The second half continued exactly as the first had ended. Maldonado controlled possession, moving the ball with the same suffocating precision. Montevideo defended deeper now, the compact shape Ramón had demanded at halftime, but they still couldn't create anything going forward. Every clearance was desperate. Every transition broke down before it began.
Álvarez, the substitute center-back, won a header from a Maldonado cross and directed it toward Roque up front. The striker tried to hold it up, his back to goal, but Ramos was already on him—physical, uncompromising. The ball bounced loose, and Suárez collected it before any Montevideo player could react.
Maldonado attacked again. Suárez to Peralta. Peralta to Romero. The attacking midfielder driving forward, Matías chasing him, always three steps behind. Romero played it wide to Costa, who cut inside and struck from distance. The shot deflected off Fernández's leg and went out for a corner.
On the bench, Che's leg was shaking. Not nervously. Just movement—his foot bouncing against the ground in rapid rhythm, his body unable to stay still. His hands gripped the edge of the seat. His eyes tracked every play, every positioning error, every missed passing lane.
Ramón stood at the edge of the technical area, arms crossed, watching. His jaw worked silently. The corner kick was cleared, but within seconds Maldonado had won possession back and were building another attack. Roque tried to press their center-backs, but he was isolated. When he committed, they just played around him.
The coach turned toward the bench, his eyes scanning the substitutes. They landed on Che.
The leg was still shaking. Che's entire body was coiled, ready. Ramón studied him for a long moment, then made a decision.
"Che," Ramón called. "Warm up."
Che was on his feet before the words finished. He grabbed a ball and moved to the open space behind the bench, beginning the routine—quick touches, turns, short sprints. His heart was already racing, but his movements stayed controlled, precise. The System hummed at the edge of his consciousness, preparing.
On the pitch, Maldonado won another corner. Costa took it, delivering a dangerous ball toward the near post. Álvarez got his head to it, clearing it out to the halfway line where it landed at Ortiz's feet. The winger controlled it and immediately began another attack.
Ramón turned back toward Che. "You're going on. Left midfield. Silva's position."
Che nodded, already pulling off his warm-up top.
"When we have the ball, you move it forward. Don't hold it. Don't try to be clever. Just get it to Roque or find space on the wing. When they have it, you track back. Understand?"
"Yes."
The fourth official was already preparing the substitution board. Silva saw it from the pitch and began jogging toward the touchline, his face showing relief at being taken off. As he approached, a voice carried across from Maldonado's bench—one of their substitutes, loud enough to be heard.
"They're bringing on a middle schooler? Already given up, huh?"
Another voice laughed. "Look at him. He's tiny. One tackle and he's done."
Romero glanced toward the touchline, taking in Che's size, and said something to Peralta that made the midfielder grin. On the pitch, Machado was openly smiling, shaking his head.
Che stood at the touchline, waiting for the referee's signal. The mockery washed over him without sticking. His hands weren't shaking. His breathing was steady. The System was active now, already processing information, already showing him the gaps in Maldonado's shape.
The referee waved him on.
Che jogged onto the pitch, and the difference was immediate and visible. He looked small—genuinely small, not just young. Against sixteen and seventeen-year-olds who'd filled out with height and muscle, Che looked like he'd wandered onto the wrong field. His frame was compact, his shoulders narrow, his legs thin. One of Maldonado's defenders said something to Ramos, and both center-backs laughed.
But Che's positioning was already correct. He moved into the left midfield space, reading where the ball would be before it arrived. Matías glanced at him, gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Roque called out from up front—"Vamo', let's go!"—trying to inject energy into the team.
Maldonado had possession. Peralta was bringing the ball forward through the center, surveying his options. He saw Che—new, small, unfamiliar—and immediately decided to test him. He played the ball toward Che's zone, where Ortiz was positioned on the right wing.
Ortiz received it and tried to cut inside, expecting Che to be slow in closing the space. But Che was already moving. He'd read the pass before it was played, had positioned himself to cut off the inside lane. Ortiz had to adjust, pushing the ball wider than he wanted, and suddenly the space he'd expected wasn't there.
The winger played it backward to Acosta under pressure. Maldonado reset, but something had shifted. Che wasn't passive. He was reading the game.
Acosta played it inside to Suárez, who immediately looked for Romero. The attacking midfielder dropped deep to receive, and Che tracked him. Not pressing aggressively, just staying close enough to deny him the easy turn. When Romero collected the ball, Che was already in his space, forcing him to play it backward instead of forward.
The ball went back to Ramos, who launched it long toward Machado. Álvarez won the header, directing it toward midfield where Matías collected it. For the first time in the second half, Montevideo had possession in a position where they could actually build something.
Matías turned, saw Che positioned on the left, and played it to him. The pass was slightly behind, forcing Che to adjust.
His first touch came with Costa already pressing from behind. Che could feel the defender closing, could hear his footsteps. The System showed him two options: play it safe backward to Pereira, or turn and advance.
He turned.
The ball stuck to his boot as he pivoted, using his body to shield it from Costa's challenge. The touch took him away from the pressure, and suddenly he was facing forward with space opening in front of him. His face split into a smile—not calculated, not controlled, just pure instinct.
Costa tried to recover, lunging to win it back, but Che was already accelerating into the space, the ball moving with him like it was connected by a string.
Romero was tracking back, recognizing the danger. Suárez was shifting position. But for the first time all match, Montevideo had the ball in transition with a player moving forward who could actually see what needed to happen next.
Che pushed the ball three meters forward, his eyes already reading the positioning of his teammates, the gaps in Maldonado's defensive shape, the angles that were about to open.
The game continued around him, but for this moment, he was exactly where he needed to be.