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)
I hold the door open as Juno slides into the passenger seat. “See you tomorrow,” she says.
“See you tomorrow.”
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.