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The waves of Juventus pressure had gradually increased in intensity. Both full-backs—De Sciglio and Alex Sandro—began pushing forward to join attacks with increasing frequency. The creaking state of Atlético's defence gave them a sense that one more push, one moment of quality, would be enough to break through.
Allegri felt it too. The equaliser was coming. He could taste it.
What none of them realised was that their all-out commitment was exposing exactly what Simeone wanted exposed.
In the stands, Luis Enrique and Fernando Santos frowned almost simultaneously.
Both were international managers, watching from elevated positions with panoramic views of the tactical battle. They could see what those on the pitch could not.
Santos leaned toward his assistant and murmured something.
Seventy-second minute.
Frustration was beginning to show among the Juventus players. Wave after wave of pressure, chance after chance—and still no goal. On the touchline, Allegri prepared a substitution. Bernardeschi was already warming up.
Then everything changed.
Giménez intercepted a loose ball from Dybala just outside his own penalty area. Before he could clear, Dybala fouled him from behind—a tactical foul, textbook stuff.
The referee's whistle blew.
What followed made the Juventus supporters' hearts sink.
Giménez rose slowly, brushing himself off. Dybala stood over the ball, blocking any attempt at a quick free kick—standard procedure. Giménez ambled toward the ball as if he had no intention of rushing.
Then, without warning, he jabbed a pass toward Juanfran on the flank.
Juanfran didn't hesitate. One touch, then a long diagonal ball launched into the space behind Juventus' high defensive line.
The entire back four was camped near the halfway line. André had positioned himself just inside it—onside by inches. The moment Juanfran's boot struck the ball, André exploded forward.
Chiellini and Bonucci raised their arms, appealing for offside.
Neither the referee nor the linesman moved their flags.
The ball dropped between André and Szczęsny. The goalkeeper had come off his line, charging out to meet the danger. At first glance, he looked closer.
A few seconds later, nobody thought so anymore.
André unleashed everything he had.
Only now did the watching world understand just how fast he truly was. Previous matches had hinted at it—the surprising pace for a man his size. But this was something else entirely. A man over six foot three, weighing ninety kilograms, covering ground like a hundred-metre sprinter.
In the stands, Santos and Enrique rose to their feet in unison.
The Atlético supporters could barely believe what they were seeing. Many covered their mouths, afraid any sound might break the spell.
Szczęsny had expected to reach the ball first. Juanfran's pass had been overhit, which should have favoured the goalkeeper. But in the blink of an eye, André was there—while Szczęsny was still two strides away.
The Polish keeper had no choice. He'd already committed, already left his penalty area. Even if it meant a red card, he couldn't let André through.
He lunged.
André saw it coming. Without breaking stride, he dipped his right foot under the ball and chipped it—a delicate touch that sent it floating over Szczęsny's diving body.
Then he swerved around the sprawling goalkeeper, accelerated again, controlled the dropping ball with a single touch, and rolled it gently into the empty net.
2-0.
André sprinted toward the touchline, searching for Simeone. The manager was already celebrating with Burgos and the coaching staff—but André didn't slow down. He grabbed Simeone and lifted him clean off the ground.
"Boss! I did it! I did it!"
"I know! I know! Now put me down—put me down right now!"
In the stands, Fernando Santos stood motionless, eyes fixed on André.
"This is the greatest gift God has given Portugal," he said quietly to his assistant. "I'm taking him to the Euros."
What Santos didn't know was that another man had the same idea. Luis Enrique was already on his phone, contacting officials at the Spanish Football Association. A talent like this demanded action. In both managers' minds, André had just become more important than any other prospect in European football.
The man with the worst mood was Allegri.
It wasn't just the scoreline. What truly stung was knowing how close André had come to joining Juventus. At this moment, Allegri wanted to strangle his club's general manager. Why hadn't they pushed harder? With Cristiano already at the club, one word from him would have sealed the deal.
But Allegri wasn't alone in his regret. Across Europe, managers watching on television felt the same complex mixture of awe and frustration: Solari, Guardiola, Kovač, Mourinho. All of them wondering what might have been.
Somewhere in a private viewing room, a phone rang.
"José. Why are you calling? Something wrong?"
"Nothing major." Mourinho's voice was casual, carefully measured. "I was just wondering—is Tottenham still interested in bringing me in?"
"Yes, they're quite sincere. And there are other clubs with the same idea."
"Right. I could agree to meet with them. But here's my condition: can you bring André too?"
Jorge Mendes laughed.
"José, that's impossible. Atlético won't sell. Simeone won't allow it. And frankly, Cristiano wouldn't agree either." A pause. "Are you watching the match? My newest client isn't bad, is he?"
"You didn't tell me the full picture back then, Jorge. Besides, you and Cristiano would be more comfortable with André under my management. Use it as leverage against Atlético."
"José, stop. André would never go for that. Now let me watch the game in peace."
Mendes ended the call with a smirk.
Tottenham wanting to buy André? Keep dreaming.
As the industry's most powerful agent, Mendes knew exactly what this match meant. After tonight, every giant in European football would come calling.
His client had arrived.
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