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)
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.