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"Diego, aren't you going to do something about this?"
From across the training ground, Simeone, Burgos, and the rest of the coaching staff had a perfect view of the confrontation unfolding on the pitch. Burgos turned to his boss with a confused expression.
"Why should I?" Simeone shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Aren't you worried André might lose? If he does, it'll be a massive blow to his confidence. First day at a new club, humiliated by a senior player—that's not a great start."
"Germán." Simeone's eyes never left the pitch. "You've seen his physical test reports. You've watched his match footage. Do you really think he's going to lose to Nikola Kalinić?" He shook his head. "Since he won't lose, why would I stop it? Besides, this is actually a good way for him to integrate with the squad quickly. You know how unpopular Nikola is with the others."
"Fair point." Burgos folded his arms. "Alright then. Let's enjoy the show."
On the makeshift competition pitch, André and Kalinić stood facing each other as Godín produced a coin.
"Heads or tails?"
"Heads," André said.
The coin spun through the air, caught the winter sunlight, and landed on Godín's palm.
Heads.
André grinned. The smile, for reasons nobody could quite articulate, looked almost predatory.
"André attacks first," Godín announced. "Who's serving?"
The gathered players exchanged glances. Someone needed to take the throw-in.
"I'll do it."
Antoine Griezmann stepped forward from the crowd, ball in hand.
In this particular one-on-one format, each attack began with a throw-in from near the halfway line. The receiving point was a designated zone about ten metres from the goal.
André took his position in the receiving area. Kalinić pressed up behind him immediately, marking tight, hands grabbing at André's shirt and shorts—all the little tricks veterans used against younger players.
Idiot, André thought. You really want to do this? Fine. I'll show you exactly what happens when you run your mouth.
Griezmann wound up and threw the ball.
At that moment, Kalinić felt something was wrong. He was pushing against André's back, trying to unbalance him, using every ounce of strength he could muster—but André didn't budge. It was like shoving a concrete pillar. The kid's feet might as well have been rooted into the ground.
Before Kalinić could process this, a collective gasp rose from the watching players.
André had controlled the ball perfectly on his chest. But instead of letting it drop to the ground, he flicked it up with his right foot—a delicate, almost casual touch—and spun left in one fluid motion.
As he turned, his left elbow swung back in what looked like a natural balance movement. It caught Kalinić directly in the solar plexus.
The Croatian's eyes bulged. His body, already off-balance from the failed push, turned even slower as he tried to recover from the blow. By the time his brain caught up with what was happening, André was already three metres past him.
And then André stopped.
He placed his foot on the ball, turned his head, and looked back at Kalinić. Then, with a cocky wave of his hand, he beckoned the Croatian forward.
Come on then.
On the sidelines, several players who either thrived on chaos or simply disliked Kalinić started whistling and catcalling. A few were openly laughing.
Kalinić saw red. Every thought in his head evaporated except one: charge at this arrogant bastard and take him down.
He sprinted forward, fury overriding reason. When he was still a few steps away, he launched into a sliding tackle—legs extended, studs showing, no attempt whatsoever to pull back.
It was the kind of challenge that would earn a straight red card in any official match.
But André's agility, so impossibly at odds with his massive frame, was already on display. His foot was still resting on the ball; he simply pulled it back with his left, flicked it diagonally with his right, and glided past Kalinić's sliding body like water flowing around a stone.
This time, André didn't stop to taunt.
He accelerated toward the goal, stopped the ball precisely on the line, and turned to face Kalinić. His right hand rose to his throat, and he drew it slowly across in the universal gesture: you're finished.
Then, almost contemptuously, he backheeled the ball into the tiny goal without even looking.
The sidelines erupted. Applause, cheers, more whistling.
André spread his arms wide, soaking it in.
1-0.
"What the hell was that supposed to mean?" Kalinić stormed over, face flushed, eyes wild.
"What do you think?" André's voice was calm, almost bored. "I gave you a chance and you couldn't take it. What's the problem? Can't beat me at football, so now you want to try a real fight?" He tilted his head. "I'm warning you now—you can't beat me at football, and you definitely can't beat me in a fight."
Godín stepped between them, one hand on each chest, preventing escalation. Even without the captain's intervention, Kalinić wasn't stupid enough to actually throw a punch. Looking at André's clenched fists, at the sheer size of the kid, at the cold confidence in those dark eyes... physical confrontation would end badly.
Very badly.
A hint of regret crept into Kalinić's heart. He'd started this. He'd been the one to throw insults, to demand a competition. He'd assumed a seventeen-year-old, no matter how talented, would still be just a kid.
He'd been catastrophically wrong.
The player standing across from him wasn't just gifted. He was a freak of nature. The agility, the explosiveness, the ball control—none of it made sense given his size. It was like someone had taken the attributes of a lightweight winger and stuffed them into the body of a heavyweight boxer.
"So, Germán?" Simeone's smile had widened. "Still worried about him losing?"
"How does someone like this exist?" Burgos shook his head in disbelief. "It's unnatural. That flick over his head, the turn—absolutely brutal. And he made it look easy."
"No, no, no." Simeone held up a finger. "That's not the most important part. What matters is that everything was calculated. Including stopping to provoke Nikola. He wanted to make him angry. He wanted him to lose his composure and make a rash challenge." The manager's eyes gleamed. "This kid has freakish physical talent and an absolute feel for the ball—yes. But he also has composure that doesn't match his age. And composure is exactly what a top striker needs."
"You're both missing something."
The voice came from Nelson Vivas, another of Simeone's assistant coaches—an Argentine, like the boss himself. A former defender. He was watching André with a knowing smile.
"This kid is dangerous. You saw Nikola's turn, right? His turning speed isn't normally that slow. But somehow, when André went past him, Nikola looked like he was moving through treacle." Vivas chuckled. "I'd bet my salary that André did something dirty during that turn. An elbow, a shove, something the referee couldn't see. Don't forget—this kid's been under Fernando Hierro's wing. Fernando knows every trick in the book."
Simeone's eyes lit up. "I didn't even consider that. You're right—Nikola's reaction wasn't natural. So this kid isn't as innocent as he looks." He turned to Vivas with a grin. "Nelson, I'm giving you a new assignment. From now on, you're going to teach André every single dirty trick you learned in your playing days. I want to see what kind of surprises he can bring us."
Vivas's face went red with mock indignation. "Dirty tricks? Me? Those are self-preservation techniques for an elite footballer!"
Simeone just stared at him, expression blank.
"Fine, fine." Vivas threw up his hands. "I accept. Happy now?"
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