15 minutes later.
Devon, feeling stifled, called us out of the training room.
On a quiet bench sat four pizzas stacked high.
"What are you doing?"
Devon shot a glare, and a question mark practically popped up over Tennessee's head.
"Pass them out. Quickly."
As the son of a noble family, had he ever been treated like this?
"Take three boxes. One is mine."
"Are we each eating a whole box?"
"Of course."
"Um, is there… maybe a salad…?"
"There are pickles."
Heh heh heh.
Did he buy them from the store?
Devon grabbed a bottle of hot sauce and Parmesan cheese.
Shake, shake, shake. Sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle.
Tennessee was the type to throw a fit if someone dipped fries into a milkshake.
So what would he think about Parmesan cheese being dusted on like powdered rice cake?
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that. You're looking at me like you're witnessing a crime scene."
"…"
"Want some?"
The way he said it sounded like he was asking Tennessee to be an accomplice.
Tennessee shook his head furiously.
Smirk.
I wasn't as extreme as Devon, but I sprinkled on a moderate amount of cheese.
Tennessee soon turned his head toward me.
'Do you not care about living a long life?'
'…?'
'That's a crime against your body!'
The message was clear in his eyes.
Oh, look at him worrying about me… It really feels like we're friends now.
But you know what?
Tennessee, there's something you don't know.
Pizza after a workout, outside in the gentle breeze?
'It's practically a health tonic!'
I accepted my friend's concern but ignored it.
Chomp.
I took a big bite of the pizza.
"Hurry up and finish eating so you can get back inside."
"Yes, sir."
Jack and I greeted first, bowing, and Tennessee followed a beat later with a slight nod.
After Devon left, Tennessee looked down at the pizza box with an embarrassed expression.
Well, for someone who thought it was a "crime against humanity," he sure ended up participating in the crime, didn't he?
As he diligently brushed off the Parmesan cheese piled on the box, I spoke.
"Shall we clean up?"
Tennessee handled the recycling, I wiped the bench with a rag, and Jack swept the floor with a broom.
Three minutes flat.
After exercising, it's normal to follow up with a shower.
But knowing Tennessee, he would never use the shared shower room.
As we were about to head back to the dorms—
Oh? What's this?
Tennessee was stretching his body, clearly preparing for more exercise.
It seemed like he planned to do cardio after strength training.
"Go ahead without me."
Wait, he's not doing this just to catch me, is he?
'Hmm.'
From the look in his eyes, that might actually be the case…
"What are you doing? Aren't you leaving?"
"Well, I ate, so I might as well digest it, right?"
"…?"
"You need someone to match your pace, don't you?"
He didn't seem particularly against it.
A little while later, after we finished a big lap around the track—
"Phew, phew!"
Though he was clearly tired, Tennessee stubbornly chose to stand and rest rather than sit.
When I handed him a bottle of water, he glanced around.
He was probably looking for a cup, in true noble fashion.
"What? Want me to bring you a coffee cup with a saucer, too?"
"…"
"No one's watching. Just drink straight from the bottle."
"What about your eyes? Don't they count?"
Oh, come on.
"Why? Worried I'll spread rumors about Tennessee drinking straight from a bottle?"
Realizing how ridiculous that sounded, he let out a small smirk.
It was the first time I'd ever seen anything resembling a smile from him.
Gulp, gulp.
Tennessee emptied the 500ml bottle of water in one go and started preparing to run again.
"Rest for another minute."
"…"
"If you start running now, you'll collapse before even finishing half a lap."
Tennessee glanced at his watch.
It did seem a bit early, so he stepped back a couple of paces.
Perhaps finding a full minute too long to just stand idly, he finally turned to me, as if gathering his courage.
"Have the uniforms arrived?"
"Uniforms?"
"For rugby. Since Ultimate is handling production, aren't you in charge?"
Ah.
I'd reviewed the samples, but judging by the look in his eyes, he had something to say.
Alright, let's hear it.
"Nothing's finalized yet."
"You're taking your time, huh?"
Tennessee seemed to hesitate before speaking again, casting another glance at his watch.
Maybe because there was still some time, he continued slowly.
"I'm not usually picky (really, I'm not), but since you are in charge (oh, what a bonus), if I were to make a request (you'll listen, right?)…"
And Tennessee's request was as follows:
High in the Andes Mountains of South America, there's a farm where an animal called a vicuña is raised.
Because they live in such extreme altitudes, their wool is said to be of unparalleled quality.
Unlike sheep, their fleece can't be sheared with machines. Only the loose fibers that fall off naturally during brushing can be collected, making production incredibly limited.
As a result, even a single sweater made from vicuña wool costs as much as a compact car.
Despite the price, demand far exceeds supply.
"Every year, a certain amount is allocated exclusively to the royal family and noble houses."
In short, Tennessee was asking if the team uniforms could be made using the vicuña wool reserved for the Grosvenor family.
'That's not exactly a tough request.'
The guy who couldn't stand even the mention of rugby was now asking for a custom uniform, implicitly agreeing to join the team.
And he was even offering to provide the fabric.
'No reason to refuse.'
Still, I didn't give him an immediate answer.
It's not that I'm hesitating.
"A fabric favored by the royal family and dukes."
Hearing that phrase stirred something deep within me—a dormant entrepreneurial DNA, perhaps.
"A single outfit costs as much as a car?"
"That's just the price of the fabric. The finished product is even pricier because Italian artisans weave it by hand."
"And yet, it's so rare you can't buy it even if you want to?"
Tennessee nodded.
Hmm… the scent of money tickled my nose.
But that's not all.
These days, Gucci is teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. Their image has taken a severe hit as they cling to survival through licensing deals.
Using ultra-high-end materials to restore a luxury image wouldn't be a bad strategy.
'Ah, so that's how it is.'
I turned to Tennessee and spoke quickly.
"We're a team, after all. It wouldn't feel right to make just yours separately. How about we make uniforms for the entire team while we're at it?"
"There's not enough material for that."
I know. That's why I'm asking.
"About that ranch in the Andes Mountains…"
"…?"
"Can you help me get in touch with them?"
***
Two Days Later, Andes Mountains.
When the call from the boss came, Faber was taken aback.
It wasn't like it was just the next town over.
No, he was being told to fly to Peru—immediately!
Of course, he thought it was a joke.
But then…
"Professor Jo So-deok always carried his passport. He kept his trunk packed for trips at all times."
Hearing tales of Jo So-deok's travels, Faber began to realize this was no jest.
'Oh, Jo So-deok… what kind of life did you live?'
And so, after countless twists and turns, he arrived at the Andes Mountains.
The altitude was 4,000 meters.
Just walking made him feel dizzy and faint.
Still, what choice did he have?
Following the local guide arranged by the boss, he pressed on.
"You can only collect 200 grams per animal every two years. Because of its extreme rarity and cost, garments made entirely of vicuña wool are almost nonexistent. Most of the time, it's blended with cashmere."
If what the guide said was true, then…
"The ultimate fabric of the textile world."
Until just moments ago, Faber's head had been spinning from the altitude.
But at this moment—
"How amazing can it really be?"
Faber regained the sparkle in his eyes, characteristic of a designer.
It was then.
"There it is."
Ohhh.
He had been feeling like he was on the verge of collapse, but now that they were almost there, somehow his feet managed to keep moving.
For all its reputation of producing luxury fibers, the building itself was unremarkable.
A simple wooden structure, the kind commonly seen in the mountains.
Knock, knock.
"Is anyone here?"
The ranch owner appeared after quite some time.
An elderly man with sharp eyes, stubborn lips, and an unmistakably ornery demeanor.
"A guest from England…"
"There's nothing. Even if I wanted to sell it, there's no supply."
Faber glanced at the guide and spoke.
"He probably doesn't know Ultimate. Try saying we're from Gucci."
As expected, the name Gucci seemed familiar to the rancher.
But still—
"Gucci or whatever, I can't make wool appear out of thin air."
The rancher shook his head dismissively.
After all, top brands line up for this wool every year.
He wouldn't be intimidated by the name Gucci.
But there was no way Faber could return empty-handed after coming all this way!
This was the moment for the secret weapon Boss Park Ji-hoon had mentioned.
"Would the name of the Grosvenor Dukedom make a difference?"
***
London, Royal Academy Dormitory: Park Ji-hoon's Room
(Boss! It's me!)
The voice on the other end of the line sounded cheerful.
Faber continued excitedly.
(I mentioned the Grosvenor name, and they agreed to provide a certain amount!)
"A certain amount?"
(They asked how much we need. I'm contacting you to confirm.)
"Then tell them we'll take all they have."
(Excuse me?)
The standard of a fine dining restaurant is its wine list.
Its reputation depends on the quality and variety of wines it offers.
Fashion isn't all that different from fine dining.
"Tell them we'd like to purchase more, not just this year, but every year going forward."
After some back-and-forth chatter on the other end of the line, Faber spoke again.
(Boss, they say there might be more available next year, but for this year, there's a bit of a problem.)
"…?"
(A new brand launched recently, and they made some demands for a large quantity of wool. They implied that refusing would result in a boycott across all European department stores…)
It was odd for a businessperson to make such retaliatory remarks, especially with specific threats targeting department stores.
"Are they talking about Harris Department Stores?"
(One moment.)
Faber must have asked through a translator, because a moment later, he responded.
(They're hesitant to confirm directly, but judging by their nervous reaction when Harris was mentioned, it seems likely.)
At that point, Tennessee, who had been listening quietly, turned to look at me with a puzzled expression, as if to ask why Harris Department Stores were being brought up.
I gave him a brief explanation, but for some reason, his face twisted in disgust.
"Still yammering on about that damn Black Label nonsense, huh?"
"What?"
"You know, the guy trying to play jack-of-all-trades."
"…?"
"Give it to me. I'll handle the call."
I had no idea what was going on, but Tennessee snatched the phone out of my hand.
"This is Tennessee Grosvenor. Allowing them to use vicuña wool for their garments is a crime. It's a betrayal of humanity's responsibility."
What in the world was he talking about?
"Is the rancher nearby? Put them on the line."
Tennessee then launched into a long speech in Spanish. After a few exchanges back and forth, he finally turned to me and said:
"They're afraid of retaliation. It seems those guys made a subtle but clear threat."
A subtle threat, huh.
"As expected, they never change."
Harris Group's strength lay in its iron grip on Europe's distribution networks. Crossing them meant risking exile from the European fashion industry.
Apparently, they were now using that power to tighten the screws on a small ranch.
I chuckled softly and said,
"Tell them if Europe closes its doors, we'll help them break into the North American market."
"North America?"
A visible question mark appeared over Tennessee's head as he processed my words.