Chapter 15
Juno
Patrick Rowe’s house sits at the end of a private road in the West Hills neighborhood of Portland.
I’d researched it, as I have everything that has to do with this team, and it sits on a ridge that provides panoramic views of the city.
Supposedly, on a clear day, you can see Mt.
St. Helens to the northeast and Mt. Hood to the southeast.
The driveway curves through mature trees and manicured hedges, the pavement widening as the gates part to reveal a broad stone motor court.
Twin fountains flank the center, water spilling in quiet, controlled arcs.
The enormous house—fifteen thousand square feet, according to Zillow—is symmetrical and imposing, made of pale stone with deep-set windows glowing warm against the dusk.
Inside, the scale is overwhelming. The entry opens into a double-height great room framed by walls of glass that look straight through the house and out to the grounds beyond.
A sculptural stone fireplace rises from floor to ceiling, its clean lines mirrored by low, modern seating arranged with precision around it.
Light pours from pendant fixtures suspended like art and recessed lighting tucked into wood-paneled ceilings.
Much like the owner’s suite and team plane, this place may be a functional home to live in, but it was built to impress.
Off the main room, the house opens seamlessly outward.
Glass doors slide away to reveal covered terraces, fire features already lit, and a stretch of lawn that slopes toward the pool and cabana below.
Beyond that, pathways wind through manicured gardens toward a tennis court and a glass-and-iron gazebo perched far enough away to feel private, its fire glowing softly inside.
I’ve seen some nice houses in my travels, but I’m a little speechless over the wealth. Records revealed that Patrick bought this place this summer for fifty million dollars. It’s as over the top as everything else he’s done, but once again, I can’t find anything disingenuous about the man himself.
In addition to being one of the wealthiest men in America, he’s also a philanthropist and donates millions upon millions every year to good causes.
I’m flying solo tonight, so I take some time to meander through the house and walk through the gardens.
The team has two days until its next game and while Evan really wanted to come to this party tonight, he’s taking the opportunity to fly home to see his parents in Texas since I won’t be filming this event.
We’d talked about doing it, but honestly, I have so much footage of Patrick’s wealth, this almost feels gratuitous.
Doesn’t mean I won’t be back here to film in the future, but tonight, I’m going to enjoy as Patrick commanded me to do when he welcomed my arrival in the front foyer.
Waiters circulate with trays of champagne flutes and expensive-looking hors d’oeuvres.
I ignore the food and go for the champagne, because even though I consider myself somewhat worldly, I’m nervous.
Without the camera in my vicinity and my reputation as a filmmaker, I’m simply a poor girl who had a rough life growing up.
I greet some of the players and staff I know with head nods and smiles. This is a season kickoff party, and every member of the organization is here along with their significant others. I estimate there’s well over two hundred people in attendance and still the house feels large.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a large mirror as I round a corner into the great room, pleased with my choice of dress.
It’s a wine-colored satin that feels like liquid in my hands and is impossibly light once it’s on.
The material skims my curves with a soft drape at the neckline.
The arms are bare, my one and only tattoo on full display.
It’s a compass rose filling the curve of my shoulder blade, bold and purposeful.
The lines are black, clean and precise, with no ornamentation.
The center is shaded in soft charcoal gray, subtle enough that it gives the rose depth without softening its edges.
Beneath the top point, worked seamlessly into the design, is the word NORTH in simple block lettering, inked darker than everything else so it anchors the eye.
There’s no color beyond that—no red, no gold, nothing decorative. Black and gray against skin.
It isn’t meant to be pretty. It’s meant to be clear.
The tattoo represents finding my way and being in charge of my own course.
It’s nice to relax. Evan and I have been going hard, trying to catch as much of this magical new time as we can. The Wildfire have had three games in six days. Two were losses, but there was a huge, well-earned win.
It’s been nothing but long flights and late nights, tight practices and one-on-ones.
I’ve interviewed nearly everyone—players, coaches, trainers, front office staff.
I’ve sat in locker rooms and performance rooms that smell like disinfectant and dirty socks.
I’ve heard about discipline and process and trust so many times I could cut it together in my sleep.
Filming has gone smoothly, and so far, there’s no fracture I can detect.
No scandal has revealed itself and I’ve uncovered no obvious pressure points.
Merely a hardworking expansion team owned by an obscenely rich man who believes patience and structure will eventually turn into the extraordinary.
It’s honest work, for sure.
But honesty doesn’t always translate to compelling. It’s up to me to find the reason that people will be unable to look away from this film. I’m confident my hook will reveal itself, and it will turn out to be pivotal.
It always comes.
“Juno.”
Simone Turner’s voice cuts through my thoughts, warm and familiar. She approaches with Van beside her, both dressed flawlessly.
“How’s the week treating you?” she asks as we air-kiss.
“Busy,” I say with a smile. “In a good way.”
Simone and I had lunch earlier in the week. It was informal and had nothing to do with the documentary, more so two women navigating proximity to a professional sports machine.
I turn to her husband. “Good to see you without a whistle in your mouth, Van.”
“Good to not have a whistle in my mouth.” He laughs.
I gesture around us. “Looks like Patrick went all out.”
Van’s mouth curves. “This is actually his version of casual.”
Simone laughs. “You should see his office. We flew out here to meet him before Van took the job. It reminds me more of Belle’s library with all the two-story bookshelves filled with literature.”
“No,” Van says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Go see his garage. He has luxury cars that are stacked on top of each other on these platforms that rotate and spit out whatever car he wants to drive that day.”
I make a mental note to check out the rest of the house, and realize… I really do need to come back and film Patrick in this environment. It’s who he is and he’s a key element in this story.
We talk for another minute—about travel, about how strange it still feels that this is real—and then they’re pulled away by another conversation. I’m left scanning the room again, more aware than I want to be of who I’m really looking for.
I’ve seen Crosby all week, multiple times. It’s like our orbit keeps bringing us together but instead of passing by or bouncing off each other, we’ve taken various moments to hang out. Twice on the recent road trip, Evan and I joined him for dinner.
On the flight home, we ended up in the plane lounge—cards spread across a table playing a vigorous game of rummy with Arch, Boss and Evan. It was a lot of laughs and getting to know these guys on a more intimate level.
Crosby, as always, was quieter than the others, but no less present. Relaxed in a way I’m starting to recognize.
Whereas Crosby is contained, Arch is explosive. I like Arch a lot. He’s kind and thoughtful. Funny to the core and incredibly handsome. For any woman, a real catch.
And I’m pretty sure he likes me too, if the way he flirts is any indication. He’s shameless with it, really, but I roll my eyes at him because whatever exists there is uncomplicated in a way that doesn’t tug at me.
Not the way Crosby does.
And last night, I grabbed a late bite in The Blue Line.
Evan had gone home and I realized I’d not had lunch or dinner.
I was diving into a delicious shrimp and couscous concoction when Crosby dropped down into the booth opposite me.
He had a plate of the same and we talked almost the entire time about foods we love and hate.
It took us about fifteen minutes to actually eat, and we talked for another forty.
I can’t speak for Crosby, but when it was time to pack up and leave, saying goodbye was a little hard.
In a million years, I never thought I’d have any personal interest in one of my subjects. One of the reasons I’m good at what I do is because I can remain aloof and objective about what I’m observing. But I’m finding it harder and harder to compartmentalize when it comes to Crosby.
I spot him near the far windows, drink in hand, posture loose but contained. He’s dressed simply—dark suit with an open collar, and when our eyes meet, I feel the connection.
He smiles slowly and unguarded, then starts toward me.
I know it’s ridiculous, but the room recalibrates around his movement. Conversations soften. Bodies shift without anyone quite realizing why. It’s as if the space makes room for him on instinct. He doesn’t notice any of it and I flush a little at the way his attention is steadily locked on me.
“Having fun?” he asks.
His gaze drifts—unhurried, appreciative—down the length of my dress before returning to my face. He doesn’t comment on it, which somehow makes the look more intimate.
“As much as one can,” I say, lifting my glass slightly, “drinking expensive champagne in a luxury mansion. Of course, I’m also calculating all the filming angles, should I drag Evan back to film.”