Join now :- patreon. com/TranslationGod
20+ early chapters at just 5$
After that brief exchange about King Kong and romance, both André and Griezmann walked away feeling vaguely disturbed by the conversation.
But neither of them was as disturbed as the man pacing the opposing touchline.
Levante's head coach, Paco López, felt like the universe was personally conspiring against him. Three points had been sitting right there in his hands. Then they'd become one point. And now, in the blink of an eye, even that single point had vanished.
And the cause of his misery? Some kid who had supposedly just turned seventeen.
López wanted to grab a clump of turf and stuff it into his assistant's mouth. Could a seventeen-year-old in your family grow that big? The assistant had briefed him on André before the match—young, raw, physically gifted but inexperienced. What López had witnessed on the pitch was something entirely different: the composure before shooting, the vision when picking out passes, the ice-cold execution under pressure.
If someone had told him André was thirty-seven, not seventeen, he'd have believed them without question.
López also found himself wanting to ask the people running Real Madrid Castilla a simple question: How blind do you have to be to let a talent like this slip through your fingers? If he'd known Castilla had someone like this sitting around unwanted, he'd have sold everything he owned to sign him.
And there was one more thing that made López's blood boil.
This "kid" wasn't just physically dominant. He played dirty too—dirtier than anyone López had seen in years. His defensive anchor had been systematically destroyed in less than twenty minutes.
Just because the referee hadn't seen the dirty moves didn't mean nobody else had. That elbow André had swung during the turn—López had winced from the touchline, feeling genuine sympathy for Bardhi.
But no amount of indignation could change the facts. Atlético Madrid had turned the match around, and there was almost no time left.
After the restart, Levante threw everything forward in desperate search of an equaliser. But hasty, panic-driven football rarely worked. The formation stretched, gaps appeared, and Atlético almost capitalised twice on the counter-attack.
Fortunately for López, neither André nor Griezmann could convert their chances.
Finally, the three minutes of stoppage time expired. The referee's whistle pierced the air.
Atlético Madrid 2-1 Levante.
Three points secured at the Wanda Metropolitano.
The results from other matches brought mixed news for Atlético.
The good news: Sevilla, who had been breathing down their necks in the table, were upset 2-0 by Athletic Bilbao—a team languishing near the relegation zone. It was the biggest shock of the round.
The bad news: Barcelona had also won, maintaining their five-point cushion at the top of the table.
The day after the Levante match, Simeone gathered his coaching staff in his office to study the upcoming schedule and discuss tactics.
"Diego, I don't think we can continue like this." Burgos leaned forward in his chair, expression serious. "We can't be successful on all three fronts. We need to focus on the league and the Champions League. The Copa del Rey should be sacrificed."
He spread his hands. "I don't see any benefit in paying a huge price to fight for a trophy that's ultimately... dispensable."
"I agree with Germán," Vivas nodded. "We're stretched too thin."
Simeone drummed his fingers on the desk. "But this is temporary. Don't you want to achieve the treble? The historic treble?"
"Diego." Burgos's voice was patient but firm. "You saw yesterday's match. If it weren't for André coming off the bench, we might have lost to Levante. We'd be trailing Barcelona by eight points instead of five. Halfway through the season, eight points can become an uncrossable chasm."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"What Atlético Madrid desires most right now isn't a treble. It's the league title. Or the Champions League. Those are the prizes that matter."
Simeone fell into a long silence.
He knew his old friend was right. Atlético's hunger for the league championship was immense—the weight of years without lifting that trophy, the constant shadow of Barcelona and Real Madrid looming over them. The Copa del Rey was prestigious, but it wasn't the obsession.
"Alright." Simeone exhaled heavily. "I accept the suggestion. We'll sacrifice the second leg of the Copa. I'll field substitutes and some players from the B team." He held up a finger. "However—if we somehow win, I won't give up on the next round. If we reach the quarter-finals, that changes things."
The facts, however, would disappoint him.
A few days later, the second leg of the Copa del Rey fifth round kicked off at the Wanda Metropolitano.
Atlético Madrid, fielding a mixture of reserves and youth players, faced a full-strength Girona FC. The outcome felt inevitable before kick-off.
Final score: Atlético Madrid 2-3 Girona.
On aggregate: 3-4.
Atlético Madrid's Copa del Rey journey was over.
Despite the elimination, the result was expected. The supporters understood the calculation. With the league at its halfway point, deliberately sacrificing the Copa allowed the team to focus all their energy on the competitions that truly mattered: La Liga and the Champions League.
The passion Atlético fans held for the league title was difficult to overstate. And the Champions League—the ultimate prize in European football—beckoned from the horizon.
Some dreams were worth more than others.
Three days after the Copa exit, the twentieth round of La Liga arrived.
Atlético Madrid travelled to face Huesca, who sat rock-bottom of the table. Simeone rested André for most of the match, only bringing him on in the final minutes to maintain his rhythm.
Griezmann was in spectacular form. A hat-trick—headers and strikes with both feet—dismantled Huesca completely.
Final score: Atlético Madrid 3-0 Huesca.
Another three points. Another statement of intent.
Unfortunately, the mountain looming above them refused to crumble.
Barcelona won again, denying Atlético any chance to close the gap. And there was another complication: Real Madrid, after their poor start to the season, had found their footing under Solari. Before this round, they'd been level with Sevilla on 33 points. This round, they demolished Sevilla 2-0 at the Bernabéu, climbing to third place.
After twenty rounds, the La Liga table told a clear story:
Barcelona sat top with 46 points. Atlético Madrid were second with 41. Real Madrid had surged to third with 36. Sevilla, suddenly looking tired, clung to fourth with 33.
In the aftermath, Marca declared openly what everyone already knew: the title race was a three-horse affair.
Sevilla, despite their decent points total, had shown signs of fatigue just as the second half of the season began. The newspaper's football analysts believed they'd effectively lost their right to compete for the championship.
The conclusion was straightforward: if none of the top three stumbled, the direct clashes between Barcelona, Atlético Madrid, and Real Madrid would decide everything.
The real battles were still to come.
Show Some By Powerstones
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones