Che dropped onto the bench beside the other substitutes, chest heaving from the sprint across the parking area. The rain immediately soaked through his kit. Luna's replacement—another defender named García—was the first to notice him, tapping his shoulder with wide eyes.
"You made it!"
"What's the score?" Che asked, already knowing from the body language on the pitch but needing confirmation.
"Two-one. They're up. Roque got sent off—we're down to ten."
Che processed this immediately. Down a goal. Down a man. His teammates fighting against both.
The substitutes were gathering around him now—quick greetings, relief visible in their faces. On the pitch, Matías glanced toward the touchline during a break in play and saw him. The captain's expression shifted—not dramatically, just a subtle release of tension in his shoulders. He said something to Torres, who looked over and nodded.
The message spread across Montevideo's players without words being exchanged. Che was here. Not on the pitch yet, but present. Available.
Che leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching every movement with intensity. His teammates were fighting—genuinely fighting—and he could see everything they'd absorbed over the past three weeks. Matías's positioning wasn't reactive anymore. Cabrera's first touch under pressure had sharpened. Even Luna, who'd been thrown into chaos, was finding his rhythm.
"¡Vamos!" Che shouted toward the pitch. "¡Dale Montevideo!"
Matías won possession in midfield and immediately looked upfield. Torres was making a diagonal run from the right toward the center, dragging Mendoza out of position. The pass came—weighted perfectly, arriving at Torres's feet just as he reached the edge of the box.
The striker took one touch to set himself. Soria was closing from behind, but Torres had created the yard of space he needed. He struck it with his right foot, aiming for the bottom corner.
The connection was clean. The ball was low, driven, heading toward the target with pace. But the angle was slightly off—Torres had been forced wider than he'd wanted by Soria's recovery. The shot passed the near post by half a meter, rolling harmlessly out for a goal kick.
Che's hands went to his head. So close. The chance had been real, the execution nearly there, just lacking the final precision.
"Next one!" he called out. "Keep creating!"
Torres was nodding, turning back into position. No dwelling on the miss. Just reset and continue.
Rivergate tried to build from the goal kick, but Montevideo's press was immediate. When Gutiérrez rolled it to Vega, Cabrera was already closing. The right-back played it quickly to Núñez under pressure, but Vargas intercepted before the defensive midfielder could settle.
Montevideo transitioned immediately. Vargas to Matías. The captain took one touch forward, surveying options. Pereira had pushed high on the left, exploiting space that Rivergate's numerical advantage should have eliminated but hadn't. Matías played the pass—diagonal, weighted, arriving exactly where Pereira's run would meet it.
The left-back collected it in stride, now twenty meters from goal with only one defender between him and Gutiérrez. He cut inside, creating separation from Castro, and struck with his weaker right foot.
The shot was powerful, rising toward the top corner. Gutiérrez read it instantly, his positioning already anticipating the angle. He leaped, arms fully extended, and got both hands to it. The save was spectacular—not lucky, just perfectly positioned and timed. The ball deflected over the crossbar.
Montevideo's small section of supporters groaned collectively. Another chance. Another moment where everything was right except the final execution.
Che was on his feet now, clapping. "That's it! That's the quality! Keep going!"
The corner was taken quickly by Cabrera, but Mendoza headed it clear before any Montevideo player could reach it. The ball went out to midfield where Ledesma collected it, and Rivergate tried to counter.
But Montevideo's recovery was immediate. Fernández stepped across to cut off Ledesma's forward pass, and the attack broke down before it could develop.
On the touchline, twenty meters from where Che sat, Ramón and Álvarez stood together in the technical area. The rain was steady, both coaches soaked through, but neither seemed to notice. Ramón had his arms crossed, watching the play develop. Álvarez was gesturing toward the pitch, making points that only Ramón could hear.
Their conversation was quiet, deliberate. The crowd noise and rain made it impossible for anyone nearby to catch words. Ramón nodded occasionally. Álvarez pointed toward Che on the bench once, then toward the players on the pitch. The head coach's expression was thoughtful, calculating something.
Whatever they were discussing, it was being kept between them. Strategic. Tactical. The kind of conversation that would only reveal itself through action.
Álvarez gestured one more time toward the pitch, emphasizing something. Ramón studied the match for another long moment, then nodded once—a decision apparently made.
But he didn't signal for a substitution yet. Just continued watching, arms still crossed, waiting for something.