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After the brief opening ceremony, the two sides lined up for the pre-match handshakes.
As the home team, Atlético's players filed past the Juventus squad. When André reached Cristiano, they didn't settle for a formal handshake—they embraced deliberately, holding the moment.
Every camera in the stadium swung toward them. The click of shutters from the press area was so intense it almost drowned out the ambient noise of the crowd.
"Uncle André, go for it! Crush them!"
In the stands, Santos Junior—wearing a miniature Atlético number 18 shirt—held up a scarf and screamed toward the pitch, face flushed with excitement. He looked every bit the die-hard Atlético supporter.
The stadium's big screen captured the moment perfectly. Both Cristiano and André glanced up and saw it.
"That little traitor," Cristiano muttered, still holding André. "Wait till I get home. Why is he cheering for you?"
"No idea." André shrugged. "Maybe he thinks I'm the handsome one."
Cristiano stared at him. So did several nearby Juventus players.
Handsome? André's face—broad, dark-skinned, heavy-featured—had many qualities. "Handsome" was not among them.
Even with his thick skin, André couldn't withstand that many incredulous stares. The words had slipped out reflexively; normally he'd never say something so ridiculous. He released Cristiano quickly and jogged away toward the centre circle.
The small moment of levity cut through the tension. But it wouldn't last.
Both teams took their positions. Atlético won the coin toss and would kick off. The referee confirmed the time with the fourth official, then raised the whistle to his lips.
The Champions League Round of 16 was underway.
This tie was the last of the week's fixtures. The earlier results had already provided drama.
Manchester United had suffered a shock 0-2 home defeat to Paris Saint-Germain—a harsh lesson for Ole Gunnar Solskjær. Roma had beaten Porto 2-1 at home, though Porto's away goal tempered the celebrations. Real Madrid had won 2-1 in Amsterdam against Ajax, giving Solari some breathing room.
Elsewhere, Tottenham had demolished Borussia Dortmund 3-0 at home. Liverpool and Bayern had played out a cagey goalless draw. Barcelona and Lyon had finished 0-0 in France.
Now all eyes were on Madrid.
Neither team rushed forward in the opening exchanges. Simeone and Allegri had clearly prioritised defensive solidity—no mistakes, no gifts. The first phase of play was tense but uneventful, the ball circulating through midfield without penetration.
Both managers had done their homework. Whenever André or Griezmann received possession, at least two Juventus players swarmed them immediately. Pjanić, in particular, seemed to have a single assignment: shadow André everywhere.
Atlético's defensive discipline was equally impressive. Thomas Partey had been tasked with man-marking Cristiano for the entire match. His instructions were clear: if Cristiano received the ball outside dangerous areas, foul him rather than let him turn.
The game needed a spark.
Around the twenty-minute mark, Atlético suddenly increased the tempo.
The shift caught Juventus off-guard.
Nineteenth minute. The ball moved patiently through Atlético's back line. Juventus, content to sit deep and absorb pressure, didn't press. Then Godín received possession—and instead of another safe sideways pass, he launched a long diagonal ball forward.
André had drifted wide to the right flank, timing his movement perfectly. He waited until the ball was already in flight before accelerating, avoiding the offside trap. Even so, Alex Sandro couldn't keep pace. In desperation, as André threatened to burst past him, Sandro grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
The referee followed closely, whistle already at his lips, ready to blow the moment André fell or lost control.
But André didn't fall.
As Sandro gripped his jersey, André's left arm swung back—accidental or deliberate, impossible to say—and caught Sandro's hand sharply. The Brazilian's grip loosened. He paused, wincing at the sting.
Sandro protested immediately, but the referee spread both arms wide. Play on.
André accelerated along the touchline, ball at his feet. As he approached the edge of the penalty area, he cut inside with a sharp change of direction, leaving Pjanić trailing in his wake.
Now he faced Chiellini. The legendary Italian centre-back. One of the best defenders of his generation.
André poked the ball forward with his right toe. Pulled it back. Another quick touch—stop, change of direction, push forward again. The sequence was hypnotic, unpredictable. Chiellini couldn't commit. Every time he prepared to lunge, André shifted again.
Then André saw it: Chiellini's weight had shifted too far. His balance was broken.
One more touch forward. A curling strike with the inside of his left foot.
The ball kissed the inside of the left post and ricocheted into the net.
1-0.
Twenty-first minute. Atlético Madrid had taken the lead through a simple long ball and pure individual brilliance.
The routine had clearly been planned. But the execution was all André.
After scoring, André sprinted toward the stands where Cristiano's family sat. He lifted his jersey to reveal a message on his undershirt, pre-prepared and waiting.
I LOVE YOU, MÃE!
The stadium erupted. Dolores Aveiro wiped tears from her eyes.
Then something remarkable happened.
Cristiano Ronaldo—the opponent, the rival, the man whose team had just conceded—walked over to André. He put an arm around his cousin's shoulder, and together they looked up at their family in the stands.
Both sets of supporters rose to applaud. Atlético fans. Juventus fans. United in appreciation of something bigger than football.
"Not bad," Cristiano murmured. "You scored."
"Damn right I did."
"Enjoy it while it lasts. The victory will be ours."
"Keep dreaming."
The moment of harmony lasted only seconds before a small voice shattered it.
From the front row, Santos Junior cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed: "Uncle André! Score another one! Crush them!"
Cristiano's expression was priceless.