Montevideo had managed to survive the initial waves of pressure. One goal down, but still fighting. Torres won a header near the halfway line, nodding it forward to Cabrera on the right. The midfielder controlled it, looked up, and tried to push forward. But Ibarra was already pressing him, cutting off the forward angle. Cabrera played it backward to Esteban, who attempted a long ball toward Benítez.
The pass was intercepted easily. Ramos, Maldonado's center-back, stepped in front of Benítez and headed it clear. The ball landed at Suárez's feet in the center circle.
Maldonado transitioned immediately.
Suárez took one touch forward, surveying the field. Montevideo's midfield was scrambling to recover, but they were spread thin. He played a simple pass to Peralta, who had dropped deep to receive. Peralta controlled it facing his own goal, then pivoted in one smooth motion, turning upfield.
Matías pressed him, but Peralta had already seen the option. He played a diagonal ball to Romero, who was positioned on the right side of the pitch, thirty-five meters from goal. The pass was weighted perfectly, driven and precise, covering twenty meters and bypassing Montevideo's midfield entirely.
Romero collected it with his back to goal, but his first touch was already turning him. He used the inside of his right boot to redirect the ball, pivoting 180 degrees in one movement. Now he was facing forward, and Silva—who'd been tracking back—was still five meters away.
Romero drove forward three strides. The space opened. He could see Costa making a run on the left, could see Machado positioning himself centrally, could see the gap between Montevideo's left-back Pereira and center-back Santos.
He played the pass into that channel with the outside of his right boot. The ball rolled forward, weighted perfectly for Costa's run. The left winger had timed it exactly, staying onside by inches, accelerating into the space as the ball arrived.
Pereira tried to recover, turning to chase, but Costa had two meters on him already. The winger reached the ball just inside the penalty area, took one controlling touch with his right foot, then looked up.
He didn't shoot. The angle was tight, and Rodríguez was positioned well at the near post. Instead, Costa cut the ball back with the outside of his right boot, playing it across the six-yard line toward the penalty spot.
The pass was low, driven, rolling across the face of goal.
Machado had timed his run perfectly. He'd started from deeper, reading Costa's movement before the pass was even played. Santos tried to track him, lunging to intercept, but the striker had a yard of space. Machado arrived at the penalty spot and struck it first time with his right foot, redirecting the ball toward the far post.
Rodríguez had already committed his weight to covering the near post. He dove desperately, but the angle was wrong. The ball passed him, struck the inside of the far post, and rolled into the net.
Maldonado 2 - 0
Machado turned, arms raised, sprinting toward Costa. The Maldonado players converged on them, voices rising in celebration. Their small crowd behind the goal erupted—fifty people sounding like five hundred.
On the pitch, Montevideo's players stood motionless.
Torres was at the center circle, hands on his hips, head tilted back toward the sky. Benítez stared at the ground, unmoving. Fernández slammed his fist against his thigh once—a sharp, frustrated motion—then turned to walk back into position without a word. Santos was saying something to Pereira, but the left-back wasn't responding. He just stood there, looking at the space where Costa had been when he made the cutback.
Their shoulders slumped. The tension that had kept them fighting for forty minutes drained away, replaced by something heavier. When Matías called for them to reset, his voice carried no conviction. They moved into position like people performing a task they no longer believed would matter.
On the bench, Che watched them accept defeat in real time. The System was still processing data, still highlighting patterns and tactical weaknesses, but underneath that information was a realization settling in his chest.
He hadn't known his team was this bad.
In training, they'd looked competent. They'd executed drills, maintained possession in controlled environments, understood the tactical concepts Ramón taught them. But here, against real opposition—against a team that pressed with coordination and purpose, that moved the ball with surgical precision, that had a player like Romero dictating every attacking sequence—they were exposed. Not just outclassed. Overwhelmed.
The referee glanced at his watch and raised his arm, signaling additional time before halftime.
Montevideo kicked off. Torres touched it back to Matías, who immediately played it sideways to Vargas. No urgency. No intent. Just moving the ball because that's what you did after conceding. Vargas took one touch, looked up, saw no options, and played it backward to Santos.
The center-back held it for a moment, then launched it long downfield—a hopeful ball toward Torres that had no real thought behind it. The pass sailed over everyone and rolled out for a Maldonado goal kick.
Méndez, the goalkeeper, took his time collecting the ball. Why rush? His team was up two goals with minutes left in the half. He placed it carefully for the goal kick, adjusted his gloves, then finally played it short to Ramos.
Maldonado began building from the back again, patient and controlled. Montevideo pressed half-heartedly. When Pereira stepped forward to challenge Costa, the winger simply played it backward to Ibarra. When Matías tried to close down Romero, the midfielder just rolled the ball to Suárez and repositioned himself in a different pocket of space.
The final minutes felt longer than the first forty combined. Montevideo chasing without belief, Maldonado controlling without effort.
Finally, the referee blew his whistle.
HALFTIME: Maldonado 2 - 0 Montevideo
Montevideo's players walked toward the touchline like they were leaving something that had already ended. Matías was staring at his boots. Torres had his jersey pulled up over his face, wiping sweat. Fernández was the only one making eye contact with Ramón, but even his expression carried defeat.
Ramón gathered them near the technical area. His jaw was tight, his clipboard gripped in one hand. When he spoke, his voice was controlled but carried an edge.
"Two goals. That's all. We've been down before. We've come back before."
Nobody responded. The silence was heavy.
"I know what you're thinking," Ramón continued. "You're thinking it's over. You're thinking they're better. Maybe they are. But we still have forty-five minutes, and I'm not watching my team quit."
He gestured toward two players on the bench. "Álvarez, you're coming on for Santos. Center-back. Roque, you're replacing Benítez up front. We need fresh legs and someone who can hold the ball when we win it."
Santos nodded without emotion and moved toward the bench, grabbing a towel. Benítez didn't even look up. He just walked past Ramón toward the substitutes' area, his face blank.
Álvarez and Roque were already pulling off their warm-up tops, preparing to enter. Both were older—sixteen, seventeen—with the physicality Ramón clearly wanted to inject into the match.
The coach's eyes swept across the remaining substitutes. They moved past Luna, past another midfielder whose name Che hadn't learned yet, then landed on Che.
For half a second, they held.
Che's pulse spiked. His hands clenched at his sides. His entire body went taut, waiting.
Then Ramón looked away.
"Second half, we play deeper," the coach said, addressing the full squad again. "Compact defensive shape. Make them break us down instead of giving them space in transition. And when we win possession, we go direct. No buildup through the middle where they're strongest. Get it to the forwards, support immediately."
The squad nodded. Water bottles were passed around. Players stretched, some more convincingly than others. Álvarez and Roque jogged toward the pitch, speaking quietly to each other about positioning.
Ramón turned toward Montevideo's bench one more time, his expression unreadable. "We're not done. Second half, we show them we can fight."
The whistle blew, signaling the restart was imminent.
Montevideo's players moved back onto the pitch—some with renewed determination visible in their stride, others simply going through the required motions. The substitutes settled. Fresh legs, but the same tactical puzzle to solve.
On the bench, Che remained seated. His hands gripped the edge of the aluminum, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks. He watched Álvarez and Roque take their positions, watched his teammates reorganize into their adjusted shape, watched Maldonado prepare for the restart with the casual confidence of a team that knew the outcome was already decided.