The minutes stretched. Che remained on the bench, watching Montevideo create chances that wouldn't convert, absorbing pressure from Rivergate's counters that threatened but didn't finish. His legs were restless, bouncing against the wet aluminum seat. Every clearance, every turnover, every moment where his teammates struggled to maintain possession with ten men—he saw the spaces where he could help, the passes he could make, the angles that would open if he was out there.
Álvarez turned toward the bench, and Che sat up straighter, ready. But the assistant coach's eyes moved past him, landing on another substitute—Juárez, a midfielder who'd been sitting three seats down.
"Juárez, warm up."
Che's chest tightened. He looked toward Ramón, who was standing in the technical area, arms crossed, watching the match without glancing back at the bench. The head coach's focus was entirely on the pitch, his expression unreadable.
Juárez jogged past Che toward the open space behind the bench, beginning his warm-up routine. Che watched him go, confusion settling alongside the eagerness that hadn't diminished. He'd been approved. He was here. Why wasn't he going on?
The substitution board went up minutes later. Vargas's number displayed—coming off. Juárez stripping off his warm-up top, preparing to enter.
Not Che. Juárez.
The midfielder jogged onto the pitch, exchanging a quick word with Vargas as they passed. The formation adjusted slightly—Juárez slotting into central midfield beside Matías, providing fresh legs in an area where exhaustion was becoming visible.
Che sat back down, his hands gripping the edge of the bench. He understood tactics, understood that coaches made decisions based on what they saw unfolding. But the confusion remained—he'd transformed the Maldonado match when he entered. His teammates had fought harder after his arrival on the bench today. Why keep him waiting?
He looked toward Ramón again, but the coach's attention was locked on the pitch. No acknowledgment. No explanation.
"You'll get on," García said quietly beside him. "Coach knows what he's doing."
Che nodded but didn't respond. His eyes tracked every movement on the pitch—Matías winning possession, Cabrera's positioning on the right, Juárez settling into the rhythm. He was analyzing, processing, preparing for whenever the call came.
The eagerness hadn't faded. If anything, watching without playing intensified it. His mind was mapping out what he'd do the moment he touched the ball—the first pass he'd make, the spaces he'd exploit, the teammates he'd connect with. The System was already showing him patterns, highlighting weaknesses in Rivergate's shape that were invisible to everyone else.
But for now, he remained on the bench. Waiting.
Montevideo won a corner after Cabrera's cross was deflected out by Vega. The entire squad pushed forward—even Luna from his left-back position, knowing they needed something, anything to level the match with time running short.
The delivery came from Cabrera, curling toward the near post with pace that made it dangerous despite the wet conditions. Bodies converged in the six-yard box—Fernández, Álvarez, Mendoza, Soria, all jumping simultaneously.
The ball deflected off Soria's shoulder, changing trajectory completely. It looped toward the far post where Benítez had positioned himself, unmarked in the chaos. The striker didn't have time to set himself—just reacted, getting his head to it, redirecting it toward goal from three meters out.
Gutiérrez was scrambling, his positioning wrong after the deflection. He dove desperately, arm outstretched, but the angle was impossible. The ball crossed the line before his hand could reach it.
Rivergate 2 - 2 Montevideo
Benítez turned, arms raised, sprinting toward the corner flag. His teammates converged on him—not just celebration but release of everything they'd been holding back. Matías was shouting, Fernández punching the air, even Juárez—who'd been on the pitch for barely five minutes—was joining the surge of energy.
On the bench, Che was on his feet, hands raised, shouting with the rest of the substitutes. The goal wasn't just an equalizer—it was validation. Proof that fighting with ten men, down a goal, against a team that should have been better, was worth something.
Montevideo's small section of supporters were screaming. The scouts in the stands were taking notes. Even Rivergate's coaches looked shaken, their comfortable lead evaporated by a team that refused to accept defeat.
The squad reset quickly, the celebration cut short by urgency. They were level now, but they wanted more. Fifteen minutes remained—time enough to push for the win.
Rivergate kicked off with visible frustration. Their earlier confidence had been replaced by something heavier—the realization that this match wasn't going according to plan. Olivera tried to organize his teammates, calling out instructions, but his voice carried strain.
The game resumed with renewed intensity. Both teams pressing, both creating half-chances that lacked the final quality. Montevideo's belief was visible in every challenge, every sprint, every refusal to give Rivergate space to breathe.
Then Álvarez turned toward the bench again. This time, his eyes found Che immediately.
"Get ready."
Che was already moving, pulling off his warm-up top before the words finished. His heart rate spiked. His hands moved to his laces, double-checking they were secure. The System activated fully, overlaying his vision with tactical information, player positioning, spaces that would exist the moment he stepped onto the pitch.
Álvarez held the substitution board, waiting for the right moment. The player coming off hadn't been announced yet—the number wasn't displayed. Ramón was beside him now, both coaches watching the play develop, calculating the exact timing.
Montevideo won a throw-in deep in Rivergate's half. The moment the ball went out of play, Álvarez raised the board.