André, playing football happily by himself like a kid who'd found a new toy, kept excitedly working the ball at his feet—stepovers, feints, little flicks and touches.
At that moment, Hierro walked over involuntarily.
"Are you a player for Castilla?"
The excited André finally stopped juggling the ball after hearing the voice, only then noticing someone had approached him. The person spoke in Spanish. Though André could understand it through his inherited memories, he couldn't speak it fluently. Since arriving in Spain, André had never managed to learn Spanish properly, which was one of the reasons he'd found it so hard to integrate into the team.
Moreover, André found the guy standing in front of him looked somewhat familiar. After frowning and thinking for a moment, he finally realized who it was. In his excitement, he blurted out in Portuguese without thinking.
"You're Fernando Hierro! I'm a Castilla player. I'm so happy to meet you. Sorry, I don't speak Spanish."
André finally caught himself and quickly switched to English to explain.
"It's alright. I speak Portuguese as well." Hierro could see that while this massive teenager looked quite mature—intimidating, even—he wasn't actually that old.
"You said you're a Castilla player, so why aren't you training with your teammates? Why are you out here practicing alone?" Hierro asked.
"I was a Castilla player. Won't be for much longer, though. My contract's expired, and they're not planning to renew it."
"What did you say? They're not renewing your contract?"
Hierro was genuinely stunned. A genius with absolute ball sense, and Castilla wasn't planning to renew? To Hierro, this sounded like an absolutely insane joke. He couldn't wrap his head around it at all.
Had the standards at Castilla become impossibly high? Or were geniuses like this one absolutely everywhere now?
No. That wasn't right. He knew the Real Madrid B Team players reasonably well, and there were definitely no geniuses with absolute ball sense among them.
Furthermore, since Hierro had become a professional footballer decades ago, the number of people he'd encountered with absolute ball sense didn't exceed the fingers on both hands. And all of them had become superstars. Every single one.
"Can you tell me your name? How old are you?"
"Oh, I'm André Cristiano dos Santos Cleto. Portuguese. Sixteen years old. I'll be seventeen in 172 days."
"How old did you say?"
"Sixteen."
Hierro was shocked all over again. Mainly because André absolutely didn't look it. Bloody hell, people would believe it if he said he was twenty-six. Hierro genuinely wanted to ask what this kid had been eating growing up to end up built like this at sixteen. He'd looked massive from a distance, but seeing him up close? The lad was practically a human dinosaur.
"Your name is André Cristiano. What's your relationship with Cristiano Ronaldo?"
"He's my cousin. My mum and his mum are sisters."
"Ah, I know who you are now. You're the kid who's always getting red cards."
Bloody hell. Has my reputation spread this far?
Hearing Hierro mention his disciplinary record, André felt a bit deflated. This guy was legendary, a Real Madrid icon, and this was what he knew André for? Christ, the man was terrible at small talk.
"André, your talent is genuinely excellent. But you need to watch that temper on the pitch."
"I know. Cristiano said the same thing. I'll definitely be more careful going forward."
Actually, after fully absorbing the memories in this body, André realized it wasn't that the original occupant had been a psychopath or operated on some alien logic. When he'd first arrived at Castilla, he'd been valued because of his physical talent and naturally became a key focus for the academy. This, in turn, made some people jealous. Resentful.
Later, those players began intentionally isolating him. Due to the language barrier, he'd gradually become more and more unsociable. The lonelier he became, the more desperately he wanted opportunities to prove himself. And that's when those same players started deliberately provoking him.
The result was... well, what you'd expect.
"So what are you planning to do next? Still going to follow Cristiano?"
"Huh?"
Wait. Didn't CR7 say to keep that quiet?
"Don't look at me like that. Cristiano leaving is something a lot of people know about."
"He asked me to go with him to Italy. I don't really have anywhere else to go, so I figured I'd just tag along."
"André, you're a genius. A true genius. Why don't you come with me instead?"
Hierro had made his decision. He wanted to take this genius away. There might have been some dodgy rumors about the kid's behavior, sure, but Hierro didn't want to miss out on a player with absolute ball sense.
Actually, he'd been debating internally whether to tell Zidane about this discovery or say nothing at all. Hierro genuinely believed there must be something he didn't know—some piece of the puzzle he was missing. Because in a place like Castilla, it was impossible for professional coaches not to discover a genius like this. If they had discovered him, they would've done absolutely everything possible to protect such a player.
"Go with you? Mr. Hierro, are you a coach now?"
"Haven't you been following the news? I just took over as head coach of Real Oviedo."
"Real Oviedo?"
André began thinking. What the hell kind of team is that? Why haven't I heard of it? He vaguely remembered there was no team by that name in La Liga.
"It's a Segunda División club. But don't look down on it—it's a team with a very long history in Spain. Just going through some difficulties at the moment. What do you say, André? I don't think it's good for you to always be following behind Cristiano. Other people won't value you—they'll mostly just think of you as Cristiano's kid cousin. Stay here. Come with me. I'll personally coach you and give you match time. Real matches are the best place for a player to learn. Always have been."
To be honest, André was tempted. When Cristiano had asked him to come to Italy, he'd been reluctant deep down, but he hadn't had any other options. Plus, after transmigrating into this body, he still hoped in his heart to become a professional footballer. Following Cristiano had seemed like the only path.
But now, hearing what Hierro was saying, he felt that staying in Spain might not be a bad choice at all.
"Alright, Mr. Hierro. I'm willing to go to Oviedo. But I have to tell Cristiano first."
"No problem. I'll come with you."
André brought Hierro to Cristiano's luxury villa in Madrid. Actually, in André's inherited memories, the original owner rarely came here. Most of the time, he'd stayed at the Castilla dormitories.
"What? Mr. Hierro, you're saying you want to take André to Oviedo? Why?"
Cristiano was genuinely baffled.
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