American Adventure: My Uncle is Don Quixote

He looked at John Mara.

John Mara nodded, signaling for him to continue.

Howard Payne opened the file.

"We have only one core demand—" His gaze fell directly on Li Wei. "Li Wei, you are to take a temporary leave from the sport."

...

「Three days later.」

Outside the Giants’ training facility, the early spring wind in New Jersey was bone-chilling.

ESPN field reporter Daniel Coleman had been staked out at the gates of the Giants’ facility for three full days.

It was less a stakeout and more like an exile.

He was the most junior sports reporter at ESPN’s New York bureau, only eight months into the job. Before this, his work consisted of writing press releases for high school basketball leagues.

He’d been sent to keep a remote watch on the Giants’ training facility purely because his editor-in-chief figured there was little chance of any big news breaking here.

After all, it was the offseason. What was there to watch at a training facility?

But three days ago, when Daniel saw a dark green Rolls-Royce Cullinan drive through the facility gates, he felt like he’d hit the jackpot.

He recognized the car. It was Li Wei’s.

However, that was only the beginning.

Over the next hour and a half, Daniel witnessed over forty luxury vans and sedans file into the facility one after another.

The windows were all heavily tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside.

But he knew something big was about to happen.

He couldn’t get any closer. Security would stop him the moment he tried. His only option was to snap a few photos from a coffee shop across the street and send them to his editor-in-chief.

His editor told him to keep watching.

So, he did just that for three days.

On the first day, the people inside began to leave around 7 p.m.

The facility gates opened, and the first group emerged quickly.

They walked with hurried steps, looking like they were in a terrible mood. Daniel noticed two middle-aged men in suits starting to argue right in the parking lot. One of them even slammed his briefcase onto the hood of a car with a dull THUD.

A few minutes later, more people streamed out.

None of them looked happy. It wasn’t just resentment from working late; it was mostly anger.

Someone was on the phone, their voice so loud that Daniel could faintly make out a few words from across the street:

"Unacceptable." "Continue tomorrow." "Absolutely exorbitant demands."

Daniel quickly snapped a few more photos, his heart racing.

「The second day.」

Daniel arrived at 6 a.m.

This time, he found the small coffee shop was already half-full of his colleagues. Damn it. It wasn’t even six in the fucking morning.

’What’s with this rat race?’ he thought sullenly as he bought a coffee, found a seat, and set up his camera.

Even more cars arrived this time, including a few he hadn’t seen yesterday.

Some people went in carrying even thicker briefcases. Others dragged rolling suitcases, clearly having rushed over straight from the airport, cursing under their breath as they entered.

Seeing this, Daniel’s frustration at being out-competed by his colleagues actually subsided a little.

The people who came out on the evening of the second day were in a completely different state from the day before.

No one was arguing, and no one was throwing briefcases.

But every face was etched with gravity.

「The third day.」

Around 3 p.m., the facility gates opened again.

The people who emerged this time were even more silent. The air was thick with exhaustion. Everyone was holding a cup of coffee, looking completely drained.

Daniel was on his ninth Americano in three days. The damn coffee shop was cashing in on the situation, only letting customers stay for three hours per coffee before kicking them out.

With the early spring wind gusting outside, five USD bought three hours of warmth inside. In the end, every reporter paid up.

Daniel saw a man in a trench coat walk out of the facility gate, followed by someone—his personal assistant, maybe—who was practically jogging to keep up.

"Whoa," a reporter next to him whistled. "A big fish."

"You know who that is?" Daniel asked.

"You don’t?" The whistling reporter turned to glance at Daniel. "Newbie, huh?"

Daniel nodded, his gaze fixed on the middle-aged man standing at the entrance, waiting for his car.

"I’ll tell you, but you can’t scoop me," the reporter next to him hesitated, but ultimately couldn’t resist the temptation to show off for a colleague. "You sports guys might not know him, but that’s Richard Wayne. He’s the President of Pepsi-Cola’s North America operations and the big boss of Gatorade, an NFL sponsor. How’s that for a big shot?"

’So he’s that big of a deal.’ Daniel nodded, watching Richard Wayne.

The man’s face was ashen. He kept glancing at his watch, clearly in a foul mood.

"Alright," the reporter beside Daniel said, "I’m going to try and interview him. This has to be big news, or he wouldn’t have come in person."

Daniel wanted the story too, but since the other reporter had given him the tip, he decided to stay put and wait quietly.

He watched the reporter grab his microphone and camera bag, dash across the road, and intercept Richard Wayne at the entrance to the parking lot.

"Mr. Wayne!" The reporter thrust the microphone forward. "Regarding the meeting at the Giants’ training facility today—"

Before the reporter could finish his sentence, Richard Wayne whipped around and glared at him.

Without a second thought, he snatched the microphone from the reporter’s hand and slammed it violently onto the ground.

"Get lost!"

The reporter froze on the spot, completely stunned.

Even Daniel, who had just been watching the show, was startled.

Richard’s assistant rushed forward, escorted him into the car, and quickly pulled a business card from his suit pocket. He handed it to the reporter and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

The reporter opened his mouth, glanced at the microphone on the ground, and finally took the card.

The Maybach sped off, followed by the other vans and luxury sedans.

’The meeting ended at 3 p.m. today. Does that mean the negotiations are over?’

After waiting until 9 p.m., once things had completely quieted down outside the Giants’ facility, Daniel packed his bag and drove away, reviewing his notes as he went.

The more he read and the more he thought, the more something felt wrong.

Li Wei’s Rolls-Royce Cullinan never seemed to have left.

"What on earth were they negotiating in there?"

Daniel muttered to himself.

Meanwhile, inside the Giants’ training facility, on the indoor practice field.

At 9 p.m., the vast practice field was empty.

The lights overhead cast a soft glow, meticulously caring for the artificial turf below.

All the meeting participants had already left. Only the administrative team remained in the conference hall, handling the final cleanup, packing and sealing mountains of documents into boxes.

Li Wei, wearing a pair of Nike slides, strolled leisurely along the edge of the field.

Don Quixote walked silently beside him, carrying his suit jacket in one hand, his tie loosened.

After three consecutive days of high-intensity negotiations, even a tough guy like Don Quixote was reaching his limit.

As for Jin Heon, he had found a lounge to catch up on sleep the moment the negotiations ended that afternoon.

Li Wei and Don Quixote had come out for some fresh air. They walked side-by-side, their footsteps echoing in the empty space.

"Any regrets?" Don Quixote asked.

Li Wei thought for a moment, then shook his head, and then nodded.

"Not regrets, exactly, but it is a bit of a shame," he said with a smile. "After all, playing was getting a little boring anyway. This is a good chance to do other things."

"Then what was with the nodding and shaking your head?" Don Quixote looked at him.

"It’s a shame that neither Coca-Cola nor Pepsi would budge on the production capacity issue," Li Wei clicked his tongue twice. "They’d rather pay that much money just to cap my production at five million bottles a month."

"They’ve already made plenty of concessions," Don Quixote said. "For three years, they won’t take any targeted measures against LW, won’t start a price war, won’t block our distribution channels, and won’t restrict our raw materials."

"But ’not taking any targeted measures’ isn’t the same as helping us expand production capacity," Li Wei stretched and chuckled. "Think about it. Five million bottles a month, even if we sell them all, only brings in 20 million USD. That’s a profit of 240 million USD a year."

"That’s still a lot," Don Quixote shrugged.

"Yeah, but what if the capacity could keep up? Let’s not even say 50 million bottles, just 20 million a month," Li Wei gestured. "That’s a whole other level. LW’s valuation would easily shoot past 5 billion USD, with an annual profit of 1 billion USD."

"And that’s exactly what Pepsi and Coca-Cola don’t want to see," Don Quixote remarked. "They’d rather fork over 450 million USD in cold, hard cash to make you sit out for three years than let LW continue to grow on the back of your influence."

"Exactly," Li Wei thought for a moment and laughed out loud. "Did you see Richard Wayne’s face at the end? I honestly didn’t expect the NFL Alliance to be so ruthless. They made Pepsi pay the entire 150 million USD-a-year compensation for three straight years."

"I’m surprised Richard Wayne actually accepted it, though," Don Quixote shrugged. "I didn’t see that coming."

"That’s because he made the mistake of inviting Coca-Cola," Li Wei said, looking down at the ’NY’ logo on the turf. "They’re the money behind sports drinks, after all. They used that to threaten Pepsi, and Pepsi had no choice but to hold their nose and agree."

"From that perspective, they achieved their goal," Don Quixote said. "Production capacity is locked. There’s no way to grow further."

He saw the relaxed expression on Li Wei’s face and quickly added, "Unless—"

"Unless I go overseas," Li Wei said. "The clause only specifies within the United States of America. It says nothing about abroad."

"But overseas production lines and all that... it’ll take a lot of work," Don Quixote mused. "Contracts, manufacturing, logistics, legal matters..."

"I’ve got three years," Li Wei waved his hand dismissively. "I’ll find an opportunity eventually."

’That’s true,’ Don Quixote thought. ’Li Wei is only nineteen. What’s the rush?’

The two of them continued walking along the edge of the practice field, discussing the gains from the negotiation.

The negotiation could be called a resounding success.

Li Wei wanted to laugh every time he thought about it.

Las Vegas, the NFL management, and the sponsors had all teamed up to force him into a hiatus.

As it happened, Li Wei didn’t want to play anymore anyway. The situation had just given him a chance to squeeze a fortune out of them.

Where else in the world could you find a deal that good?

The sponsors had paid dearly, and both the NFL management and the betting syndicates weren’t feeling too good either.