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"King Kong! King Kong! King Kong belongs to Madrid! Go, King Kong, fight!"
The chant rolled down from the stands in waves. André nearly tripped mid-stride.
Even with his thick skin, the sheer commitment of forty thousand people to that ridiculous song was too much. The melody was catchy, the lyrics were mortifying, and worst of all—it wasn't going away.
Even after the restart, the singing continued. Louder. More synchronised. Building into something that would clearly become a permanent fixture at the Wanda Metropolitano.
What kind of twisted logic produces this? André thought miserably. If they're going to sing, why not use my actual name? Why King Kong?
"You alright?"
The ball had gone out for a throw-in. Saúl jogged over, noticing André's pained expression.
"Fine," André muttered. "Absolutely fine."
After André's second goal, not much time remained. Allegri knew the situation was dire—heading into the second leg two goals down would be catastrophic.
He made his moves. Bernardeschi replaced the ineffective Dybala. Cancelo came on for Matuidi.
Simeone responded in kind, bringing Lemar on for Thomas.
The final twenty minutes saw Juventus throw everything forward, desperate for an away goal. But Atlético's confidence was sky-high. Under Simeone's constant instruction from the touchline, they gave nothing away.
In the eighty-sixth minute, André was withdrawn. Diego Costa replaced him.
The moment his number went up on the board, the stadium rose as one. That infernal chant echoed again, accompanied by rhythmic applause. Every Atlético supporter on their feet, paying tribute to their hero.
André jogged off, still cringing at the adulation.
Three minutes of stoppage time passed without incident.
The referee blew the final whistle.
Atlético Madrid 2-0 Juventus.
Thanks to André's brace, Atlético had seized complete control of the tie.
Elsewhere, Manchester City had edged Schalke 3-2 away in the night's other fixture.
If André's heroics in the Madrid derby had made him famous across Spain, tonight had announced him to all of Europe.
From this match forward, every major club on the continent would be watching.
At the post-match press conference, Allegri exhausted his vocabulary of praise.
"He's a phenomenal player. When he's on the pitch, you can't believe he's only seventeen. And as you saw—a man that size, running that fast? I found myself wondering why he's on a football pitch instead of a running track." The Italian smiled ruefully. "I can say almost every coach wishes they could manage a player like him. If André were willing—and with Cristiano already at Juventus—I think it would be beautiful for the two cousins to play together."
Across the room, Simeone's expression darkened.
When his turn came, Simeone was blunt: "André is not for sale. Atlético Madrid doesn't need to sell players for cash. We're building something here."
End of discussion.
After the formalities, André headed straight home. Cristiano had brought a special guest to his apartment—Fernando Santos, the man who'd been watching intently from the stands.
Santos had originally come to Madrid to observe Cristiano's form. But Cristiano had mentioned André repeatedly, and after watching footage of the derby, Santos had grown curious.
Tonight had exceeded all expectations.
"André." Santos wasted no time. "Are you willing to represent Portugal at the European Championship?"
"Ah?"
André hadn't expected the conversation to start there. No small talk, no buildup—straight to business.
"What do you mean, 'ah'?" Cristiano's voice carried an edge. "Don't tell me you're unwilling. You're Portuguese, remember?"
"I didn't say I was unwilling, I just—"
Before André could finish, the doorbell rang.
He opened it to find two men in the hallway. One he recognised vaguely—Luis Rubiales, President of the Spanish Football Association. The other was a stranger, though the stranger was beaming like they were old friends.
"Mr. Rubiales... can I help you?"
"André, shouldn't you invite us in first?" Rubiales gestured to his companion. "This is Luis Enrique, head coach of the Spanish national team. We came specifically to see you."
"Oh—right—Mr. Luis, hello. Please, come in."
André wanted to say it wasn't a good time. The words wouldn't come. Basic hospitality won out.
He led them into the living room.
The moment Cristiano and Santos saw who had arrived, their expressions transformed. André might not have recognised Luis Enrique immediately, but the two Portuguese certainly did.
The Spanish contingent's faces fell too. They hadn't expected company.
Awkward silence filled the room.
Cristiano grabbed André's arm and hauled him toward the kitchen.
"What are you doing?"
"What am I doing? What are you doing?" Cristiano's grip tightened. "Why did you let them in? Tell me honestly—do you not want to play for Portugal?"
André could see the storm brewing behind his cousin's eyes. One wrong word and things would escalate fast.
"I didn't say that! I don't even know these people! How was I supposed to know they'd show up?"
"Really?"
"Really! I swear on my life!"
"...Fine." Cristiano released him slowly. "I'll believe you. For now."
In the living room, four men sat in uncomfortable silence, waiting for André to choose a side.
The tug of war had begun.
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