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After André's goal, Granada threw everything forward in search of an equaliser.
It didn't matter. Oviedo's defence held firm, denying the hosts any clear opportunities in the remaining minutes of the first half. The whistle blew, and Hierro's men trooped off the pitch with a one-goal lead intact.
The fifteen-minute halftime break passed quickly.
When the second half began, it was clear that Martínez had made changes.
The Granada manager had replaced midfielder Metrio with forward Rodri, shifting his team's formation to a 4-4-2 with a single defensive midfielder. The message was obvious: Granada were going for it. They needed goals, and they were willing to sacrifice defensive solidity to get them.
But Martínez was in for a nasty surprise.
Instead of sitting back and playing defensive counter-attacking football—exactly what everyone expected from a team protecting a lead away from home—Oviedo came out swinging. From the very first whistle of the second half, they launched wave after wave of attacks, catching Granada completely off-guard.
The single pivot in Granada's new system immediately became a problem. With only one holding midfielder, there was no one to track André when he dropped deep. Montero couldn't mark him as closely as he had in the first half—not without leaving massive gaps elsewhere. And the moment André had space to operate, the threat he posed multiplied exponentially.
Fifty-first minute.
André dropped into midfield and received a pass from Muñoz, back to goal. Two touches to control, a quick scan of the pitch—and then he unleashed a raking long ball down the left flank.
Martínez, Oviedo's right-back, had made a surging run from deep. He collected André's pass in stride, burning past Granada's full-back in a foot race, and carried the ball all the way to the byline before whipping in a cross.
Saúl met it at the near post.
His shot was good—powerful, on target—but Silva was equal to it, punching the ball away with strong fists. The clearance only went as far as the edge of the penalty area, where Quini got to it first and hacked it clear.
But the ball flew straight to André.
He was standing in almost exactly the same position as his first goal—just outside the box, slightly to the right of centre. The ball dropped kindly, and André killed it with one touch, setting himself to shoot.
Montero saw what was about to happen.
No thought in his head except one: Stop him.
He sprinted toward André and launched himself into a sliding tackle, studs up, desperate to block the shot.
André saw him coming from the corner of his eye—but his shooting motion was already halfway complete. He tried to pull out, tried to retract his swinging leg and jump clear, but Montero was too fast, too committed.
The collision was inevitable.
André went down hard, Montero's studs raking across his right calf.
FWEEEEET!
The referee's whistle cut through the air immediately. He was only ten yards away—he'd seen everything.
André sat up, wincing. There was a burning sensation running down his lower leg. When he looked down, he saw that his shin guard had been knocked sideways, and his sock had been torn. He pulled the fabric down to reveal two ugly gashes scraped across his calf, clearly caused by Montero's studs.
The players from both teams crowded around, and everyone could see the wound. The referee gestured urgently toward the touchline, and Oviedo's medical staff sprinted onto the pitch.
On the sideline, Hierro was going ballistic.
He was in the fourth official's face, finger jabbing, voice raised, demanding justice. For Hierro, losing the match would be disappointing. But if André was seriously injured? That would be a catastrophe for Oviedo's entire season.
Fortunately, after a tense thirty seconds of examination, the team doctor looked up and gave Hierro a thumbs-up gesture.
Not serious. He could continue.
The fourth official's face was spared from any further verbal assault.
Meanwhile, the referee had reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a red card and walked calmly toward Montero, ignoring the protests of the Granada players clustering around him.
The decision was obvious. Even the home supporters couldn't muster much of a boo. When the stadium's big screen showed a close-up of André's bloodied calf, any remaining complaints died in people's throats.
If André hadn't made protective movements at the last second—trying to jump clear—the damage would have been far worse than two gashes.
"How is it? Do you want to come off?" Hierro called out from the touchline as the medical staff finished bandaging André's leg.
"Boss, I'm fine. Don't sub me yet—I want to take this free kick."
"Are you sure? André, don't push it. We've got plenty of matches ahead."
"I'm fine, seriously. I know my own body." André jumped up and down on the spot, demonstrating that his leg was functional. "See? Good as new."
Hierro studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But you've got fifteen minutes, maximum. After that, you're coming off to rest. Understood?"
"Understood!"
"Go on then, you idiot."
After getting one final confirmation from the medical staff, Hierro waved André back onto the pitch.
The Granada players were already forming a wall.
Saúl stood over the ball—as he always did for Oviedo's attacking free kicks. But when André jogged over and joined him instead of heading into the box, a murmur of confusion rippled through the stadium.
André leaned in close and whispered something.
Saúl's eyes went wide. He turned to look at Hierro on the touchline. The manager nodded.
Saúl turned back to André, lowering his voice. "Are you taking revenge on me? Why are you stealing my job, you gorilla?"
Oh, you're asking for it now.
"Saúl," André said pleasantly, "I've decided. After this match, you and I are going to have a nice long chat."
"I don't care. You owe me a goal—that first one should've been my assist. So now you have to give me one back."
"Your shamelessness is genuinely impressive."
Everyone watching assumed the conversation was a smokescreen—a deliberate attempt to confuse Granada's defence. After all, Saúl always took Oviedo's free kicks. And André, with his size and build, didn't exactly look like a set-piece specialist.
"I feel like they're looking at me with contempt," André muttered.
"You can remove the 'feel like' part."
The referee blew his whistle.
André began his run-up. Silva and the Granada wall barely reacted—everyone was certain Saúl would be the one striking the ball. Sure enough, after André took a few steps, Saúl also started moving toward the ball, playing his part in the deception perfectly.
But André's run-up was precise. Measured. His left foot planted beside the ball, his right leg swung back, and then—
He didn't dummy over it as everyone expected.
He struck it. Clean and true, the inside of his right foot curling the ball up and over the wall.
By the time the Granada players realised what was happening, it was too late. Silva hadn't even begun to move. The ball sailed over the defensive barrier, dipped viciously, and flew into the top corner of the net.
2-0.
"How was that?" André spread his arms wide, grinning, then suddenly hooked his arm around Saúl's neck and dragged the smaller man into a headlock.
"Let me go!" Saúl's voice was muffled, his head trapped under André's massive arm. "I'm losing all my dignity here! André, please—my image is completely ruined!"
That's for calling me a gorilla.
André pretended not to hear. He just stood there, casually restraining Saúl like a man holding a disobedient puppy, while the rest of the Oviedo players rushed over to celebrate.
And when they arrived? They didn't help Saúl.
They piled on top of him.
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