American Adventure: My Uncle is Don Quixote

When the host called Anderson's name, all the reporters stopped whispering, and all eyes turned to the man in the gold and red 49ers uniform.

A thick ice pack was wrapped around Anderson's right shoulder, though his jersey hid most of it.

His right hand rested on the tabletop, fingers occasionally trembling involuntarily—the last memento from today's game.

He used his left hand to pull the microphone closer and gave it a composed tap.

"Mr. Anderson," an ESPN reporter stood up. "First of all, thank you for your performance today. 387 passing yards and three touchdowns—those are MVP-worthy numbers in any Super Bowl."

Anderson gave a slight nod and said, "Thank you."

The reporter continued, "I'd like to ask the question that's on everyone's mind—not just the media's, but your fans' as well. Are you certain that today was the final game of your career?"

"After all, for a veteran, you still played a fantastic game," he added.

Anderson simply glanced at the dense cluster of microphones and digital recorders before him and smiled faintly.

"Yes," he said. "I'm certain."

The clicking of camera shutters suddenly intensified, the flashes almost merging into a wall of white light.

"I know some of you might think I played well today, that I could play another year," he said calmly. "But my body is more honest than you are."

"Sometimes you just can't get it up when you want to. I think we've all been there."

The reporters were silent for a second, and then the room erupted in laughter.

"Muscles, of course," Anderson said with a smile. "Don't get the wrong idea."

The reporters in the room laughed even harder, the joke doing much to dissipate the somber mood of his retirement announcement.

One reporter laughed so hard he accidentally dropped his camera on the floor. His laughter instantly turned into a wail of anguish.

This only made the other reporters laugh more. It took a full minute for the room to finally settle down.

A reporter stood up, wiping tears from his eyes and clutching his stomach.

"Mr. Anderson, four trips to the Super Bowl and no championships. Do you have any regrets?" he asked. "Though, judging from what you just said, it seems you don't."

If this had been the Anderson of three hours ago, he might have had to think about it.

But now, the answer came to him instantly.

"No," he said.

"Not even a little?" the reporter pressed.

"To be honest, I did before today," Anderson said with a small smile. "When I first made it to the Super Bowl at twenty-five, I thought the championship was mine for the taking. At twenty-nine, I felt like I was owed a championship. At thirty-two, I thought fate was against me."

He paused. "But today, standing on the field at SoFi Stadium at thirty-five, I was facing a nineteen-year-old kid." The corners of his mouth turned up unconsciously. "When you're facing him, all your regrets transform into something else."

"And what's that?" a female reporter asked.

"An honor."

When Anderson said that word, another murmur went through the press hall.

"I've played for fourteen autumns and seen countless phenoms," he said. "I was even called a phenom myself once. But when I saw Li Wei, I realized he's the real deal."

"No one can fathom his ceiling. Mahomes can't. I can't," he said. "I gave the best performance of my career, but I discovered he was still just toying with us."

"So, you ask if I have any regrets," Anderson said. "On the contrary, I feel it's a privilege. To be able to face off against possibly the greatest player in the hundred-year history of the NFL, on the Super Bowl stage, in the final game of my career... that in itself is an honor."

"Honestly," he said, his gaze sweeping over the reporters as he shrugged, "it's a lot more dignified to have your career ended by an opponent like him than to be unceremoniously knocked out of the regular season by some backup Quarterback whose name you can't even recall."

A wave of good-natured laughter swept through the press hall, and some reporters even applauded.

"Mr. Anderson," a reporter from NBC quickly raised his hand, "what are your plans for retirement?"

Anderson thought for a moment. "I've been playing for fourteen years. I've missed out on so much," he said. "My oldest daughter is eleven. I didn't get to see her school play because we had a game against the Seahawks that day. My son is eight. Last month, he asked if I could teach him how to ride a bike, and I told him he'd have to wait until after the Super Bowl."

His voice and expression softened unconsciously.

"So, first things first, I'm going home," he said. "I'm going to spend time with my wife and kids. I owe them so much. For fourteen years, they've been more patient than any team, always waiting for me to come home."

Many reporters in the audience nodded in understanding.

Marcus Anderson and his wife were college sweethearts who had been together all the way through marriage and children. Their harmonious relationship was a celebrated story in the sports world.

They had started dating long before he made a name for himself. Now, after more than twenty years together, their relationship remained as stable as ever—a rare feat for childhood sweethearts.

"Then, after I've taken some time off," Anderson continued, "football is my lifelong passion. I'll probably devote my time to helping the younger generation."

His left hand tapped the table. "I've already been in contact with several high school and university football programs. After retirement, I'm going to focus my energy on developing young players. If I can help them avoid just one of the wrong turns I took, it will have been worth it."

"Thank you, everyone. Thank you for following me for the last fourteen years. Marcus Anderson is signing off from the NFL for a little while."

Using his good left hand to push himself up from the table, he stood and gave a slight bow to the reporters.

Most of the reporters in the hall rose to their feet, and a tide of applause washed over the thirty-five-year-old man with the bandaged right shoulder.

With Marcus Anderson's statement concluded, the Super Bowl post-game press conference came to an end.

After the press conference, the tunnels beneath SoFi Stadium were still filled with a cacophony of sounds: the crackle of staff radios, the metallic clang of equipment being dismantled, and the distant roar of fans leaving the stands.

Li Wei, carrying his MVP trophy, got into an executive van arranged by the Giants with Anya, Elizabeth, Don Quixote, and Jin Heon.

The moment the van door slid shut, the soundproof windows sealed off all the outside noise.

For the first time in the nearly six hours since the game began, Li Wei was in a space with his own people—free of cameras, microphones, and reporters.

He casually placed the MVP trophy by his feet, sank back into his seat, and let out a long sigh.

Even with the boost from his Knight's Body, the heightened senses from his high Spiritual Power had left him mentally fatigued.

'Finally, some peace and quiet.'

The thought had barely formed when Anya boldly squeezed in next to him, draping herself over his arm without a hint of reservation and whispering something in his ear.

"Hmm?" Li Wei looked down at her.

Anya looked up, her short black hair slightly disheveled.

Her skin was so fair that the slightest flush from her capillaries made it glow with a reddish tint.

"I said you were incredible today," she said, her voice filled with undisguised pride and possessiveness. "I almost jumped out of the skybox."

"Then you would've been the first spectator in Super Bowl history to jump out of a skybox," Li Wei chuckled. "That's an even more impressive record than any of mine."

Anya huffed. Taking advantage of the dim light in the van, the fact that Kaja wasn't present, and that no one else could understand their "coded" language, she leaned close to Li Wei's ear and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"Tonight, you can do whatever you want to me," she whispered in Russian, her lips brushing against his earlobe, her warm breath caressing his neck. "I'll agree to anything. I want you to have your fill tonight."

As she spoke, Li Wei could even hear the wet sound of her lips parting.

She paused, then added, "An. Y. Thing."

"You'll keep your word?" Li Wei asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Have I ever lied to you?" Anya smiled smugly and leaned back, nestling against Li Wei's side like a satisfied cat.

"What are you two mumbling about over there?" Don Quixote said with a laugh. "We're about to get rich, kid."

"Aren't we already rich?" Li Wei retorted with a smile. "You're saying I'm not rich enough?"

"What you have now is just pocket change," Don Quixote said, rubbing his hands together in excitement. "We're about to have some serious money coming in... Shoot, I need to give the private banking department at JPMorgan Chase a heads-up, so they don't freeze your account for risk control."

"How serious?" Li Wei asked with a grin, already knowing the answer.

"Big enough to fill this entire van with hundred-dollar bills!" Don Quixote roared with laughter. "Big enough to buy all of Los Angeles!"

"Let's see," Li Wei said, thinking it over. "I've just been getting my weekly pay so far. My pre-tax salary per game is about 3.2 to 3.3 million USD. I've played twenty games, so that's around 64 to 65 million. And the cap on my first-year contract is 92 million USD..." (Chapter 83)

"Correct," Don Quixote nodded cheerfully. "Now that this game is over, you'll immediately get 10 million USD in team incentives plus the remainder of your personal performance bonuses, for a total of about 27 million USD."

"But 53% of that goes to taxes," he added, "which leaves 12.69 million USD post-tax. Then you subtract my 3% commission as your dear uncle, which is 380,700 dollars, leaving you with about 12.31 million."

He clicked his tongue, teasing, "Just as you'd expect from a megastar, a billionaire. A single tax deduction of over 14 million USD."

A one-time tax hit of 14 million USD? Who could stomach that?

At these words, not only did Li Wei grimace, but even Anya and Elizabeth seemed taken aback. Jin Heon audibly gasped.

"Liz, is there a way to..." Anya looked toward Elizabeth.

Since the driver was an official from the NFL, she didn't finish her sentence, but Elizabeth knew what she meant.

'Could they find a way to avoid the taxes on this money?' After all, Elizabeth used to run a foundation, and now she even held some power in a Free Port—a natural paradise for money laundering and tax evasion.

But her reach didn't extend that far; she had no way of getting her hands into the Giants' financial system.

"There's nothing I can do," Elizabeth said, rubbing her temples. "By the time the money gets to Li Wei, it's already been taxed."

Li Wei sighed. He hadn't expected that after a year of work, he'd end up giving more than half of it to the Internal Revenue Service.

"Stop gloating, Uncle," he said, snorting at the grinning Don Quixote. "How much tax do you have to pay on your cut of 380,000 USD?"

Don Quixote stopped laughing. He had to pay 53% too. A whole Lamborghini Huracán, gone just like that.

'This damn United States of America! F*ck America! F*ck New York!!!'

"What about endorsements?" Li Wei asked. "There should be a lot of those, right?"

"A lot. Your Nike contract has a 2 million USD bonus for winning MVP (Chapter 129)," Don Quixote said, composing himself. He thought for a moment. "Apple's Beats by Dre is going to invest 50 million USD in media resources for you. The Mercedes contract will be signed in a few days—200 million USD over four years, with a first payment of 50 million. As for the LW beverage..."

He looked over at Jin Heon.

"And all the LW drinks sold out!" Jin Heon chimed in excitedly. "Total cost per bottle is one USD, selling price is five USD. That's a pre-tax net profit of 20 million USD!"

"Fifty million in media resources, and 84 million USD cash in hand," Don Quixote summarized. "That's your haul from this one Super Bowl."

A total value of 134 million!

USD!!

"Buy it!" Li Wei declared with a grand wave of his hand. "Buy f*cking Los Angeles!"