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"Kid, you're fucking dead after this."
After the restart, Bardhi stuck even closer to André than before. That goal had taught him a brutal lesson—there was no underestimating this teenager.
"Yeah, yeah." André didn't even bother looking at him. "What's the point of talking? I told you—pinch me again and I'll make you regret it."
"You—"
"Me what?" André finally glanced over, his expression dripping with contempt. "If you can't even finish a sentence, don't bother with the trash talk." He shrugged. "Whatever. You're not worth my time."
Bardhi's mind went blank for a moment. The worst part was that he genuinely didn't understand half of what André had said—and the look the kid was giving him made him feel like an idiot being examined by a superior being.
Rage flooded through him. Before he could think, his hand shot out and shoved André in the chest.
The effect was immediate. André crumpled to the ground, clutching his torso, rolling around in apparent agony.
Bardhi's mind went completely empty.
I've been played again.
In their previous confrontations, he'd pushed André multiple times—each time with more force than this pathetic little shove. Not once had he managed to even budge the giant. If Bardhi didn't know his own strength so well, he'd have thought he'd suddenly gained superhuman power.
But none of that mattered now.
After André's assist, he was the darling of the Wanda Metropolitano. The Atlético players swarmed over immediately, surrounding Bardhi with hostile glares. Captain Godín marched straight to the referee to demand action.
In the stands, the home supporters began hurling abuse at Bardhi—calling him a murderer, a criminal, a disgrace. If you didn't know better, you'd think André had suffered a career-ending injury.
"You definitely taught him that," Simeone said, turning to stare at Vivas on the touchline. "You used to pull this exact shit."
"Diego, I will fight you! That's slander!"
The referee didn't hesitate.
Even without the Atlético players' protests, his hand was already reaching for his pocket. He'd seen Bardhi's pushing motion clearly enough. And honestly? After that earlier incident where Bardhi had sprayed saliva all over his face during his complaints, the official wasn't feeling particularly charitable.
Yellow card. Bardhi clutched his head in disbelief.
Meanwhile, Atlético's medical staff performed what could only be described as a modern miracle. After less than a minute of treatment, André—who had been writhing on the ground like a dying man—stood up and hopped twice on the spot.
Perfectly fine.
He jogged back onto the pitch with a broad grin, even sneaking a couple of winks at Bardhi as he passed.
That's what you get for running your mouth. On the pitch, I'm your father. When it comes to playing dirty, I'm your ancestor.
The referee, however, was now looking at André with considerably less warmth. The lack of even basic pretence was almost insulting. You're not even trying to fake it convincingly. You're making me look like an idiot.
The little interlude didn't affect most of the Levante players, but it was devastating for Bardhi. Still assigned to mark André, he'd become hesitant—almost timid. The threat of another card, another embarrassment, was paralysing him.
Levante's head coach Paco López spotted the problem immediately. He was preparing a substitution to get Bardhi off the pitch when Atlético struck again.
Eighty-fourth minute.
Griezmann drifted out to the right flank. A quick series of one-touch passes with Koke opened up space, and then a classic one-two saw Griezmann accelerate past Levante's full-back, racing down the wing at full speed.
Near the penalty area, Griezmann performed a sharp stop-and-turn, feinting like he was about to cut inside. Levante's centre-back Rodríguez committed, shifting his weight to cover the expected move.
Griezmann changed direction again.
Instead of cutting in, he surged toward the byline. Just before reaching it, he sent a sudden ground ball back through Rodríguez's legs—a classic cutback pass, arriving at the penalty spot with perfect weight and timing.
André didn't even need to take a touch.
He met the incoming ball with the inside of his right foot, redirecting it with a gentle push toward the far corner. The goalkeeper had been drawn to the near post by Griezmann's run; he was hopelessly out of position, only able to turn his head and watch the ball nestle into the net.
2-1.
After scoring, André pointed at Griezmann—returning the gesture from earlier—then sprinted to the touchline and pulled Simeone into a crushing bear hug.
"Boss! I scored! We're winning!"
"Yes, yes! We're winning!" Simeone was laughing, pounding André on the back with uncharacteristic joy. "Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!"
One assist. One goal. Less than thirty minutes on the pitch.
It was like two slaps across the faces of everyone who'd doubted the transfer. Spending twenty-three million on a seventeen-year-old had been a gamble. Simeone had believed in his own judgement, but even he hadn't expected the return to come this quickly.
The other Atlético players gathered around, congratulating both forwards.
"Beautiful finish!"
"Your pass was perfect too." André grinned at Griezmann. "I thought you didn't see me making the run."
"I always see you."
In that moment, something shifted in Griezmann's chest. The thoughts of Barcelona, of leaving, of greener pastures elsewhere—they seemed distant. This chemistry, this connection with André... maybe there was something here worth staying for.
One goal and one assist each. The partnership Simeone had been hoping for was already forming.
On the football pitch, strength speaks for itself. It had taken André less than half an hour to conquer this stadium.
"KING KONG! KING KONG! KING KONG!"
The chant thundered around the Wanda Metropolitano.
For fuck's sake. André's mood, which had been soaring moments ago, suddenly deflated. These fans seemed to have some kind of collective delusion about that nickname.
"I heard the supporter groups are all officially registered with the club," André said as the players walked back into position for the restart. He fell into step beside Griezmann. "Do you think I could talk to someone about getting them to stop using that name?"
Griezmann looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Why would you want that? It's a great nickname. Very intimidating. Besides, it shows the fans have accepted you." He smiled warmly. "I love that movie, by the way. Don't you? The love story between Kong and Ann is so touching."
André felt his soul leave his body for a moment.
What is wrong with these people?
Why did everyone think that was a love story? A giant gorilla and a beautiful woman—how was that romantic? What was the endgame supposed to be? Stay together? Have children? Would they produce a baby gorilla or some kind of mutant baboon?
It was genuinely distressing.
"Why that expression?" Griezmann asked, puzzled by André's suddenly constipated look.
"Nothing. Forget it." André shook his head. "Let's just finish the match."
What the hell is going on with this guy? Griezmann thought, watching André trudge toward the centre circle. He just scored a goal and now he looks miserable.
Football players were strange creatures.
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