Carl Bernstein walked down the long hallway with a hardened expression.
'You did the right thing.'
Yes, absolutely the right thing.
Carl had been dumbfounded when he read the article in Queensman. And for good reason—he had been blatantly obstructing the formation of the freshman rugby team. But then, out of the blue, an article about establishing a first-year rugby team gets published?
'Is this just a coincidence?'
This magazine wasn't some school bulletin board.
Yet, as if countering his meddling in real-time, an article had been released. It felt like playing chess against an invisible opponent.
In any case, overcome with an inexplicable sense of displeasure, he had rushed over to express his objection. Fortunately, he had a solid justification.
'The value of rugby lies in unity.'
As always, they should form a combined team of first- and second-years. If they were so eager for competition, he'd consider organizing a friendly match rather than selection trials.
Having laid it out this way, who could possibly object? He was convinced he had handled it well. And yet—
"Phew."
Carl let out a deep sigh. There was still an unresolved mystery gnawing at him.
'Interviewing the first-year team?'
Without someone pulling the strings, who would come up with such a feature?
The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Why was the magazine distributed exclusively to the Royal School? And judging by the content, they seemed to have a complete grasp of the situation.
'Wait a second.'
A sudden thought struck him. Could it be that one of the freshmen was running the magazine?
'It's not entirely impossible.'
After all, Carl Bernstein himself had published a magazine, so why couldn't a first-year do the same?
'Who could it be?'
Once his imagination took off, it showed no signs of stopping.
Tennessee Grosvenor? If it's a duke's family, managing a magazine would be a trivial matter. Thinking back, wasn't Tennessee the first visitor to the Queensman store?
'Could it really be him?'
But then a counterargument surfaced. What would someone with Tennessee's personality gain from publishing a magazine? And wouldn't he need his family's support? A notoriously conservative ducal house approving a men's magazine?
'That's absurd.'
So who else?
Pa… Park Ji-hoon? From what he'd heard, Park had significant business experience. He had run a business on his own without any family support. For someone like him, managing a magazine wouldn't be a big challenge.
'That doesn't quite add up either.'
Looking at Queensman, it was clear that the publisher had a deep understanding of aristocratic culture.
Especially in terms of artistic insight and discernment, it was at an unparalleled level.
'Sure, you can resolve that by recruiting contributors, but…'
The issue was that having money alone didn't guarantee a solid lineup of writers.
Even Carl himself had struggled considerably to assemble his current team.
'But him? That guy with no ties to Britain managed to pull it off?'
Carl's thoughts were entirely rational.
The problem, however, was that Queensman had been created in a completely irrational manner.
Who could have imagined that all those articles were written by Park Ji-hoon alone?
In any case—
'Now that my magazine is out, I can't let Queensman steal the spotlight.'
Why should he, of all people, help boost the first-years' reputation?
Walking down the long hallway, Carl slowly clenched his fist.
***
After school.
The bulletin board was buzzing.
"Come on, they're trying to become nationwide stars, and you're putting a damper on it?"
"Seriously, are they outright insane? I knew something was off when they started blocking access to the magazine. These guys really can't stand to see the first-years succeed."
"But do second-years absolutely have to participate in the representative selection? Can't we just do it among ourselves?"
"Lol, what nonsense is that?"
"No, I mean, if the second-years don't want to participate, why not just have the first-years pick their representatives?"
Even as the comments were being read, new posts kept popping up.
"It's getting heated," Peter muttered regretfully, smacking his lips. He slowly swiveled his chair to face me.
"Our strategy seemed to be working," he said.
"What strategy?"
"They kept blocking us from forming our team, right? We were just starting to fight back, but now they've suddenly bailed. It's such a letdown."
I chuckled. Peter's eyes went wide.
"Aren't you supposed to promote the Gucci collaboration? You had everything lined up for the story, even the justification, and now it's all flipped upside down."
It felt like he was more worried about my work than I was. I appreciated it, but—
"It's not over yet."
"Not over?" Peter stared at me intently.
"Don't tell me… you anticipated this situation?"
Calling it foresight might be an overstatement. I simply wouldn't let myself be caught off guard. I figured they'd throw some kind of tantrum, so I had made some preparations.
Judging by the confidence on my face, Peter seemed reassured.
"This is why you don't bother worrying about Park Ji-hoon…" he said with a satisfied sigh.
***
The next morning.
I took an early shower and left my room. My destination: the dorm room at the very end of the building.
Was the building really this big?
'It's farther than I thought.'
After walking diligently for quite a while—
Here it is?
I glanced around, looking for confirmation.
With a click, the door swung open, and the person who appeared—none other than Tennessee.
"…!"
He looked visibly startled. Understandable, considering he opened the door to find someone standing in the hallway, right in front of his room.
Though it wasn't exactly scream-worthy, it was the kind of situation where a surprised gasp wouldn't be out of place.
Yet, Tennessee managed to only blink in surprise, perhaps unwilling to show any further reaction. He quickly composed his expression.
"Why are you standing in front of my door?"
"Because I came to see you."
"Then why didn't you knock? What are you doing just standing there?"
"I was about to knock, but you opened the door first."
A perfectly reasonable answer. Naturally so—it was the truth.
"Can I come in?"
"Ah… no."
He was acting overly surprised at such a simple question.
Considering it was early in the morning, and his hair was neatly combed, it couldn't be because his room was messy.
"Got something secret in there?"
"Secret? Of course not."
"Why would you hide something after proposing a business partnership?"
"…"
"You already know a fair bit about my secrets, don't you?"
The mention of "my secrets" seemed to shake him a little.
"Give me one minute."
"Huh?"
"Wait outside for just one minute."
It seemed he really had something to hide. Sounds of hurried movement came from the other side of the door for a good while.
It wasn't until well over five minutes had passed that he opened the door again.
"Come in."
Tennessee's room was tidy at first glance—immaculately so. But it wasn't just well-organized. It felt as though every corner was imbued with a pleasant fragrance, like flowers blooming everywhere I looked.
From one corner of the room, the delicate strains of Mozart played softly.
Hmm. Everything else seemed natural enough, but the Mozart? That felt a bit hastily added. Still, I decided to let it slide for now.
"It's impressive."
The room felt spacious, perhaps because he was using a double room all by himself.
"Take a seat."
Despite the spaciousness, the furnishings weren't particularly luxurious. The white chair Tennessee gestured to was the kind you'd find in any average home.
We sat silently, facing each other. Though we'd talked about investments before, this was the first time we'd had a personal conversation.
"What do you want to say this early in the morning?"
Perhaps because of that, his tone was stiff.
And yet, for some reason, his brusque tone overlapped in my mind with the image of him earlier—hurriedly tidying up for over five minutes after telling me to wait just one.
It was like the Mozart playing awkwardly in the background, an attempt to mask his real feelings.
If I had to guess, the true treasures of this room were likely shoved into a tightly closed wardrobe—or crammed under the bed.
But Tennessee pretended not to notice, keeping a perfectly serious expression.
Fine. I'll play along.
"Remember when we talked about investments last time? I wanted to follow up on that."
"…!"
"But I don't see the limited edition Dragon Quest set anywhere."
"Huh?"
"Even the sample I gave you is gone."
"…"
He couldn't very well admit he'd hurriedly hidden even the things I gave him, could he? With a face that had gone half-pale, he stammered out a reply.
"My room's too small, so I sent it home."
Sure, because clearing out two card packs would totally make the room feel spacious.
But I maintained a calm demeanor as I continued.
"Anyway, about the investment. I've been thinking it over carefully."
"…"
"Strictly speaking, this is part of a partnership, right?"
"And?"
"Well, I realized I don't know enough about you to jump into a partnership. Even when you know someone well, partnerships can still fall apart. So I thought, wouldn't it be irresponsible to go in blind?"
"What, are you suggesting we go on a date?"
Tennessee cracked a joke, feigning composure as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
"Something like that."
"…What?"
"I'm saying it's similar to what you just suggested."
"So, what? Are we supposed to have dinner and watch a movie?"
That's not quite what I had in mind.
"I was thinking we could get to know each other better by working out together."
"Working out?"
"I've recently gotten into rugby."
Tennessee frowned, as if the mere mention of rugby gave him an allergic reaction. However, it seemed he wasn't inclined to outright argue with me about it. His expression soon went neutral as he replied calmly.
"Is this about the second-year match?"
I nodded.
"I heard that was already settled."
"…?"
"Didn't the second-years decline?"
"What if they change their minds?"
At that, Tennessee let out a small sigh. I had no idea why rugby seemed to make his expression so stiff.
Still—
As a novelist, someone whose job it was to imagine, empathize with, and understand the lives of others:
Thinking about Tennessee Grosvenor's life…
It couldn't have been easy.
I'd heard he lost his mother when he was just two years old. The death of a duchess—apparently, it was a well-known event in Britain.
If that's the case, then during the years when he needed his mother's warmth, he might have been dragged from place to place, drilled in etiquette and protocol.
Before he could develop his own preferences, he was likely surrounded by things he had to like. Before his own sense of self could emerge, he was probably forced to conform to what his family expected of him.
So, something like the games he grew to love later on…
Those would've been stuffed into the deepest corners of his metaphorical closet.
If I had to guess, what Tennessee needed most was a friend.
Not just anyone, though—someone who wasn't intimidated by the Grosvenor family name, who approached him with shameless boldness, treating him like any other person.
Maybe a friend like that could dispel the shadows lingering over his face, even just a little.
I did feel a bit guilty for insisting on rugby, something he clearly disliked.
"If you hate rugby that much, then at least help me with training."
"…"
"After school, I do weight training with the coach. It's exhausting, so I could really use some support."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because we're friends."
That answer caught him completely off guard.
"…?"
A big question mark practically appeared above his head.
"Don't tell me you were planning to invest without even considering being friends first?"
Before Tennessee could answer, I hurriedly added,
"Now that we're friends, I have one more favor to ask."