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The meeting with Simeone had given both parties exactly what they needed: reassurance.
After that, the negotiations with Oviedo became straightforward. The only reason Hierro and Banches had been holding out was money—and money was no longer an issue for Atlético Madrid. As the saying went, for a club desperate for talent, any problem that could be solved with money wasn't really a problem at all.
Atlético wanted André. André wanted Atlético. The only question was the price, and once that was agreed, everything else fell into place within days.
The winter transfer window for Spanish professional leagues had just opened. The twentieth round of the Segunda División was scheduled for two days later.
The moment the window opened, Atlético Madrid's official website updated with transfer news: former Real Oviedo striker André Cristiano had officially joined Atlético Madrid. The announcement included André's profile, his goal-scoring statistics from the Segunda División, and some flattering quotes from the coaching staff about his potential. Conspicuously absent was any mention of the transfer fee.
Shortly after, Real Oviedo released their own statement confirming André's departure. Professional, brief, wishing him well for the future. Hierro had probably written it himself.
With both clubs making it official, the transfer saga that had dominated Spanish football gossip for weeks finally came to a close. Atlético Madrid had won the race for the season's breakout star.
What the media didn't know was that André had actually arrived in Madrid two days earlier.
Hierro had personally escorted him to the residence Atlético had arranged—a spacious apartment near the city centre, far nicer than anything André had ever lived in before. Modern furniture, a proper kitchen, a balcony overlooking a quiet street. It felt like something out of a magazine.
"I was the one who took you away from Madrid," Hierro said as they stood in the doorway, preparing to say goodbye. "And now I'm personally bringing you back."
There was something poetic about it, André thought. Less than half a year ago, he'd made the journey from Madrid to Oviedo as a nobody—a Castilla reject nobody wanted, surplus to requirements, sent to the second division like yesterday's trash. Now he was returning as one of the most expensive teenage signings in Spanish football history.
Different destination in Madrid. Same city. Completely different circumstances.
"Thank you for everything, Boss," André said quietly. "I won't forget what you did for me."
Hierro smiled—a rare, genuine smile. "Just make sure you don't forget us when you're lifting trophies at the Metropolitano. Now go. Your new life starts here."
Twenty-three million euros.
That was the final transfer fee Atlético Madrid paid for André.
Not long after the official announcements, the well-connected reporters at Marca exposed the full details of the deal. Whether Atlético had deliberately leaked the information to build hype, or whether the journalists were genuinely that good at their jobs, remained unclear. Perhaps a bit of both.
The contract was equally eye-opening: three years, six million euros annually after tax. That salary put André among the top earners at the entire club—remarkable for a seventeen-year-old who'd played barely a handful of professional matches.
The reaction across Spanish football was immediate and deeply polarised.
The day after Marca published the details, former Barcelona president Joan Laporta gave an interview expressing open scepticism.
"I don't deny that André Cristiano is a talented young man. But talent alone doesn't guarantee someone will become an excellent player. He's experienced too few matches at this level. Strong performances in the Segunda División don't automatically translate to success in La Liga—the quality of opposition is completely different. I think this is a foolish transaction. Atlético Madrid is acting out of desperation, and frankly, they're contributing to an economic bubble in football."
Real Madrid's head coach, Santiago Solari, was even more dismissive—perhaps unsurprisingly, given that André had passed through the Castilla system under his predecessor.
"André Cristiano? I know him reasonably well—he came through our academy, after all. I think Atlético's deal was far too hasty. They haven't fully understood the player yet. To spend such a huge sum based on a handful of matches in the second division... honestly, I think this could be a disaster for them. Time will tell, of course, but I wouldn't have made this signing."
But where there was doubt, there was also fierce optimism. Atlético's supporters rallied behind their new signing with characteristic tribal loyalty. Former players praised Simeone's eye for talent. Pundits pointed to André's incredible goal-scoring statistics—the goals-per-minute ratio that defied belief—his physical dominance against fully grown professionals, his composure under pressure that seemed impossible for someone his age.
The public debate raged on. Everyone had an opinion. Talk shows devoted entire segments to analysing the transfer. Social media exploded with hot takes and counter-takes.
André tried his best to ignore it all.
Amidst the clamour, André arrived at Atlético Madrid's training base for his first official day.
He'd taken the occasion extremely seriously—arriving a full half hour before the scheduled time, wearing smart casual clothes, having rehearsed basic greetings in both Spanish and English. He wanted to make the right impression, to show he was professional and committed, worthy of the faith the club had placed in him.
But Atlético, it turned out, had taken his arrival just as seriously.
When André pulled up to the entrance of the Cerro del Espino training complex, he found the team captain already waiting for him at the gates.
Diego Godín.
The legendary Uruguayan defender stood there like a one-man welcoming committee, his face split by a warm, genuine smile. He was shorter than André had expected from television, but the presence was unmistakable—this was a man who'd marshalled defences in Champions League finals.
"Hello, André." He extended a hand. "I'm Diego Godín—though I imagine you already knew that. Welcome to the great family of Atlético Madrid."
André shook his hand, trying not to look as starstruck as he felt. "Hello, Captain. It's an honour."
"Come on. I'll show you around the facilities and then take you to see the boss. He's expecting you."
Godín led him through the training complex, explaining its history as they walked past pitches and buildings.
The Cerro del Espino base had been Atlético's home for nearly twenty years, though it wasn't exclusively theirs. Back in the 1990s, through the efforts of the Gil family, the original stadium belonging to local club Rayo Majadahonda had been expanded into a large, multi-purpose training facility. Since then, it had served as a shared space for both teams—an unusual arrangement, but one that had worked well enough.
"We won't be here much longer, though," Godín said as they passed the main training pitch, where some of the youth players were running drills. "The new training complex is almost finished. State of the art—you'll see. The Wanda Training Centre, up in the northeast of the city. Should be ready within the year."
André nodded, absorbing everything. The facilities here were already impressive compared to what he'd known at Oviedo. He could only imagine what a purpose-built, modern complex would look like.
Godín stopped outside a row of lockers in the changing room.
"This one's yours." He tapped a door already marked with André's name—printed on a proper nameplate and affixed to the wood. "That's the basic tour done. Now I'll take you to see the boss." He paused, his expression turning slightly more serious. "Fair warning: Simeone values punctuality above almost everything else. Don't ever be late for training, for meetings, for anything. Trust me on that one."
"Understood. I'll be early every single day."
"Good man."
Simeone's office was surprisingly modest—functional rather than flashy, decorated with tactical boards and match photographs rather than trophies or personal memorabilia. The desk was cluttered with papers and notebooks, the hallmarks of a coach who worked obsessively.
The man himself sat behind the desk, and he rose to his feet the moment André and Godín appeared in the doorway.
"Boss, I've brought him."
"Ah, André!" Simeone came around the desk, hand extended, his energy immediately filling the room. "Welcome to Cerro del Espino. How are you finding everything? Settled into your new place alright?"
"Yes, Boss. Everything's been great. The apartment is incredible."
"Good, good." Simeone's eyes crinkled with amusement at the use of 'Boss.' "I'm glad you're calling me that already. If you say 'Simeone,' I never know if you're talking to me or our captain here. Gets very confusing."
André felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. The warmth in Simeone's manner was genuine, not performed for show.
"I'll arrange for you to take a physical examination later today," Simeone continued, his tone shifting to business. "Standard procedure—everyone goes through it when they join. Nothing to worry about."
"No problem, Boss."
"Excellent." Simeone's expression grew more serious, though the warmth remained in his eyes. "André, Atlético Madrid is a great club. More than that—we're a family. You should understand something about La Liga: two giants dominate everything. Real Madrid and Barcelona. They have the money, the history, the global prestige. If we want to compete with them, we must stay united. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, Boss. I understand completely."
"Excellent."
The door opened behind them, and a man with a distinctive shaved head and thick dark beard entered the room. His appearance was intimidating—the face of a man who'd seen things in football that could fill a book.
"Ah, perfect timing." Simeone gestured toward the newcomer. "André, this is my assistant coach, Germán Burgos."
"Hello, Mr. Germán."
Burgos grinned—a slightly terrifying expression, given his appearance—and clasped André's hand in a grip like a vice.
"Welcome to Atlético Madrid, kid. Let's see what you've got."
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