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André burst into the penalty area.
A feint to cut inside drew Matviyenko's weight the wrong way. André continued toward the byline instead, the centre-back left grasping at air.
Two more touches. The entire Ukraine defence—goalkeeper included—had their eyes locked on him.
Then he struck.
A sharp cutback with his right foot, the ball rolling across the face of goal toward the penalty spot. Cristiano was already there, waiting, perfectly positioned. One touch. A side-footed finish into the left corner.
Pyatov had committed to André's run, shifting right. He could only watch as the ball nestled into the opposite side of the net.
1-0.
Eighty-fifth minute. Portugal had the breakthrough.
Cristiano didn't perform his trademark celebration. Instead, he sprinted straight toward André and leapt into his arms.
André caught him, lifting his cousin off the ground. The rest of the Portugal squad swarmed around them.
In the stands, the home supporters erupted. The noise was deafening—weeks of frustration released in a single moment. The Portuguese television commentator nearly fell out of his chair.
On the opposite touchline, Shevchenko stood motionless, hands on his head. He couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. Everyone in the stadium knew the truth: at least eighty percent of that goal belonged to André.
The movement. The close control. The awareness. Everything about André's play had shattered Shevchenko's assumptions about tall centre-forwards.
"Not bad, eh?" André draped an arm around Cristiano's shoulder. "Don't you owe me a thank-you?"
"Yeah, decent assist." Cristiano grinned. "Tell you what—after the match, I'll have Georgina set you up with someone."
Can we have one normal conversation?
"I'm not passing to you next time."
"Good! Pass to me instead!" Bernardo Silva appeared beside them, beaming. "I can introduce you to someone too. Seriously though—if you don't pass to me, I'll tell everyone about how you got taken to the police station for chatting up a girl at school."
André froze.
"How do you know that? Who told you? Was it Cristiano? Who else knows?"
He released Cristiano immediately and grabbed Bernardo by the collar, firing questions in rapid succession.
He didn't notice Cristiano quietly backing away.
"Before you arrived, Cristiano told us everything." Bernardo was thoroughly enjoying himself. "Most of the squad knows by now. Including Mr. Santos."
Cristiano, you absolute—
André spun around. His cousin was already fifteen metres away, walking very quickly toward the centre circle.
If looks could kill, Cristiano would have died several hundred times over.
Suddenly, the joy of recording his first international assist felt considerably diminished.
The match resumed.
Trailing now, Ukraine's counter-attacking approach was useless. The goal had disrupted Shevchenko's substitution plans entirely. He threw on attackers in desperation, but the rushed changes achieved nothing.
More importantly, there was no time left.
Four minutes of stoppage time passed.
The referee blew the final whistle.
Portugal 1-0 Ukraine.
Three points secured in their opening European Championship qualifier.
The moment the whistle sounded, Cristiano bolted for the tunnel like a man fleeing a crime scene.
André stood on the pitch, glaring at his cousin's retreating back.
Run all you want. You can't hide forever.
Sure enough, Cristiano's attempt to slip away from the dressing room was foiled. André cornered him by the physio table.
"Cristiano. You absolute blabbermouth. I'm going to—"
"André! Brother! I'm sorry, I really am. But you can't blame me—they forced me to talk."
"Forced you? Forced you?"
"Yeah, André—get him!" The watching teammates immediately turned traitor. "He told us you were too embarrassed to admit you couldn't find a girlfriend and asked us to help!"
"He also shared loads of embarrassing stories from your school days!"
One after another, they exposed Cristiano's attempts to deflect blame.
If André hadn't been worried about making Georgina a widow, he genuinely might have strangled him.
"Alright, enough." Fernando Santos appeared in the doorway, saving Cristiano's life. "Stop messing around. Get cleaned up. Cristiano, you're coming to the press conference with me."
Cristiano escaped.
But André couldn't touch his cousin anyway—family was family. The teammates who'd been gleefully piling on, however? They had no such protection.
In the spirit of team bonding, André spent the next half hour having what he called a "friendly discussion" with his new international colleagues. Through a combination of reason, emotion, and certain physical demonstrations, he convinced everyone to forget everything Cristiano's loose lips had shared.
When the squad finally left the dressing room, several of them were walking rather gingerly.
In the group's other fixture, Luxembourg had defeated Lithuania 2-1 at home.
Portugal's next qualifier would come in three days: Serbia at home.
At the post-match press conference, Santos praised André's debut performance. But when asked whether the seventeen-year-old would start the next match, the manager was cautious.
"The current starting lineup is settled. André still needs time to build chemistry with his teammates. But if he maintains this form, I'm certainly willing to give him more opportunities."
One notable figure had been watching from the stands: Luís Figo, the former leader of Portugal's golden generation.
After the match, Figo offered his verdict on André.
"The most outstanding talent in Portuguese football. His future achievements will surpass mine—and Cristiano's too."
High praise indeed.
But André barely heard it. He was too busy plotting revenge on his cousin.
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