Join now :- patreon. com/TranslationGod
20+ early chapters at just 10$
"It's... precisely because I don't like it that I shout it out."
André decided a white lie was the safest option. If Dolores ever found out the truth, he'd be subjected to a lecture on appropriate language. That woman's disapproval of foul language was legendary.
Cristiano eyed him suspiciously, instinctively sensing nonsense—but he couldn't prove anything.
"Whatever. I've decided to use that celebration from now on."
André's equaliser had stabilised Portugal's morale completely. Gradually, they seized control of the match.
Shortly after the second half began, André drifted wide before cutting sharply toward the penalty area. Milenković, the Serbian centre-back, had no choice but to bring him down.
The referee pointed to the spot immediately.
Cristiano stepped up. Converted.
2-1.
Fifty-third minute. Portugal had completed the comeback.
With the lead secured, Portugal played with growing confidence. The constant positional rotations between André, Cristiano, and Bernardo Silva in the attacking third were giving the Serbian defence nightmares.
Cristiano and Bernardo were already difficult enough to handle—quick, intelligent, elusive.
But for Serbia's ageing back line, André was something else entirely. A glitch in the system.
His height and long legs gave him an enormous control radius. What truly made the defenders despair was his agility—a man that size had no right to move so smoothly. One defender simply couldn't stop him.
The Portuguese supporters were ecstatic. For them, having someone emerge just as Cristiano approached the twilight of his career was the greatest gift imaginable. Two substitute appearances, and André had already conquered them.
High in the stadium's private box, Luís Figo turned to his companion with a smile.
"This guy is truly a genius among geniuses."
Deco nodded, watching André use brute strength combined with sharp changes of direction to escape a three-man press. Bernardo's subsequent header drifted just wide of the post.
"Give him a few more years," Deco said, "and he'll be the best player in Europe."
"Exactly. That's why Zidane called me—asked me to act as a go-between. Persuade him to return to the Bernabéu."
"Unless Simeone has lost his mind, he'd never let someone like that go. Besides, I heard André was pushed out of Castilla. I doubt he'd want to go back."
"I know. That's why I don't plan to say anything at all."
"So how will you reply to Zidane?"
"I'll tell him André wasn't interested." Figo shrugged. "It's not like Zidane can ask him directly, can he?"
Deco stared at him. "You really know how to play the game. No wonder you ran for FIFA President. Politicians—all the same."
Figo just smiled.
While the two legends chatted, Portugal broke through again.
Seventy-sixth minute.
André and Cristiano exchanged a rapid series of passes through the centre. Cristiano carried the ball to the right side of the box, then backheeled it to Guerreiro overlapping behind him.
Guerreiro didn't break stride—first-time pass back inside to Cristiano, who had continued his run into the area.
A sharp stop. A change of direction. Step-overs while moving laterally.
Then, out of nowhere—a rabona.
The ball curled toward the penalty spot. André arrived like a freight train, meeting it with a first-time volley. The goalkeeper had no chance.
3-1.
Game over.
Cristiano jogged over.
"Not bad, eh? I scored the penalty you won. Now I've repaid you with an assist."
"Whatever. You wouldn't have scored if I hadn't made that run. You should thank me for padding your stats."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're really asking for a beating?"
"Many people have said it." André grinned. "But after I 'communicated' with them, they all took it back."
"Communicated? You have good relationships with your teammates now? Weren't you the most unpopular person at Castilla?"
Good thing I'm dark-skinned. He probably can't tell I'm blushing.
"Never mind how we communicate. Just know that everyone at Atlético likes me very much. They enjoy our... chats."
The match restarted before Cristiano could probe further. It would be years before he fully understood what those "chats" actually entailed.
André's second goal had crushed Serbia's remaining spirit. A one-goal deficit might have been recoverable. Down two with only ten minutes remaining? Hopeless.
Neither side pushed hard in the final stretch. Portugal were content to protect their lead; Serbia had nothing left to give. The clock wound down through simple, safe passing.
After three minutes of the four added, the referee blew the final whistle.
Portugal 3-1 Serbia.
Six points from two matches. Top of Group B.
In the group's other fixture, Ukraine had beaten Luxembourg 2-1 away.
After two rounds: Portugal led with six points. Luxembourg sat second on goal difference with three. Ukraine third, also on three. Serbia and Lithuania brought up the rear.
The following day, the training camp concluded. Players returned to their clubs to pursue their individual goals.
For André, this international break had left an indelible impression on the Portuguese public.
Two goals. Two assists.
If the fans were grading his performance, at least ninety-nine percent would give him full marks.
As Deco told reporters after the match: "André will become the best player on this planet. He will lead Portugal into an era that belongs to him."
High praise.
But André had little time to savour it. La Liga was calling.
Show Some By Powerstones
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones