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The final result of the match—the one that had attracted so much attention from so many interested parties—was enough to make people across Spain sit up and take notice.
Málaga, the league leaders, the team everyone expected to cruise to the Segunda División title, had been demolished.
4-0 to Real Oviedo.
It wasn't even close. From the first whistle to the last, Oviedo had been in complete control, carving open Málaga's defence with an ease that bordered on embarrassing.
The focal point of all that attention, André Cristiano, had delivered exactly what his growing legion of admirers hoped for: one goal and one assist. A complete performance. A statement. The kind of display that made scouts reach for their phones before the final whistle had even blown.
With the victory, Oviedo climbed two more spots in the Segunda División table. After nineteen rounds, they now sat sixth—still outside the automatic promotion places, but within touching distance. The gap to the top three had shrunk considerably over the past few weeks, and the momentum was undeniably with Hierro's men.
As for Málaga, the loss meant surrendering top spot to Deportivo La Coruña. There was some consolation, at least: Granada and Alcorcón had both drawn their matches this round, so Málaga remained three points clear of the chasing pack despite dropping to second.
But the real chaos began the day after the match.
Everything Hierro had discussed with Sánchez on the touchline came true. The club's inbox exploded with offers for André.
Atlético Madrid led the bidding at sixteen million euros—a significant jump from any previous offer. Behind them, in an unusual show of agreement, both Real Madrid and Barcelona submitted identical bids of twelve million. The two eternal rivals, for once, on exactly the same page. It would have been amusing under different circumstances.
Sevilla, Villarreal, and Valencia followed with their own offers, ranging from eight to eleven million. Even some Segunda División clubs joined the fray: Málaga, Deportivo La Coruña, and others all registered their interest.
The second-tier bids were almost certainly not serious. Everyone in the division knew that Oviedo were riding a wave of momentum right now. Their young striker was the engine driving that momentum. Throwing André's name into the transfer rumour mill was a convenient way to destabilise a rival—to create noise, muddy the waters, force distractions.
But the La Liga offers? Those were very, very real.
And they presented a problem Hierro could no longer ignore.
To Hierro's surprise, the club owner didn't call this time.
He showed up in person.
Banches appearing at the club was rare enough to be alarming. He'd bought Oviedo years ago as a favour to the local city government, and after years of the club languishing in the lower divisions, he'd long since started viewing it as a burden to offload. His visits were infrequent, his interest minimal.
But things were different now.
Ever since Hierro had brought André back from Castilla, Banches felt like money had fallen from the sky. A windfall he'd never expected. The previous offers from Barcelona and Juventus had been tempting enough—ten million here, ten and a half there. Now, with Atlético Madrid waving sixteen million around, the temptation was becoming unbearable.
The problem was Hierro.
The manager's reputation in Spanish football was substantial—far greater than Banches's own standing in the business community. The man had captained Real Madrid, for God's sake. He'd lifted trophies at the Bernabéu. Souring that relationship could backfire badly in ways Banches couldn't fully predict. So despite desperately wanting to cash in on André, he had reluctantly accepted Hierro's blocking tactics.
Until now.
The sheer number of clubs circling had changed the calculation entirely.
"Fernando!"
Hierro looked up as Banches strode into his office without knocking. His brow furrowed immediately. He knew this man. Knew he only cared about money. Knew this visit couldn't be good news.
"Boss. What brings you here? Is something wrong?"
"Fernando, you know why I'm here." Banches settled into the chair across the desk, making himself comfortable. "Let's not dance around it. What are you planning to do about the André situation?"
Just as I thought. Hierro kept his expression neutral.
"Boss, you see I was right before, don't you? André is a genius. Barcelona offered ten million a few months ago. Now Atlético are at sixteen. If we hold out until the end of the season—if we push for promotion to La Liga—anyone who wants him won't get him for less than thirty million. Maybe more."
"Fernando, I hear what you're saying." Banches leaned forward, hands clasped on his knees. "And I can promise you this: I'll take half of André's transfer fee and put it straight back into the team. That money goes toward our promotion push. But you have to understand my position here. I'm a small businessman. Oviedo's results have been terrible for years. I don't have endless reserves to keep filling this hole."
"Boss, but—"
"Listen." Banches held up a hand, cutting him off. "Here's the deal. You handle the negotiation personally. Use Atlético's sixteen million as the floor. Whatever you get above that, I only take eight million. The rest goes to the team. All of it. Sound fair?"
He stood up before Hierro could respond.
"I expect results soon, Fernando. Don't make me wait."
And then he was gone.
Sánchez appeared in the doorway moments later, having clearly been lurking just out of earshot.
"What did he want?"
Hierro sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "What do you think? We can't keep André anymore. Banches gave me an ultimatum."
He relayed the entire conversation, word for word.
Sánchez's face went red with barely contained fury. "That piece of shit. He's never taken Oviedo seriously—not once in all the years he's owned this club. Just a money-grubbing bastard who doesn't care about anything except his bank balance. Half the reason this club has struggled for years is because of his neglect."
"Miguel." Hierro's voice was tired, resigned. "Forget it. This is how it is with small clubs. I understand his position, even if I don't like it. Even if I hate it." He paused, staring at the stack of offers on his desk. "Go find André. Bring him here. It's time he knew what's happening."
Sánchez exhaled sharply through his nose. "God, I hate this. I really do."
"I know. So do I."
After Sánchez left, Hierro spread the stack of offers across his desk and studied them one by one.
Atlético Madrid. Real Madrid. Barcelona. Sevilla. Villarreal. Valencia. And a handful of Segunda División clubs whose bids weren't worth taking seriously.
He arranged them in order of value, then sat back and stared at the numbers.
A cold smile crept across his face.
"Since everyone wants him," he murmured to himself, "then don't blame me for what happens next. You want a bidding war? I'll give you a bidding war."
"Coach? You wanted to see me?"
André appeared in the doorway, looking uncertain. Sánchez hovered behind him for a moment, then retreated with a nod.
Hierro gestured to the chair across from him.
"Sit down. Here—take a look at these."
He handed over the stack of papers. André took them, eyes scanning the headers, the logos, the numbers. His expression shifted as the reality sank in.
"Coach... these are...?"
"André." Hierro's voice was gentle but firm. "Oviedo is a small club. You know this. And you are a genius—don't argue with me, it's simply the truth. You should be on a bigger stage. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
"Yes." André's voice was quiet. "I understand."
But even as he said the words, a strange heaviness settled in his chest. He'd known this day would come eventually—he wasn't naive about how football worked. But knowing it intellectually and feeling it were different things entirely.
For the first time, André truly understood what it meant to be a commodity in professional football. A product to be bought and sold. An asset on a balance sheet. His value wasn't measured in goals or assists or performances—it was measured in millions of euros.
Hierro watched the emotions play across André's face. He'd been through this himself, decades ago. He knew exactly what the boy was feeling. But he chose not to explain. Some lessons had to be learned firsthand. Some realisations had to come from within.
"I think you should contact your agent," Hierro said finally. "Jorge Mendes. He's handled transfers for the biggest names in football. He'll know how to navigate what comes next."
André nodded slowly. "Alright, Coach. I'll call him tonight."
He stood up, clutching the stack of offers like they weighed a hundred pounds, and walked out of the office without another word.
Hierro watched him go. For a moment, his cold professional mask slipped, revealing something softer underneath.
Good luck, kid. You're going to need it.
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