Why call him a team cancer?
Look, people have seen players get red cards—it's part of the game. But have you ever seen someone get sent off in less than five minutes after coming on as a substitute? And not just once or twice, either. According to the memories Marcus dug through, since André had joined Castilla, he'd played a total of twelve matches between starts and substitute appearances. He'd been sent off in ten of them. In three of those ten dismissals, he'd been sent off in under five minutes. Once, for reasons lost to history, he'd even spat directly in the referee's face.
And that wasn't even the most bizarre part. The weirdest bit? You could apparently get sent off during a training match.
Christ. This guy was clinging to the thickest leg in football yet doing the stupidest things imaginable. He'd been handed a god-tier start in life and somehow managed to turn it into an absolute disaster. He didn't seem like Cristiano's younger cousin—he seemed more like the biological brother of Italy's Mario Balotelli. Just like today: because someone didn't pass him the ball during training, he'd gone up and absolutely flattened them. Even the assistant coach, who'd been acting as temporary referee, caught a left hook to the jaw when he tried to break it up.
Honestly? Marcus was quite envious of André's combat prowess. The guy could throw hands.
But what now? Didn't every transmigration protagonist in every web novel come standard-issue with some kind of cheat system? Where the hell was his?
Thinking about this, André—no, Marcus—no, wait, that wasn't right either. Forget it. He'd just go by André from now on. It felt weird calling himself Marcus in this body. He'd taken over the guy's life; might as well use his name. Though this guy's name was a bit of a headache. Cristiano Ronaldo got shortened to CR7, so based on his full name—André Cristiano—people might call him... what, AC? AR7? Damn. Neither sounded particularly great.
Thinking about the system issue, André immediately jumped out of bed with renewed determination.
Tragedy struck.
The soul was Marcus's, and he still wasn't fully adapted to this freakishly powerful body. His left foot tangled with his right, and he went down face-first onto the floor with an almighty crash.
At that exact moment, the door swung open.
Holy shit.
Looking at the person who walked in, André froze. Bloody hell. The legend himself.
"André, what are you doing?"
"Oh, uh, nothing. Dropped something on the floor. Just looking for it. Cousin, why are you here?"
Damn, he was genuinely stunned by his own fluent Portuguese. Even if football didn't work out, couldn't he make decent money as a Portuguese translator back in England?
After scrambling up from the floor like an idiot, André carefully maneuvered his unfamiliar body over to the bed and sat down. This body really did need time to adjust. Otherwise, he was going to keep looking like a complete muppet.
The visitor was André's cousin, Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro—the CR7 known to football fans worldwide. He was the only reason André, despite being an absolute cancer to the team, could still remain at Castilla.
"André, if Aunt Maria saw your room like this, you'd get an earful."
"I'll clean it up in a bit."
André suppressed the deep-seated urge in Marcus's soul to ask for an autograph and a photo. He couldn't help it—this was baggage carried over from his previous life as a football-obsessed kid.
"André, I heard you got into another fight today. And you even punched the assistant coach. André, you can't keep doing this. Today, that—"
"I'm sorry, Cristiano."
"Huh? What did you say?"
Cristiano stopped mid-sentence, genuinely stunned. In all the time he'd known his cousin, this was the first time André had ever said the word "sorry."
"I said, I'm sorry. It was my fault."
"Are you feeling alright?"
Cristiano studied him with a look that bordered on concern. Why was his cousin looking at him with such a strange expression?
"André, Aunt Maria asked me to look after you. Your talent is genuinely incredible, but you really need to get that temper under control. André, Mr. Zidane spoke to me today. Your youth contract with Castilla is about to expire, and the team isn't going to renew it. Do you have any plans?"
"I... I don't know."
Hearing Cristiano say this, André felt like he'd been slapped. Damn. The golden ticket wasn't working anymore. He'd thought he was about to turn over a new leaf, immediately reform himself, and ride this nepotism straight to the top. He had the whole redemption arc script ready to go, but now the director was saying they'd pulled the plug on filming.
"I'm leaving this place too, so... André, I'm sorry."
"Huh? Cousin, you're leaving Real Madrid?"
After hearing Cristiano's words, André—who'd been staring at his feet—looked up sharply in surprise. Wait. It wasn't that the director didn't want to film. It was that the investor had pulled the funding entirely.
"Yes, the contract's already finalized. It'll probably be announced in a few days. How about you come with me? No matter what, if you're with me, I can look after you properly."
"Cousin, where are you going?"
"Italy. Juventus. Don't tell anyone yet."
"Right, yeah, I won't say anything."
"Come with me to Italy. When we get there, I'll see about getting you into the Juventus youth academy or sorting something else out. But André, no more fighting. Control that temper."
"Cristiano, don't worry. I won't fight anymore. I'll take football seriously. I promise."
No matter how much trouble he'd caused before, André had never apologized to Cristiano. Never. He'd always made excuses, always deflected blame. But today was different. If it weren't for the fact that it was still the same body sitting in front of him, Cristiano would've sworn this wasn't his cousin.
Still, seeing this desire to change—to actually reform—made him genuinely happy.
What Cristiano didn't know was that an entirely different soul now resided in his cousin's body.
"I've already spoken to the club. You don't need to participate in training for the next few days. Pack your things. Go out for a walk if you want. Once I've got everything sorted here, you'll leave with me."
"Okay."
Whatever. Since he didn't know what else to do, he might as well follow the legend. Given the grudges André had racked up at Castilla, God only knew how things would end if he stayed here alone. After Marcus's previous experience at that dodgy English academy, sticking close to Cristiano and heading to Italy seemed like the safest bet.
For the next while, Cristiano chatted with André about things back home in Portugal. It was clear that Cristiano genuinely cared about his cousin, and not just because Aunt Maria had asked him to. Actually, it made sense: Cristiano was already in his thirties, while André was only sixteen. Their relationship wasn't exactly brotherly in the traditional sense. Most of the time, Cristiano acted more like a mentor—or even a father figure.
Digging through André's memories, Marcus found countless instances of Cristiano looking after him, helping him, bailing him out of trouble.
"I'm heading back now. Remember—don't cause any more trouble these last few days. And call home when you get a chance. I rang Aunt Maria the day before yesterday, and she mentioned you haven't called in ages. André, that's not good."
"Oh, yeah, I'll call her later."
Watching Cristiano leave, André let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He'd been terrified Cristiano would notice something was off.
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