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That was André's eleventh goal of the season.
Eleven goals. In just three starts.
Including his substitute appearances, André had scored in every single match he'd played. That kind of efficiency was almost unheard of—the sort of statistic that made scouts across Europe sit up and take notice.
And today's free-kick goal had added yet another weapon to his arsenal. He wasn't just a physical monster who could bully defenders and finish inside the box. He could bend a dead ball into the top corner from twenty-five yards. The kid kept revealing new layers to his game.
Less than ten minutes after the goal, Hierro made a substitution. André came off; Joselu came on.
In Hierro's mind, the logic was simple: anyone else on the team could pick up an injury, and Oviedo would cope. But André? André was irreplaceable. With his leg already bandaged from Montero's horror tackle, there was no point taking unnecessary risks.
The goal turned out to be the last of the match.
Ninety minutes of regulation time, plus four minutes of stoppage time, and the referee blew his final whistle.
Real Oviedo 2-0 Granada.
Thanks to André's brace, Oviedo were heading home with all three points.
The result sent shockwaves through the Segunda División table.
Granada, who had started the day in second place, dropped to fourth after the defeat. Málaga climbed to the summit with 38 points after winning their own fixture. Deportivo La Coruña slotted into second, and Alcorcón took third on goal difference after drawing—level on 34 points with Granada.
Oviedo, meanwhile, rose to eighth. Seven wins, six draws, five losses. Twenty-seven points. Still a long way from the promotion places, but the momentum was shifting.
In the individual scoring charts, André now sat fourth in the entire division with his eleven goals. Ahead of him were Álvaro Giménez on fourteen, Quique of Deportivo on thirteen, and Castro of Las Palmas also on thirteen.
But here was the thing that made people's jaws drop: André had the lowest playing time of anyone in the top ten. By a considerable margin. His goals-per-minute ratio was off the charts—the kind of efficiency that belonged in a video game, not real life.
The post-match press conference was predictably dominated by one topic.
Diego Martínez, Granada's manager, didn't mince words.
"I don't feel like I lost to Real Oviedo today," he said, leaning into the microphone. "I feel like I lost to André Cristiano. He's a phenomenal player. Honestly, it's a complete waste for someone with his talent to be playing in the Segunda División. If I had a player like that in my squad, the league title would already be ours."
It was high praise—perhaps suspiciously high. Hierro, watching the interview feed in a nearby room, narrowed his eyes. Was Martínez genuinely impressed, or was he trying to pile pressure on a sixteen-year-old? Build him up now, watch him crumble later?
When it was Hierro's turn to face the reporters, he kept things deliberately low-key.
"André is a very talented player, yes. But he's only sixteen years old. His career has barely begun. He still has many, many weaknesses that will take years to overcome. We're happy with his progress, but there's a long road ahead."
It was the kind of answer designed to deflect attention, to lower expectations, to protect a young player from the crushing weight of hype.
Whether it would work was another matter entirely.
After the Granada match, the Oviedo squad threw themselves into preparations for the next fixture.
André paid no attention to the outside noise—the articles, the speculation, the growing chorus of interest from bigger clubs. In truth, none of the players had time to focus on such things. Because their next opponents were Málaga.
The league leaders.
The match would be played at the Estadio Carlos Tartiere. A home fixture, at least—but against the best team in the division. Another game that neither side could afford to lose.
Thanks to André's monstrous performances, the fixture had become the focal point of the entire round. Neutrals across Spain were tuning in, eager to see if the sixteen-year-old sensation could do it again against top-level opposition.
Three o'clock in the afternoon. The Carlos Tartiere was packed.
The referee's whistle pierced the air, and the highly anticipated match began.
What followed exceeded everyone's expectations.
This was supposed to be a clash of titans—a tight, tense affair between two quality sides. Instead, it turned into a one-sided demolition.
Málaga were completely off the pace from the first minute. Whatever game plan their manager had prepared, it fell apart on contact with reality. The visitors looked sluggish, disorganised, unable to cope with Oviedo's pressing.
No matter how many adjustments the Málaga coach screamed from the touchline, nothing changed.
Twenty-third minute.
André drifted wide to the right flank, pulling Málaga's centre-backs out of position. When the ball came to him, he didn't try to beat his man one-on-one. Instead, he looked up, spotted Bargueño making a run to the back post, and floated a perfectly weighted chip over the defence.
Bargueño met it on the volley.
The net rippled.
1-0 Oviedo.
Five minutes later, Oviedo struck again.
This time it was Folch who started the move, surging forward from his defensive midfield position with uncharacteristic aggression. He carried the ball to the edge of the area and unleashed a thunderous strike.
The Málaga goalkeeper got a hand to it—just barely—but could only parry it back into the danger zone.
André was there.
He pounced on the loose ball like a predator, slotting it calmly into the corner before the defence could react.
2-0.
Less than half an hour played, and Oviedo had a two-goal cushion.
In the stands, dozens of scouts from clubs across Europe watched in stunned silence. Their cameras were trained on one player. Their notepads were filled with observations about one player.
André Cristiano. Number 19. Sixteen years old.
The professionals among them could see exactly what made him special. That impossible combination of size and technique. The way he controlled the ball like it was glued to his foot despite being built like a heavyweight boxer. And when he hit top speed—God, when he hit top speed—the sheer force of his movement was almost comical. Sánchez had once described it perfectly: if most fast wingers were sports cars, André was a European freight truck doing ninety on the motorway.
Down on the touchline, Hierro watched his team dominate... and frowned.
Sánchez noticed. "What's wrong, Fernando? We're winning. Why do you look unhappy?"
Hierro sighed. "He won't belong to Oviedo in the end. He should be on a bigger stage." He gestured vaguely toward the stands. "Do you know how many scouts are up there right now, Miguel? How many cameras are focused on him? I tried to delay this. I didn't want him starting so soon—I thought maybe we could hide him a little longer. But a genius is a genius. You can't keep the light from shining."
Sánchez put a hand on his shoulder. "Fernando, you were the one who convinced me to bring him here in the first place. Don't tell me you're the one who can't let go now." He smiled gently. "With his talent, he was never going to stay at Oviedo forever. He belongs at the big clubs, on the European stage. But right now—today—he's ours. And when he does leave, the transfer fee will benefit this club enormously. So let's just enjoy what he gives us while we have him."
Hierro was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded.
"You're right. But I don't think we'll be able to keep him past the winter window. After I rejected Juventus's offer, I'm sure more will come. And the next time Banches calls me..." He trailed off.
Sánchez groaned. "Oh God, please don't mention that money-grubbing bastard. You're ruining my good mood."
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