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André stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the pitch in disbelief.
What the hell just happened?
The situation had shifted so fast it made his head spin. One minute they'd been creating chances, threatening Real Madrid's goal. The next—two goals down, a man sent off, and more than an hour still to play.
How were they supposed to come back from this?
Everyone following the match assumed Real Madrid already had the three points secured. Before kick-off, the European bookmakers had set the odds at near-equal for either side winning, with a slight lean toward a draw. Nobody had predicted this—Atlético two goals down inside thirty minutes, reduced to ten men.
Some pundits were already calling it. Given the history between these two clubs, the bitter rivalry that ran bone-deep, Real Madrid wouldn't pass up the chance to pile on the misery. This match was heading toward a slaughter.
Even many Atlético supporters seemed to share this view. In the stands of the Wanda Metropolitano, the Real Madrid fans suddenly held the upper hand, their chants growing louder and more confident. The die-hard Atlético faithful were still screaming themselves hoarse, trying to will momentum back to their side—but beneath the noise, there was a hint of despair.
"Diego." Burgos approached Simeone on the touchline. "Should we bring André off? Put on a centre-back, shore up the defence, try to keep the scoreline respectable..."
The suggestion was practical. Down a man, the sensible approach was damage limitation. Admit defeat tactically. Protect against humiliation.
The final decision rested with Simeone.
The manager watched the match, face completely unreadable. Nobody could tell what he was thinking.
Silence stretched for several seconds.
Then Simeone spoke.
"Bring on Juanfran. But don't take André off. Take off Correa."
Burgos blinked. He'd expected Simeone to follow his advice—and at first, hearing Juanfran's name, he'd assumed that was exactly what was happening. But taking off a forward to bring on a defender while keeping André on the pitch...
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Burgos studied his friend's face for a long moment. Then he nodded and went to notify Juanfran.
Five minutes later, Juanfran stood by Simeone's side, ready to enter.
"When you go on, replace Correa," Simeone said quietly, lips barely moving. "Lucas shifts to centre-back. You take full-back. Tell Antoine to drop to the left wing. Understand?"
"Understood."
"And tell André—from now on, whenever the ball's at his feet, he decides what to do with it. No restrictions. His call."
"Got it."
Thirty-sixth minute.
Atlético Madrid made their substitution: Juanfran on for Correa.
After the change, Juanfran quickly communicated with his teammates. When play resumed, the shape became clear to everyone watching.
Atlético had shifted to a 4-2-2-1 formation.
Juanfran filled the gap in the depleted defence. Saúl and Partey formed a double pivot in front of the back four. Griezmann and Lemar operated as wide attacking midfielders. And André—André was pushed forward as the lone striker, isolated at the tip of the formation.
Even down to ten men, Simeone hadn't abandoned the idea of attacking.
He had placed the entire burden on André's shoulders.
It was a gamble. A massive, audacious gamble.
On the opposite touchline, Solari turned and stared at Simeone in genuine surprise. He hadn't expected his counterpart to maintain attacking intent in this situation. Most managers would have retreated into damage-control mode by now.
But what truly shocked Solari was the choice itself.
Not Griezmann. Not the established star, the World Cup winner, the player everyone in football knew and respected. Simeone had bet his chips on the seventeen-year-old. The new signing. The kid.
Solari wasn't alone in his surprise. Every commentator watching the match was discussing Simeone's decision.
Almost unanimously, they concluded it was desperation—a doctor reaching for any medicine when the patient was dying.
Online, the criticism was savage:
"Atlético are finished. What kind of substitution is this? He trusts this big oaf over Griezmann? No wonder the Frenchman wants to leave."
"This is proof: André must be Simeone's illegitimate son. Who else would trust a teenager in a moment like this?"
"The higher you build them up, the harder they fall!"
The voices mocking André multiplied by the second. His age was the obvious target—no matter how talented, most neutrals would still prefer Griezmann in a crisis.
On the pitch, André felt none of this.
What he felt was something simpler: trust.
Simeone's arrangement had sent a clear message. I believe in you. Now prove me right.
That trust would be repaid soon enough.
Fortieth minute.
Griezmann collected the ball on the left wing. A quick shimmy freed him from his marker, and before Modrić could close him down, he launched a long diagonal ball toward André.
The pass was accurate but not particularly fast—Griezmann had prioritised precision over pace, giving Casemiro time to prepare. The Brazilian defensive midfielder was already pressed tight against André's back, and Kroos had dropped in to provide cover.
Real Madrid were taking no chances.
André used his peripheral vision to scan his options. No teammates ahead. No runners in support. If he wanted to continue this attack, he would have to do it alone.
The ball arced through the air toward him. André judged the trajectory, calculated the landing point, and moved.
Casemiro shoved against his back, trying to unbalance him. André ignored it completely. In a pure contest of strength, he feared no one on this pitch—but he knew this wasn't the moment for a wrestling match.
He had something else in mind.
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