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After Oviedo's tactical adjustment, Granada's dominance on the pitch began to fade.
The two sides traded possession in midfield, neither able to find a breakthrough. It was a chess match, move and counter-move, with the ball ping-ponging between the two teams without ever really threatening either goal.
Even when André dropped deep to help in midfield, the situation barely improved. There were simply too many bodies in the central areas now—ten outfield players from both teams crammed into a narrow strip of grass, fighting for every inch. Martínez had clearly done his homework on Oviedo. He knew exactly how dangerous André could be, so whenever the striker received the ball after dropping back, at least two Granada players immediately swarmed him. If they couldn't win the ball cleanly, they fouled him to break his rhythm.
The tactical battle between the two managers was perhaps the only highlight of the match so far. Despite the intensity, neither side was creating clear-cut chances.
The busiest person on the pitch, however, was the referee.
André picked himself up off the turf for what felt like the hundredth time, spreading his arms wide in disbelief at the official.
After a moment's hesitation, the referee blew his whistle—foul on Granada.
The hesitation was understandable. The scene on the pitch was somewhat comical. André, the player who'd been fouled, looked completely fine. Meanwhile, the Granada player who'd committed the foul was writhing on the ground, clutching his stomach and howling in agony.
The thing was, André had lost count of how many times he'd been hacked down in the past ten minutes. It was starting to annoy him. So this time, when he went down in the referee's blind spot, his right hand had swung just a little too wide—coincidentally connecting with his marker's stomach.
André had already decided: even if the referee somehow saw it, he would deny everything. Which was why he was now staring at the official with the most innocent expression he could muster.
"Did you do that on purpose?" Saúl jogged over, eyebrows raised. He hadn't seen clearly what happened, but the opponent's agonised screaming sounded pretty genuine. He knew immediately that André must have played dirty again.
"What? No! I didn't do anything." André's voice was pure indignation. "Wasn't me. I didn't touch him. Are you blind? I was the one who got fouled!"
Saúl rolled his eyes. If they weren't in the middle of a match, he would've flipped André off right there.
Every Oviedo player knew the truth about their young striker by now. André might look like a simple-minded giant—all brawn, no brain—but anyone who underestimated him was in for a nasty surprise. Almost everyone in Oviedo's defensive line had learned this the hard way during training. The kid always knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum pain.
Hierro had eventually been forced to implement a strict rule: André was forbidden from taking cheap shots at his own teammates during practice. Any violation resulted in an automatic fine. It was the only way to keep the training sessions from turning into a warzone.
After Granada's medical staff spent a few minutes treating the stricken player, he finally limped back onto the pitch—shooting André a murderous glare as he went.
The thirty-eighth minute. A free kick for Oviedo.
The position wasn't ideal—at least thirty-five yards out, and the angle was wide, from deep in the left half-space. A direct shot on goal was basically impossible from there.
André exchanged a few words with Saúl, then jogged toward the penalty area like he was planning to attack a high ball.
Oviedo's attacking free kicks were usually Saúl's responsibility. The winger stood over the ball now, frowning, eyes scanning the box.
André caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up.
Saúl took a deep breath. He'd seen André's set-piece ideas work before. Time to trust him again.
He began his run-up.
At that exact moment, something unexpected happened. Instead of charging forward into the crowded penalty area like everyone anticipated, André suddenly reversed direction—accelerating backward, away from goal, toward the edge of the box.
Montero, who was supposed to be marking him, hesitated. Maybe he was still feeling the effects of André's earlier "accidental" stomach punch. Whatever the reason, he didn't track André's run immediately. By the time he tried to follow, he found himself blocked by the surge of bodies rushing toward the near post.
Saúl's right foot connected with the ball.
The direction made him turn pale with shock.
Instead of the high, looping cross everyone expected, the ball flew low and fast—a driven pass along the ground, skimming toward the edge of the area. It looked, for all the world, like a complete miskick.
But the ball was moving with purpose.
It reached André's feet in an instant. He was completely unmarked—the only player in that pocket of space, with every Granada defender having committed to the aerial battle in the box. Calm as you like, André controlled the ball, took a touch to set himself, and then swung his right leg.
The inside of his foot met the ball cleanly, curling it up and over the wall of defenders, bending it toward the far corner.
Everyone had been fooled. Montero was ten yards away, still trying to disentangle himself from the crowd. Rui Silva, Granada's goalkeeper, had positioned himself for a cross and was now desperately shuffling across his line, diving to his right.
Too late.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net.
1-0.
André sprinted straight to the touchline and scooped Hierro off his feet, lifting the manager into the air like he weighed nothing.
"Put me down!" Hierro shouted, legs dangling. "Put me down right now, you idiot!"
"Boss! How was that? Great idea, right?"
"Yes, yes, very good—now put me down!"
André finally lowered him to the ground, grinning like a maniac. The other Oviedo players mobbed him immediately.
"Get off! All of you!" André was laughing and shouting at the same time. "Whoever's grabbing my thigh is dead after the match! Stop—who's pulling my shorts?!"
More than a dozen players—including several from the bench who'd sprinted over—were reaching for him, hands everywhere, the celebration turning into something closer to a mugging.
The referee eventually intervened, waving everyone back to their positions. Even the Granada supporters in the stands were laughing. The official himself was trying to hide a smirk.
André was left sitting on the ground, looking thoroughly violated. His shorts had been yanked halfway down. The small braid he'd tied his hair into had come completely undone, leaving his locks scattered across his face. His shirt was twisted around his torso.
He looked, frankly, like he'd been ravaged by a mob.
"Boss," André called out plaintively, still on the ground. "They were bullying me."
"Get up," Hierro said, already walking away. "The referee's coming. I can't help you."
He shook his head as he went. This idiot. Why does he use those dirty tricks in training? If he doesn't use them against opponents, who's he supposed to use them against? I taught him this as a secret weapon, and he turned it into his regular style. He brought this upon himself.
André's goal shifted the momentum of the match completely.
This game mattered to both teams—three points were desperately needed on each side. But now that Granada had fallen behind, playing defensively made no sense for them. They had to attack, had to commit numbers forward, had to take risks.
Oviedo, on the other hand, could afford to be patient. Sit deep. Absorb pressure. Wait for counter-attacking opportunities.
The trap had been set.
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