Che pushed the ball forward three meters, his eyes already reading the field. Costa was recovering behind him, but the initial pressure had been bypassed. Ahead, Roque was making a run down the center, calling for the ball. To the right, Cabrera was positioned wide, unmarked.
But Che kept the ball, driving forward another two strides. Suárez was closing from the right side, his approach casual—containing rather than committing. He'd seen Che's size, had processed the same calculation everyone else had made: small player, minimal threat, just force him wide and cut off his options.
Peralta was shifting position to provide secondary coverage, equally relaxed. They were giving him space, almost inviting him to try something so they could dispossess him and restart their attack.
Che recognized it immediately. The System showed him their positioning, their weight distribution, the gaps between them. They weren't respecting him. That was their mistake.
He pushed the ball forward with his right foot, drawing Suárez another step closer, then chopped it back with his left, reversing direction. The touch was sharp, precise, and Suárez's momentum carried him past the space where Che now was. The defensive midfielder tried to adjust, reaching out with his leg, but Che was already accelerating into the gap.
Peralta stepped forward now, recognizing the threat too late. He committed to the challenge, but Che had already seen him coming. Another touch—this time with the outside of his right boot—took the ball around Peralta's left side. Che's body followed, slipping past the midfielder's shoulder in the tight space between him and the touchline.
Two players beaten. In three touches. In maybe four seconds.
The Maldonado bench had gone quiet. On the pitch, Romero was shouting something—"Close him! Don't let him turn!"—but the instruction came after the danger had already developed.
Che was now in space thirty meters from goal, facing forward, with options opening around him. Roque was sprinting into the channel between the center-backs. Cabrera was wide right. Matías was supporting from behind, calling for a safety pass.
But Che saw Ramos stepping forward to close him down, saw the center-back's aggressive positioning, and knew that if he held the ball one more second, the opportunity would collapse. He played it forward to Roque, a driven pass that covered fifteen meters and arrived at the striker's feet just as he was being closed down by Navarro.
Roque tried to turn, but the defender was physical—a hand on his shoulder, positioning that prevented the pivot. The striker played it backward under pressure, a hopeful ball that rolled toward Vargas near the halfway line.
Vargas controlled it, but immediately Maldonado's press collapsed on him. He played it sideways to Matías, who launched it long downfield. The ball sailed out of play for a Maldonado throw-in.
The attack had broken down, but something had changed. Montevideo's players were looking at Che differently now. Matías jogged past him and gave a small nod. Roque called out, "Again! Do that again!"
On the Maldonado side, the casual confidence had fractured slightly. Suárez was saying something to Peralta, gesturing toward where Che had turned him. Romero's expression had shifted from amusement to calculation.
Maldonado built from the throw-in, but their rhythm was different now. They still controlled possession, but there was hesitation in their movement—an awareness that Montevideo had a player who could punish transitions if they weren't careful.
Romero collected the ball in the center circle and tried to turn, but Matías was pressing him harder now, energized by what he'd just seen. The attacking midfielder played it backward to Ramos, who launched it long toward Machado.
Álvarez won the header, directing it out to the left side where Che had positioned himself. The ball landed ten meters ahead of him, bouncing awkwardly. Costa was already sprinting to close him down, determined not to be beaten again.
Che reached the ball first, his first touch killing its momentum completely. Costa arrived a split second later, but Che had already shifted the ball to his left foot, creating separation. The winger tried to adjust, but Che accelerated past him down the line, using his smaller frame to slip through the narrow space between Costa and the touchline.
He was in transition now, driving forward with space opening ahead. The System showed him everything in crystalline clarity—Maldonado's defensive shape was stretched, their center-backs positioned high, their full-backs caught between pressing forward and dropping back.
Roque was making a run through the center. Cabrera was overlapping on the right. Che pushed the ball forward five meters, drawing Acosta—Maldonado's right-back—toward him. The defender had to make a choice: commit to Che or track Cabrera's run.
He committed to Che.
The moment Acosta stepped forward, Che played the ball inside to Matías, who had continued his run into the space Acosta had vacated. The pass was weighted perfectly, arriving at Matías's feet with pace but control. The midfielder took one touch forward, now twenty-five meters from goal with options around him.
He tried to play Roque through, but Ramos intercepted—a perfectly timed challenge that deflected the ball out for a corner.
Montevideo had created their first genuine chance of the second half. The corner was cleared, but the momentum had shifted. Che's teammates were passing to him now, trusting him with the ball in ways they hadn't trusted each other.
The game compressed into a different pattern. Maldonado still dominated possession, but when Montevideo won the ball, they looked for Che immediately. He was becoming the release valve, the player who could turn defense into attack in three touches.
Fernández won a tackle in the defensive third, dispossessing Machado cleanly. He played it immediately to Che on the left, who was already moving into space. Ortiz pressed him, but Che's first touch took him away from the pressure. He drove forward five meters, drawing Suárez toward him, then played a simple pass to Roque.
The striker held it up—barely—and laid it off to Cabrera, who was arriving from the right. Cabrera struck it from distance. The shot was rising, powerful, but lacked precision. It sailed over the crossbar by two meters.
Close. But Montevideo was creating. For the first time all match, Maldonado looked concerned.
Romero was dropping deeper now, trying to orchestrate from positions where he could also help defensively. But that meant Maldonado's attacking threat was blunted. They were still controlling possession, but they weren't creating the same dangerous chances they'd produced all match.
Then Che caught them again.
Álvarez intercepted a pass intended for Machado, heading it forward into midfield. The ball landed between Che and Peralta, both arriving at the same moment. Che got there first—a half-step quicker—and immediately turned, using Peralta's momentum against him. The midfielder tried to recover, but Che was already gone, accelerating into the space with the ball at his feet.
Everything felt slower now. Not the game itself—the game was still moving at the same frantic pace. But for Che, with the System processing every detail, showing him every angle, every positioning adjustment, every passing lane before it fully opened, time seemed to stretch.
He could see Roque making a run down the right channel. Could see Matías supporting from behind. Could see Ramos stepping forward to close him down, leaving space behind. Could see Navarro shifting to cover, creating a gap between himself and Ibarra on the left.
Che played the ball into that gap with the outside of his right boot. Not to a player, but to a space where a player would be if they recognized the opportunity.
Matías saw it. The midfielder had continued his run, reading Che's intention before the pass was played. He arrived at the ball in stride, now inside Maldonado's defensive third with only one center-back to beat.
Matías drove forward three more meters, then played a square ball to Roque, who had spun off Navarro's marking and was arriving at the penalty spot. The striker took one touch to control it, then struck it with his right foot.
The shot was low, driven, aimed at the near post. Méndez dove, getting a hand to it, but the power was too much. The ball deflected off his palm and rolled into the net.
Maldonado 2 - 1 Montevideo
Roque turned, arms raised, sprinting toward the corner flag. The Montevideo players converged on him—Matías, Cabrera, Álvarez, all of them shouting, releasing everything they'd been holding back all match. Che jogged toward them, and Matías broke away from the group to reach him first, grabbing his shoulders.
"That pass!" Matías shouted. "How did you even see that?"
Che didn't answer. He just smiled.
On Maldonado's side, the celebration had died. Romero was standing at midfield, hands on his hips, staring at Che. Suárez was saying something to Peralta, both of them shaking their heads. Their coach was shouting from the sideline, gesturing for them to refocus, but the damage was done.
The small thirteen-year-old they'd mocked, the middle schooler they'd dismissed, had just created a goal that changed the entire complexion of the match.
Montevideo reset for kickoff. Their body language had transformed completely—shoulders back, heads up, voices communicating with urgency and belief. They weren't just surviving anymore. They were competing.
And Che, positioned on the left side, was exactly where he needed to be.