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"Kid, your place is actually clean. Did you know I was coming and tidy up specially?"
Two days before the Champions League match, the entire Juventus squad arrived in Madrid. Cristiano had asked his manager for permission to slip away and visit André's modest apartment.
"Cristiano, I'm not a child anymore."
What frustrated André wasn't the visit itself—it was that the moment Cristiano walked through the door, he acted like a father conducting an inspection.
"Hmph. In my eyes, you're the same as Santos."
André rolled his eyes. What kind of logic was that? Comparing him to Cristiano's actual son?
"Have you forgotten?" Cristiano's grin was insufferable. "Who sorted things out when you got into fights at school? Who went to the police station to collect you when you asked a girl for her number and she called the cops—"
This idiot is digging up ancient history.
"Okay! Okay! I surrender." André held up his hands. "You're the best. Greatest older brother in the world. Happy now?"
"That's more like it." Cristiano's expression shifted, competitive fire flickering in his eyes. "Now—prepare yourself for defeat."
"We'll see about that." André smirked. "By the way, who do you think Mãe will support? You or me? And what about Santos and Georgina?"
"Me, obviously. Is that even a question?"
"I wouldn't be so sure. She called me two days ago asking for a ticket. And she specifically requested seats in the Atlético section."
André delivered this with maximum smugness.
"That's—that's impossible." Cristiano's confidence wavered for a fraction of a second. "And even if Mãe supports you, Georgina and Santos will definitely support me. You've changed, André. You've forgotten that at school you used to—mmph!"
André clamped a hand over his cousin's mouth. Enough with the bloody childhood stories.
"Pah!" Cristiano pulled free, wiping his lips. "What are you trying to do? Alright, alright, I'll stop messing around. Listen—I've got something important to tell you."
His tone shifted. Serious now.
"Fernando Santos is coming to this match. The national team manager. He's coming specifically to watch you."
"Me? Why?"
"Are you thick? The European Championship qualifiers are about to start."
"Oh. Right, right." André nodded quickly. "Almost forgot."
He had almost forgotten, in truth. The soul inhabiting this body sometimes lost track of such details—like the fact that he was Portuguese, eligible for one of the strongest national teams in Europe.
But the thought of playing in the Euros sent a genuine thrill through him.
Cristiano didn't stay long. After their brief catch-up, he headed back to the Juventus team hotel.
Matchday arrived.
8:30 PM local time. Less than thirty minutes until kick-off. The Wanda Metropolitano was nearly full—a heaving mass of red and white stretching across the stands. Apart from a small pocket of away supporters in Juventus black and white, the stadium's seventy thousand capacity was dominated by Atlético faithful.
The noise was immense. Forty thousand voices united in a show of force, letting the visitors know exactly where they were.
The stadium cameras found their targets in the stands. And there, finally, was the answer to Cristiano and André's earlier argument.
Dolores Aveiro sat alongside Georgina Rodríguez and little Cristiano Jr. But while Georgina wore neutral colours, both Dolores and Santos Junior were draped in classic Atlético Madrid red and white.
Number 18 on the back.
André's number.
Somewhere in the Juventus dressing room, Cristiano was about to feel very betrayed.
The cameras also picked out two other significant figures in attendance.
Luis Enrique, recently appointed as Spain's national team manager, sat watching intently. Nearby was Fernando Santos, his Portuguese counterpart—the man who had led Portugal to European Championship glory.
Both had come for the same reason: the upcoming Euro qualifiers.
The format for this cycle had undergone major reforms. Fifty-five teams divided into ten groups. Rankings were based on the previous Nations League results. The top two from each group would qualify automatically for the tournament finals, with the remaining four spots decided through playoffs.
Portugal had drawn a relatively kind group: Ukraine, Serbia, Luxembourg, and Lithuania. Spain faced a tougher path through Sweden, Norway, Romania, Malta, and the Faroe Islands.
But all of that was for later. Tonight was about club football. About Champions League knockout drama.
Ten minutes before kick-off, both teams emerged from the tunnel.
The Wanda Metropolitano erupted. Cheers and applause crashed down from the stands like a wave, the home supporters giving their team every possible encouragement.
If you listened carefully, you could distinguish individual names being chanted. And André's name rang out as loudly as anyone's—louder than several established Atlético players, in fact.
In just one month, he had won them over completely.
For this match, Simeone had adjusted his starting lineup.
Atlético Madrid: Oblak in goal. A back four of Juanfran, Giménez, Godín, and Filipe Luís. In midfield, Lemar dropped to the bench—Koke, Thomas Partey, Rodri, and Saúl formed a four-man unit. Up front: André and Griezmann.
Diego Costa, fit again after his injury troubles, took his place among the substitutes.
Juventus: Szczęsny in goal. De Sciglio, Bonucci, Chiellini, and Alex Sandro across the back. Allegri had deployed three defensive midfielders—Bentancur, Pjanić, and Matuidi—with Dybala as the attacking midfielder. The front two consisted of Mandžukić and Cristiano.
The formation told its own story. Allegri held Atlético Madrid in extremely high regard. This was a setup designed to frustrate, to contain, to strike on the counter.
The stage was set.
Family against family. Cousin against cousin.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
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