Maldonado's rhythm returned like a tide reclaiming the shore. They'd absorbed Montevideo's brief surge and were now reasserting control with calculated precision. Romero dropped deeper to collect possession, directing traffic with calm authority. Peralta and Suárez provided constant support angles. The ball moved across their backline and through midfield with the same suffocating patience that had dominated the first half.
Montevideo's players were slowing. Not dramatically—not collapsing—but the sharpness that had appeared after Che's substitution was dulling. Legs that had sprinted with renewed purpose ten minutes ago now moved a half-step slower. Defensive recoveries took longer. Pressing became more selective, more cautious.
Che received the ball on the left side, thirty meters from goal, with space to turn. He pivoted, saw Roque making a run through the center, and played the pass—weighted perfectly, curling around Ramos's positioning, arriving exactly where the striker needed it.
But Roque's first touch was heavy. The ball bounced ahead of him instead of sticking, and by the time he recovered it, Navarro had stepped across to dispossess him. Another opportunity wasted.
Che watched the attack break down, understanding what he was seeing. His passes were still precise—the System confirmed it, showing him the optimal angles and weights—but his teammates weren't reaching them with the same urgency. Their movements were predictable now, their positioning readable. Fatigue was making them slower to react, slower to adjust.
Matías called for the ball in midfield, and when Che played it to him, the midfielder's first touch was loose. Peralta intercepted before Matías could recover, and Maldonado transitioned immediately.
On Maldonado's bench, the assistant coach—a younger man, maybe thirty, wearing the team's tracksuit—was gesturing animatedly, speaking to the head coach.
"He's just dribbling," the assistant said, loud enough to carry across the technical area. "That pass before? Luck. Their striker did nothing with it anyway. Look at them—they're tired. One more goal and this is over."
The head coach—the older man with gray hair who'd been calm all match—turned his head slowly, fixing his assistant with a look that carried weight.
"If that boy was on our team," the head coach said quietly, "we'd be winning six-nil. Maybe more."
The assistant's expression shifted to confusion. "What? He's just—"
"It's not his passes that are the problem," the head coach interrupted. "Look at his teammates. They're exhausted. And most of them aren't good enough even when they're fresh. But him?" He gestured toward Che, who was tracking back to help defend. "He sees things they don't. He creates things from nothing. If he had players around him who could finish what he starts, this match would already be decided."
The assistant fell silent, watching Che position himself defensively as Maldonado built another attack.
Romero collected the ball in the center circle, turned away from Vargas's press, and played it wide to Ortiz on the right. The winger drove at Pereira, forcing the left-back to backpedal. Ortiz cut inside, creating space, then played a diagonal ball toward Machado, who had dropped deeper to receive.
The striker controlled it with his back to goal, Álvarez pressing him from behind. Machado tried to turn, but the defender held firm, not committing to a reckless challenge. The striker played it backward to Suárez, resetting the attack.
Che was tracking Romero's movement, staying close as the attacking midfielder drifted across the pitch. When Suárez played the ball to Romero, Che was already there, denying him the easy turn. Romero had to play it backward again, and for a moment, Maldonado's rhythm was disrupted.
But only for a moment.
Ramos collected the ball at the back and switched play with a long diagonal to Costa on the left. The winger controlled it cleanly and immediately attacked the space, driving at Esteban. The right-back tried to contain him, backpedaling, but Costa's acceleration forced him onto his heels.
Cabrera was tracking back to help, his legs heavy, his movements sluggish compared to the first half. He arrived at the edge of the box just as Costa cut inside, creating separation from Esteban. The winger shaped to shoot, and Cabrera lunged to block.
His timing was wrong. His legs were too slow. Instead of intercepting the shot, his trailing leg caught Costa's shin just as the winger was pulling the trigger.
Costa went down, arms raised immediately, his shout carrying across the pitch. The referee's whistle sounded—sharp, decisive, cutting through everything.
Penalty.
Cabrera stood there, hands on his head, knowing what he'd done. His legs had betrayed him—fatigue turning a defensive action into a foul. The referee was already reaching into his pocket, pulling out the yellow card, showing it clearly.
Cabrera accepted it without protest. What could he say? The contact had been obvious. The timing had been late. He jogged toward his defensive position, avoiding eye contact with his teammates.
Che watched the scene unfold, his chest tight. They'd fought back. They'd created chances. They'd made Maldonado work for every possession. But now, with one tired challenge, the momentum had swung completely.
Montevideo's players gathered near the edge of the box, organizing their defensive positions. Matías was speaking to Álvarez and Fernández, arranging who would challenge if the ball rebounded. Roque jogged back into the box, positioning himself to potentially counter if they won possession.
Rodríguez stood on his goal line, bouncing on his toes, talking to himself in words too quiet to hear. The goalkeeper's eyes were locked on Romero, who was placing the ball on the penalty spot with deliberate care.
The Maldonado players stood near the halfway line, confident. Their small crowd behind the goal was already celebrating, anticipating what came next. A two-goal lead restored. The comfortable margin that would carry them through the final minutes.
The referee checked that everyone was in position, raised his whistle, and blew it once.
Romero began his run-up.
Three strides, building momentum, his eyes on Rodríguez. The goalkeeper shifted his weight, trying to read the intention, trying to guess left or right.