Chapter 13
Juno
I’ve been to my share of sporting events over the years because I like sports of all kinds. I’ve also been in luxury boxes.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for Patrick Rowe’s owner’s suite at the new arena.
It’s quite frankly… overwhelming.
Evan moves in front of me, camera on his shoulder to film what can only be described as beyond grandiose. The sheer size of the space is hard to understand, easily five times bigger than other suites I’ve been in. It feels more like the private wing of a luxury hotel.
The carpet is so plush, my boots sink into it, and the warm lighting has been placed to enhance the architecture. Curated art lines the walls along with branded team décor—the classic Wildfire logo showing the Cascade Mountains with forest and flames.
“I wonder if this will impress the players,” Evan asks, lowering his camera to glance back at me.
I laugh, shaking my head. “This suite wasn’t built to impress players. It was built to impress people who already own everything.”
“Truth,” he says, and lifts the camera again.
I spy Patrick Rowe talking to a group of men in power suits and peg them for city officials. I’m sure lots of palms had to be greased for the building permits on this prime piece of land on the river.
Patrick is not in a suit, even though I’m guessing he owns countless designer ones. Instead, he’s got on a pair of dark jeans and a crisp, white button-down shirt. Super casual, but when you have his kind of money, you dress how you want.
His eyes connect with mine and he makes his excuses to step away from those guests, approaching Evan and me with a smile. “Welcome.” He spreads his arms wide. “What do you think?”
I glance around at the staggering display of wealth, the dozens of guests milling about who represent the top one percent of the one percent. It’s extravagant and yet, I would not even consider calling Patrick Rowe ostentatious. He’s simply proud of what he’s achieved.
“It’s unbelievable,” I say. “Can we get a tour from you on camera?”
“Absolutely.” He beams, taking a moment to shake the hand of a passerby.
The invitation from Rowe included open access for the documentary.
Every guest entering the suite was advised ahead of time we would be filming and has already signed releases, which are probably tucked neatly into the leather portfolio of Rowe’s head attorney.
Guests were also advised that I might interview them, but they are free to decline to talk to me.
“This is the main space,” Patrick says, sweeping his hand toward clusters of deep leather seating accented with low chrome and granite tables dressed with flowers and candles. “As you can see, we wanted to invite conversation, but no one can deny, it’s the bar that grabs everyone’s attention.”
Indeed, it’s as much a sculptural statement piece as it is a functional station to serve drinks. The bar isn’t tucked into the suite or positioned along a wall like an amenity but rather free-floating in an enormous oval, easily thirty feet across.
It’s anchored at the exact center of the room with a countertop of dark polished stone, its surface uninterrupted except for discreet inlaid service wells.
Above the bar, suspended from the ceiling, hangs a massive circular fixture—two concentric rings where bottles are displayed around its circumference.
Dozens of top-shelf liquors, evenly spaced and backlit like an art gallery.
The light filters through glass and gold-toned metal, casting a soft glow downward that pools over the stone surface and makes the entire bar feel like its own room within the room.
Encircling the bar is a ring of barstools, evenly spaced, each one upholstered in deep brown leather that matches the suite’s interior palette—blackened wood legs, brass footrests, backs curved enough to cradle the spine.
The space never funnels people in a single direction but rather encourages them to gather, drift or settle. Groups form organically—some standing at the bar, others perched on the sofas, a few leaning in chairs angled to keep one eye on the ice through the interior balcony windows beyond.
And standing there, taking it in, I understand an important trait about Patrick Rowe. He doesn’t do anything half-assed, and if he puts that same effort into this team, they’re going to be a powerhouse.
“Everything revolves around the bar,” Patrick says, gesturing lightly. “I wanted it to be communal, not hierarchical.”
Evan circles it, filming the sweep of the room.
“How many people can this suite hold?” I ask.
“It’s almost two thousand square feet, including the outdoor patio, so comfortably?
A hundred. More, if we’re flexible.” He points toward the floor-to-ceiling glass partition that separates this social area from the ice-viewing balcony.
“As you can see, we can easily seat another thirty out there, or people can watch the game in here. I think we have over twenty TVs mounted throughout the entire suite.”
“Wow,” I murmur, glancing past the wall of glass to the interior balcony. The rink spreads out below, pristine and impossibly bright. Five rows of oversized leather chairs cascade downward, each one wide, deep, indulgent, flanked by tables where guests can gather to watch the game.
“Come on,” Patrick says, already turning, the grin on his face boyish and unguarded. “I want to show you the patio.”
We angle away from the interior balcony and the sweep of the ice, skirting the western edge of the suite, where the noise shifts—less roar, more conversation.
The oval bar stays at our backs now, its warm glow fading as we move past clusters of chairs and standing tables, each one occupied by people leaning in close, absorbed.
Patrick keeps getting stopped by people to shake hands, accept congratulations. Each time, he promises, “I’ll circle back to you” before steering us onward again.
At the far side of the suite, the architecture changes.
The carpet gives way to stone, and a wide run of floor-to-ceiling glass stretches ahead of us, the city lights already visible beyond it.
Evan lifts the camera without a word, instinctively understanding this isn’t a shot to talk over. Patrick reaches the doors first and slides them open to reveal a wide outdoor balcony that stretches the full length of the suite.
And Portland unfolds in front of us.
The Willamette River glides past below, black glass broken by reflected city lights. The downtown rises beyond, the skyline close enough to feel personal instead of distant.
I step forward.
Patrick watches my reaction, not with pride but with quiet satisfaction. “Most arenas turn inward,” he says. “I wanted a place that reminded people where they are.” He gestures outward. “This team belongs to the city. Not the other way around.”
The wind is muted by an overhead structure with heaters tucked seamlessly into the design and pumping warm air down.
Guests gather in small pockets, hands wrapped around glasses, conversations softer here.
There’s a small bar tucked into the corner and outdoor TV screens so people can watch the game.
“This is where people come when they need to breathe,” Patrick continues.
Evan films wide, then tight—the city, the river, the people. It’s not a necessary detail, but the forethought explains Rowe well. He doesn’t do anything by half measures.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Patrick says with an incline of his head, “I’ve got a lot of people to mingle with. Enjoy yourself. The food is fabulous.”
We head back inside as the national anthem finishes and the roar of the crowd can be heard through the glass doors and over the chatter of guests. We weave through the suite and I notice most people are happy to socialize and don’t seem all that interested in the game.
But I’m not one of those people. I want to see the Wildfire play.
I want to feel the electric energy of the first home regular season game, so Evan and I head to the interior balcony.
All the leather seats are occupied and it’s standing room only on the upper tier.
Evan pans his camera, from the wealthy elite to the everyday fan in the stands.
My gaze, however, seems to be on a magnetic pull toward the net where Crosby is ready for the opening face-off. I tell myself this is professional awareness—the same way I track any subject once the story starts taking shape.
My pulse doesn’t buy it.
He’s skating side to side to stay warm and limber but with the kind of calm that comes from absolute control. The roar of the crowd doesn’t seem to touch him and I’m more than excited about going to his house this weekend for his interview.
Our text exchange last night lives rent-free in my head. It was a banter I hadn’t expected, and I slide my phone out of my back pocket and read the exchange one more time.
Me: You owe me an interview. When do I get that invite to your house?
Crosby: Consider yourself invited but remember, it comes with the promise of unpacking numerous boxes.
Me: I’m really good at moral support.
Crosby: Dangerous promise.
I don’t know why my stomach flutters now. I’ve interviewed war criminals, cult leaders, men who thrived on fear. A goalie’s text message shouldn’t be doing this to me.
It’s not that his words were flirty in and of themselves, but it was the quick comeback that engaged me, and I sent a reply before I could stop myself.
Me: You’d be surprised at what I can motivate.
I got back a laughing emoji and his address, along with a directive for Evan and me to come around six p.m. on Sunday.
I tuck my phone back in and stand near Evan as he films, periodically giving him suggestions that he really doesn’t need. I keep an eye on the game with more than a reasonable amount of interest in Crosby, who looks fantastic in goal.