Join now :- patreon. com/TranslationGod
20+ early chapters at just 5$
"So? There shouldn't be any problems with André's body, right?"
About an hour after Burgos had taken André for his medical, the assistant coach returned to Simeone's office. The manager looked up expectantly as his old friend walked in.
"Diego, the problem is too big."
Simeone's face fell. "What? What problem? Are you sure there's a problem?" His mind raced through worst-case scenarios. The kid looked so sturdy, so healthy—how could there be an issue?
"Of course there's a problem." Burgos's face was completely serious. "The problem is that we've picked up an absolute treasure. I can't fucking believe Real Madrid let this guy go. It's unbelievable. Is Solari blind? Diego, don't talk to me about twenty million—even if you added another twenty million on top, we'd still be getting a bargain."
"Germán, what the hell—can you finish a sentence properly? What exactly is going on?"
"Here." Burgos slapped a folder down on the desk. "The medical report. See for yourself. Professor Campbell was so impressed he asked to keep a blood sample. Said he wanted to study how a human being like this could exist. The Oviedo fans call him King Kong—that nickname is perfect. He's a goddamn human King Kong."
"Shut up!" Simeone grabbed the folder. "Can you be quiet for two seconds and let me read?"
Simeone had never seen his usually rigorous assistant acting like this—gesticulating wildly, words tumbling out faster than he could process them.
"Fine, fine. You read. I'll be quiet."
Burgos raised his hands in surrender and sat down on the side chair.
Simeone opened the report. His eyes scanned the numbers.
Then he read them again.
"Holy Mother of God. This is real? Are you sure there's no mistake, Germán?"
Burgos spread his hands, saying nothing. His expression spoke volumes: See? You're reacting exactly like I did.
"10.17 seconds for the hundred metres? 7.5% body fat? This is a seventeen-year-old's medical report?"
"Diego, I know it's hard to believe. But it's true. When I took him for the medical, you should have seen the way Campbell looked at him. I honestly think if I hadn't been there as a chaperone, Campbell might have tried to dissect him for research." Burgos leaned forward. "He's the fastest player on our entire squad. At the same time, he's the strongest. He's like that gorilla from the movies—power, agility, explosiveness, all wrapped in one package. You know what Campbell called him? A miracle in the history of human physiology."
Burgos's eyes gleamed. "Diego, this miracle is ours now. With him, to hell with Real Madrid. To hell with Barcelona. If this report ever got out, Laporta and Solari would have to eat their words."
"No." Simeone shook his head firmly. "This report absolutely cannot be leaked. It would put us in a passive position—every club in Europe would come sniffing around. As for the outside criticism, we don't need to respond. André will answer them on the pitch. Germán, go tell Professor Campbell immediately: this medical report stays confidential. At least for now."
"Understood."
While Simeone and Burgos were marvelling at the medical results, André had already changed into his training gear.
Godín led him out to the main pitch, where the rest of the squad was warming up. Most of the players looked up with welcoming expressions—curiosity mixed with genuine warmth toward this big newcomer who'd been dominating headlines for weeks.
But not everyone's eyes were friendly.
André noticed a few complicated looks. One in particular stood out: the current starting striker, Nikola Kalinić. The Croatian watched André approach with an expression that fell somewhere between resentment and barely concealed hostility.
André understood. The whole football world knew that Atlético had bought him because they were dissatisfied with Kalinić's performances. He was the replacement. The younger, cheaper, more exciting replacement.
Still, André hadn't expected trouble quite this quickly.
"Hey, big guy!" Kalinić called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You really do look like a gorilla."
What the hell? André turned slowly, his expression flat. Did I step on this guy's tail or something?
"Hey, Nikola." Godín stepped forward, his voice sharp with warning. "Don't start anything."
By now, the other players had stopped their warm-ups. Everyone was watching.
"What?" Kalinić spread his hands with mock innocence. "I'm just welcoming the newcomer, Captain. Don't the fans all call him King Kong? And King Kong is basically a gorilla, right? Isn't that right... King Kong?"
André felt his jaw tighten. But two could play this game.
"You're right, absolutely right." His voice was calm, almost pleasant. "I heard the captain call you Nikola just now. Would that make you Nikola Kalinić? As in, Croatia's Nikola Kalinić?" He paused, pretending to think. "I remember now—people said Croatia lost the World Cup final because you weren't there. Such a shame. By the way... why weren't you there again? I heard you got expelled from the squad."
Several players snorted with laughter. Even a few who'd been trying to stay neutral couldn't hide their grins.
André had gone straight for the jugular. Kalinić's World Cup disaster was still a raw wound—sent home in disgrace after refusing to come on as a substitute, missing Croatia's historic run to the final.
Kalinić's face went red with fury.
"What the fuck did you just say to me? You think you're funny, Gorilla?" He stepped closer, jaw clenched. "How about a competition? See who backs up their talk."
"Compete in what?"
"A one-on-one duel."
André blinked. For a moment, he wondered if the Croatian was genuinely challenging him to a fight. If so, this was going to be embarrassing—for Kalinić. André had years of boxing training; this would be over in seconds.
"That doesn't seem fair," André said slowly. "I don't want to break you. Tell you what—I'll give you one hand. Fight with one arm behind my back."
Several players burst out laughing.
Godín cleared his throat awkwardly. "André... the duel he's talking about isn't boxing. It's football."
"Oh." André felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Football. Right. How does that work?"
Godín explained the rules: a miniature goal, one-on-one. You had to dribble past your opponent and score from within a metre of the goal for it to count. Whoever scored kept possession for the next attack; whoever lost it defended. First to ten points won.
There were other smaller rules—boundary lines, fouls, restart procedures—which Godín outlined methodically.
"So?" Kalinić sneered when the explanation was finished. "Do you dare, Gorilla? Or are you scared?"
André's eyes narrowed. His voice dropped, suddenly cold.
"First of all, if I hear the word 'gorilla' come out of your mouth one more time, I'm going to knock every single tooth out of your head. That's a promise, not a threat."
The laughter died. Even Kalinić looked momentarily uncertain.
"Second," André continued, "why should I compete with you? You say jump and I jump? What's in it for me?"
"Kid, you're not scared, are you?" Kalinić forced a mocking laugh, but it sounded hollow now. "Oh, right—you're still basically a child. Worried you'll cry if you lose? Don't worry, I'll go easy on you. Unless you want to run home to your mother and drink milk."
André squeezed his fist so hard his knuckles cracked. Every instinct screamed at him to end this properly—one punch, lights out. But he remembered what Hierro had told him. What Mendes had told him.
You're a footballer now. Let football do the talking.
"Fine. I'll compete." His voice was ice. "But I have one condition. Whoever loses goes to the main entrance of this training base and shouts 'I am dog shit' three times. Loud enough for everyone to hear." He tilted his head. "Do you agree? If you're too scared, then shut the fuck up and walk away."
Several players gasped. This was escalating fast.
Kalinić's face went from red to purple. Being challenged like this, in front of the entire squad, by a teenager? His pride wouldn't let him back down.
"Fine. I agree." He spat the words through gritted teeth. "Don't come crying to me when you lose."
"Good." André looked around at the gathered players. "Everyone here is a witness. Captain, you'll referee?"
Godín sighed heavily. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
The players formed a circle around the makeshift competition area. The small goal was set up. The ball was placed at centre.
This was happening.
Show Some By Powerstones
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones