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Back when André had been at Castilla, he'd once played against Real Madrid's first team—though "played against" was generous. It had been more of a lesson, the senior players personally schooling the youth prospects.
The impression André had left back then was simple: freakish physical talent, but unrefined technique. Basic skills that needed years of polish.
Now, forty minutes into this derby, Casemiro was the one being schooled.
Despite Real Madrid's two-goal lead, the Brazilian midfielder had been under relentless pressure all half. In just over six months, the raw kid from Castilla had transformed into something unrecognisable. Throughout the entire first half, Casemiro had been exhausted trying to contain him.
He couldn't match André for strength—that much was obvious. But he'd assumed he could at least dominate in footwork. He was Brazilian, after all. Technical superiority was supposed to be his birthright.
André had shattered that assumption completely.
"Kid. Long time no see."
The ball was in the air, floating toward them. Casemiro pressed tight against André's back, hands busy with their usual tricks.
"Fatty, can you take your hand off my arse? Are you actually into that?"
"What the—I'm not—who told you that?"
"Sergio did. Last time we spoke." André's voice was ice. "Touch me again and see what happens."
"That bastard. I'll deal with him after the match."
Suddenly André felt hot breath on his neck.
His entire body tensed. Did this guy just blow on me?
Despite all the training with Hierro and Vivas, despite learning every dirty trick in the book, André still felt genuinely disgusted. This was a new low.
Right. You want to play it like that?
André leaned back hard, putting all his weight into it. The unexpected force made Casemiro stumble a step backward. In the same instant, André felt his fingers scrape sharply across the back of Casemiro's hand—the hand that had been secretly gripping his shirt.
Casemiro's grip loosened instinctively.
The ball arrived.
André didn't let it drop. His right foot flicked it up, and he began to turn—but the turn was a feint. Casemiro, blocked by André's body, couldn't see the ball's trajectory at all. He assumed André was trying to spin away and crashed into him immediately, determined to knock him down rather than let him through.
But André had never intended to complete the turn.
All he wanted was a chance to face the goal.
Mid-spin, André stopped. He jumped on the spot and headed the ball he'd flicked straight up, popping it over both their heads. The moment he landed, his left foot cushioned the dropping ball, then flicked it sharply—right through Casemiro's legs.
A nutmeg. Clean and humiliating.
André accelerated past him before the Brazilian could react.
The whole sequence had taken maybe two seconds. Only now did Casemiro realise he'd been completely deceived. The flick, the turn, the body positioning—all of it had been misdirection.
And that scratch on my hand... Casemiro could still feel the burning sting. Don't let the innocent face fool you—this kid plays dirty.
But André wasn't safe yet.
Even before he'd fully escaped Casemiro, Ramos had been reading the play. The captain was already rushing over, cutting off the angle, preparing to commit a tactical foul if necessary.
Ramos was experienced. André hadn't built up speed yet, which made defending easier. And they were still far from goal—a professional foul here would be smart, cynical, effective.
André faced him head-on.
Step-over. Step-over. A sharp feint left, then a drag-back. Right, then back again. The ball danced between André's feet in a blur of movement.
Each change of direction was exaggerated by André's height and long legs—the amplitude greater than a normal player's, making it impossible for Ramos to read what was real and what was fake. The constant shifting of weight, the back-and-forth pulling of his centre of gravity—it was torture.
After a few rounds of this, Ramos had enough. He launched into a sliding tackle, legs extended, going for the ball and the man simultaneously.
Behind André, Casemiro had recovered and was closing in again.
A slight smile appeared on André's face.
He pulled the ball back sharply, trapped it between his feet, and jumped—literally jumped over Ramos's sliding body.
When he landed, the path to goal was clear.
Ramos's sliding challenge had inadvertently blocked Casemiro's pursuit. André was through.
He carried the ball to the edge of the penalty area and shaped to shoot. His right leg rose high, every line of his body screaming power strike.
Varane, Real Madrid's last centre-back, committed to blocking the shot.
But the raised right foot dropped soft. A fake. André cut the ball back onto his left, then swung—a vicious volley, struck clean and true.
The power was immense. The ball rocketed toward goal.
Courtois stretched every inch of his massive frame, diving to his right. World-class reflexes. His fingertips made contact with the ball—
It wasn't enough.
The force behind André's strike was too great. The ball brushed past the goalkeeper's hand, kissed the inside of the post, and rippled the net.
1-2.
Courtois pounded the grass in frustration. If he'd been just a fraction faster, just a centimetre closer...
But the ball was in. And the Wanda Metropolitano exploded.
The stands, which had fallen quiet under the weight of despair, erupted the moment the net shook. Applause, cheers, screams—all converging into a single thunderous sound.
"KING KONG! KING KONG! KING KONG!"
André sprinted to the touchline and threw himself into Simeone's arms. The manager who had trusted him when everyone else doubted. A moment later, the entire Atlético squad surrounded them both.
The frustration of the first forty minutes shattered in an instant.
Yes, they were still behind. Yes, they were down to ten men. But this goal had lifted morale from its lowest point back to its peak.
Everything was still possible.
More than that—this goal was a slap across the face of every doubter.
There had been no tactical setup. No intricate passing combination. André had simply taken the ball and challenged Real Madrid's entire defensive line by himself.
Casemiro. Ramos. Varane. Courtois.
Four world-class players. And he had beaten them all.
Under the referee's intervention, the Atlético players returned to their positions. Anyone watching closely would have noticed something remarkable: despite still trailing on the scoreboard, many of them were smiling.
Relaxed. Confident.
Ready.
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