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"So... Mr. Rubiales, Mr. Luis... may I ask why you've come to see me so late?"
André returned to the living room to find the four men seated on opposite sides, the atmosphere thick enough to cut with a knife. Peak awkwardness.
He hadn't planned to speak first, but Cristiano kept winking at him so aggressively that André was genuinely worried his cousin would give himself a facial spasm. If that happened, Georgina would probably blame him somehow.
"André, I watched your match at the stadium tonight." Enrique leaned forward, taking the initiative. "I've come to invite you to join the Spanish national team."
"Mr. Luis, you must be mistaken." Cristiano cut in before André could respond. "André is Portuguese. It won't be easy for him to join Spain. As far as I know, in a situation like his, one needs to reside in Spain for at least two years before applying for citizenship. He clearly doesn't meet that requirement yet."
But what Rubiales said next left both Cristiano and Santos speechless—and caused André, who had been drinking water, to nearly choke.
"Cristiano, what you mentioned is indeed one pathway to Spanish citizenship. However, according to our research, André's grandmother held Spanish citizenship. In cases like his, only one year of residency is required to apply."
André's water went down the wrong pipe. He coughed, barely managing not to spray it across Rubiales's face.
What the hell? I didn't even know about this myself, and you do?
If Rubiales was telling the truth, André did technically qualify. Spanish citizenship law had various pathways—ten years of residency for most applicants, but special circumstances could shorten that dramatically. Marriage to a Spanish citizen. Birth in Spain. Or, apparently, having a Spanish grandparent.
"Mr. Rubiales... are you joking?"
"André, I'm completely serious. This is documented fact."
Enrique stood, sensing the atmosphere had become impossible. "We came here tonight to demonstrate our sincerity. I hope you'll seriously consider our proposal. Since you have guests, we won't impose any longer."
André rose as well. The words came out before he'd fully thought them through.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Rubiales, Mr. Luis—but I can't accept. I was born in Portugal. My family is there. That's where I belong."
Across the room, Cristiano and Santos both broke into relieved smiles.
Fine, André thought. I've inherited this life. Might as well honour the obligations that come with it.
In truth, he felt no burning loyalty to either country. But Portugal was home. Portugal was family. Portugal was Cristiano.
That was enough.
After Santos chatted with André for a while longer, he too departed.
"Aren't you leaving?"
André watched Cristiano stroll back into the living room after seeing Santos off. It was absurdly late. Didn't the man need sleep?
"Where would I go? It's too late—I'm staying here."
"I only have one bedroom. Where am I supposed to sleep?"
"The sofa."
"Cristiano, this is my apartment. You're making me sleep on the sofa?"
"Obviously. I'm the guest. Who told you not to buy a bigger place?"
André stared at him. This shameless attitude didn't match the image of a five-time Ballon d'Or winner at all.
"What do I need a big house for? I live alone! Just go to a hotel. My sofa's tiny—I won't fit on it."
"Can't. I came in such a rush I didn't bring my wallet."
André's expression darkened. A superstar on his salary, going out without money? Who would believe that?
"Seriously. When Fernando called about meeting you, I came straight over. My teammates are flying back to Italy tonight. Mãe and Georgina already left with them. So I'm stuck with you."
"You're not going to tell me I have to pay for your flight back tomorrow too?"
"Of course. You're my brother. I stayed behind in Spain for your business—isn't this the least you can do?" Cristiano's grin was infuriating. "We're family, André. Family."
"Fine. How much do you want?"
"A hundred thousand euros."
"Are you chartering a private jet?!"
"A night at the Madrid Hilton is twenty thousand. I need to eat. Flight costs. Plus, I never charged you for the equipment I bought out of pocket when you visited Italy. And you promised to treat me to dinner once you started earning proper money—still waiting on that. And then there's—"
"Enough! Stop talking or you'll never shut up." André held up his hands in surrender. "I agree."
"Excellent. Hand over the money."
"I said I agree. I didn't say I agree to pay. I agreed to let you have the bedroom while I sleep on the sofa."
Nice try. Want money? Don't have any. Want my life? Good luck taking it.
"You little—!"
The two of them dissolved into a wrestling match in the middle of the living room, shoving and grappling like children. Eventually they collapsed onto the sofa, breathing hard, limbs tangled.
Silence settled.
"Kid." Cristiano's voice was softer now. "I really do hope we can play on the same team someday."
"We already do. The national team. We'll play in the Euros together. The World Cup too."
"The Euros, sure. But the World Cup..." Cristiano stared at the ceiling. "I'll be thirty-seven by then. I don't know if I can hold on that long."
"You can. I know you can."
A pause.
"Alright." Cristiano smiled. "World Cup it is. Together."
He pushed himself up from the sofa.
"Wait—I thought you were staying here?"
"Who'd want to stay in this shoebox? Georgina's waiting at the hotel. Mãe took Santos Junior back to Italy first."
Good thing I didn't give him any money. Tried to scam me again.
Cristiano paused at the door, turning back with a grin.
"Prepare yourself, kid. When the second leg comes to Turin, I'm sending you lot packing."
André just rolled his eyes.
Some things never changed.
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