controls are individual—light, airflow, temperature. Noise-dampening is built into the panels. Players can sleep without being watched.”
I run my fingers along the edge of a console as we pass. “What kind of plane is this?”
Patrick’s mouth curves faintly, like he’s amused by the question but respects it. “A Boeing 737 BBJ,” he says. “We stripped it down to the frame and rebuilt it from scratch.”
Evan pans wide, the lens catching the sweep of the pods behind him. “How many seats?” he asks.
“Fifty,” Patrick says. “Every one of them a pod.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Fifty pods.”
He nods. “Everyone who flies with us gets the same level of comfort, although there is other seating that’s more socially useful.”
Evan lowers the camera. “I’ve never been on another professional sports team plane, but I’m going to guess this isn’t normal.”
Patrick exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “No, this is a little over the top.” He turns and waves us to follow him. “Let me show you the rest.”
We pass through a galley that’s nicer than the kitchen in my apartment and then a dining area.
“This plane lets us fly coast to coast without compromising recovery,” he adds. “We can do late departures, early arrivals, multiple cities in a week without asking our players to sacrifice their bodies for logistics.”
We’ll be taking off as soon as the players board, headed for an extended road trip along the West Coast. “Most people would say this is flaunting your wealth.”
Patrick stops and turns to face me. Evan lifts the camera. “They’re not wrong,” he replies with a smirk. “But I’m using that wealth to take care of my team both physically and mentally. These guys give everything they have to this game. The least I can do is provide them a space that gives back.”
It’s astonishing to me that Patrick Rowe comes off neither arrogant nor cocky.
There’s an inherent humbleness in the way he talks and carries himself.
He’s the type of person who could say right to your face, “I’m the smartest, most handsome, most perfect person in the world,” and you’d still think he’s a regular guy.
Truly astounding that he can pull that off.
“The lounge is this way,” he says, moving into the rear cabin area through a pair of closed curtains.
We walk into what I can only describe as a living room.
There’s no aisle to walk down, rather couches and love seats set into groupings to encourage conversation.
There are a handful of polished wood tables with captain’s chairs where one might work on their computer or enjoy a poker game.
Once again, the furniture is all high-end leather in the brown and black scheme, the carpet thick and plush.
Lamps—actual lamps—sit on side tables and cast a warm glow instead of overhead fluorescence.
“And that’s the grand tour,” he announces, spreading his arms wide.
“What about you? Where do you sit?” I ask.
Voices carry through to us from the front of the plane and Patrick grins. “That would be the players boarding.”
Evan pivots instantly so he can catch their reactions. Patrick and I follow but hang back a bit to watch.
The first players step on and conversations die mid-sentence. Duffel straps slide off shoulders and are forgotten. One of the younger guys lets out an incredulous laugh that echoes down the cabin.
“No way,” someone says.
Another voice—awed, reverent. “Holy shit.”
Arch steps on board and freezes inside the door. His eyes sweep the aisle, the pods, the lighting, the sheer width of the space. He takes two steps forward, then stops again.
“Is this… is this for us?” he asks, loud and unfiltered, perfectly mic’d by Evan’s camera. He slowly turns in a circle. “Because I swear I didn’t win the lottery.”
Laughter ripples through the cabin—real, disbelieving, almost giddy.
Players fan out instinctively, like kids set loose in a place they don’t quite trust yet. Hands trail over leather. Fingers tap the privacy panels. One guy slides into a pod, presses a button, and yelps when the seat reclines smoothly beneath him.
“Yo—yo—this thing moves,” he calls out.
Another leans halfway into a pod across the aisle. “Bro, it’s a bed. It’s actually a bed.”
Van Turner steps aboard with the coaches, pauses, and stares. He’s been in the league long enough to not impress easily, but even he lets out a low whistle. He nods once, slow and approving, then looks back at Patrick Rowe.
“Well,” he says dryly, “guess we’re not roughing it anymore.”
Rowe smiles, faint and unapologetic.
One of the assistants pokes his head into the lounge. “There’s a table back here,” he says, incredulous. “Like—chairs. Real chairs.”
“And an espresso machine,” someone else adds, already wandering toward the galley. “I’m never flying commercial again.”
A couple of the younger guys discover the privacy panels, sliding them partway closed, then opening them again, laughing like they’re testing something forbidden.
“This is dangerous,” Arch announces. “I might never leave my pod.”
Crosby steps on next and looks up after clearing the threshold.
For one rare, unguarded moment, the armor slips. His gaze travels the length of the cabin—the pods, the lounge, the light, the sheer grandeur of it all. His mouth falls open slightly before he catches himself.
He exhales, a short, stunned sound, and shakes his head once, like he needs to recalibrate reality.
Then he moves.
He moves past other players, directly to Patrick Rowe, and sets his bag down without looking away from him.
He offers his hand. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s nothing rehearsed about it. No polish. No captain’s voice. “This is… unreal.”
“You’re worth it,” Rowe replies.
Crosby nods once, eyes cutting to me. Evan’s there and he shifts the camera.
“What do you think?” I ask Crosby.
He glances at the lens, then back at the plane, eyes tracking the curve of the pods before he lets out a short laugh. “I think,” he says, “I’m gonna sleep like a damn baby on this road trip.”
The reaction is immediate—laughter from his teammates, a few claps, someone calling out that they’re stealing his pod if he doesn’t move fast enough.
Crosby’s mouth quirks a little, like he’s pleased with the response. Evan holds the shot for another beat, then lowers the camera, satisfied.
The noise swells around us—players claiming space, coaches herding, voices overlapping—and Crosby hoists his bag back onto his shoulder.
He looks at me.
“I’ve been waiting for you to pin me down for an interview,” he says, not accusing. “Figured today might be the day.”
I shrug lightly. “I’ve been busy.”
His brow lifts a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. New plane. New dynamics.” I glance around pointedly. “Hard to ignore.”
That earns me a quiet huff of a laugh.
“You got some time over this road trip?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, like I don’t already know the answer. “Not to film. Just to talk.”
He considers it for half a second—enough to make it feel real—then nods. “Yeah. I’ll carve out some time.”
No promises beyond that. “Okay. I’ll hold you to it.”
He dips his head once in acknowledgment, then turns down the aisle and claims a seat.
I watch him go talk to Arch, who took the pod across the aisle, both of them laughing with the excitement of kids at Christmas.
Crosby’s guard is down and I could ask Evan to film him, but I don’t. We’ve got enough footage to properly characterize this moment, and now these guys can enjoy their due.