Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
He studies me for a long beat, the night air stretching between us. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams.
I take a breath. “Thirty minutes is all I ask. Off camera, just to talk.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, more disbelief than humor. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m patient,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
He glances at the tire, then back at me. I can practically see the habit of retreat tugging at him—and something else pushing back against it.
“Thirty minutes,” he repeats.
“That’s it,” I say. “I don’t need more.”
He nods once. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good,” I say.
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.