Rodríguez dove left.
Romero's strike was clean—low, driven, aimed for the bottom-right corner. But the goalkeeper had guessed correctly, his body already in motion before the ball left Romero's boot. His hands extended, reaching for the trajectory.
He didn't get there.
The ball struck the inside of the right post with a metallic crack that echoed across the pitch. It rebounded sharply, spinning back toward the edge of the penalty area where both Che and Romero were already moving.
Che had positioned himself at the edge of the box, anticipating the possibility. The moment the ball struck the post, he was accelerating. Romero was closer, sprinting from the penalty spot, but Che's angle was better. He reached the ball half a step ahead, his right foot making contact just as Romero arrived beside him.
Che's first touch took the ball away from Romero's challenge, rolling it forward three meters. The attacking midfielder lunged, trying to dispossess him, but Che had already turned, using his smaller frame to slip past Romero's shoulder. Now he was facing upfield, the ball at his feet, Maldonado's entire team ahead of him in transition.
And something shifted.
His vision sharpened. The noise of the crowd—the shouts, the gasps, the Maldonado coach yelling instructions—faded into background static. His legs were burning, his lungs demanding air, but underneath the fatigue was something else. An urge, pure and undeniable, rising from his chest.
The System activated fully, overlaying his vision with crystalline clarity.
Counterattack opportunity detected. All Maldonado players committed forward. Defensive shape collapsed. Exploit immediately.
Che pushed the ball forward with his right foot, accelerating into space. Fifty meters ahead, Montevideo's goal stood empty except for the celebrating players who were now turning, realizing what was happening. Roque was sprinting back, trying to support. Matías was too far behind to help.
Che was alone.
Suárez was the first to recover, sprinting from midfield to cut off the angle. He approached from Che's right side, arms wide, trying to force him toward the touchline. Che could see his positioning, could see the space closing, could see the exact moment when Suárez would commit.
Che pushed the ball forward with his right foot, drawing Suárez another step closer, then chopped it back with his left. The touch reversed his direction completely. Suárez's momentum carried him past, and Che was already accelerating again, now cutting inside toward the center of the pitch.
One.
Peralta was closing from the left, his approach more cautious after watching Suárez get beaten. He positioned himself to contain rather than commit, forcing Che to make a decision. Che pushed the ball forward with the outside of his right boot, a subtle touch that made Peralta think he was going right. The midfielder shifted his weight.
Che cut left with his next touch, using the inside of his left boot to redirect the ball across his body. Peralta lunged, but Che was already past him, the ball rolling ahead into open space.
Two.
Everything was moving in slow motion now. Not the game itself—the players were still sprinting, still shouting—but for Che, the System was processing faster than conscious thought. He could see every defender's positioning, every angle, every gap before it fully opened.
Acosta was sprinting back from his advanced position, trying to get between Che and the goal. The right-back had forty meters to cover and was closing fast. Che pushed the ball forward, building speed, his legs burning with every stride.
Acosta arrived just as Che reached the halfway line. The defender tried to step across, cutting off the direct path to goal. Che didn't slow down. He pushed the ball to his right with the outside of his boot, then immediately cut it back left with the inside of the same foot. The double touch—so quick it looked like one movement—left Acosta reaching for air. Che accelerated past him.
Three.
Ramos was abandoning his defensive position now, stepping forward to be the last line before the goalkeeper. The center-back was positioning himself carefully, not committing early, waiting for Che to make a mistake. Beside him, Navarro was recovering back, trying to provide support.
Che was thirty meters from goal now, driving forward with the ball. His vision narrowed to the space ahead—the two center-backs, the goalkeeper behind them, the goal waiting beyond. His chest was heaving, his legs screaming, but he kept pushing.
Ramos stepped forward, trying to force Che wide. Che pushed the ball to the left with his right foot, making Ramos commit to that direction. The center-back shifted his weight, preparing to cut off that angle.
Che dragged the ball back with the sole of his right boot, then pushed it through Ramos's legs with his left. The nutmeg was clean, the ball rolling through the defender's stance just before his legs could close. Che accelerated around Ramos's left side, collecting the ball in stride.
Four.
Navarro was there immediately, the last defender between Che and the goal. The center-back was backpedaling, his positioning desperate but disciplined, refusing to dive in. Fifteen meters from goal now. Méndez was coming off his line, making himself large, cutting off angles.
Che's legs were burning so intensely he could barely feel them anymore. His lungs were raw. Every stride required conscious effort. The System was still showing him options, but his body was reaching its limit.
Stamina: 43%. Physical capacity declining. Shooting accuracy compromised under current fatigue levels.
He pushed the ball forward one more time, drawing Navarro with him. The defender had to commit now—there was no choice. If Che got past him, it was a clear shot on goal.
Then Che saw him.
To his right, sprinting from midfield with everything he had left, was Cabrera. The right midfielder who'd given away the penalty. Whose tired legs had cost his team the chance to hold the scoreline. Who'd been carrying the weight of that mistake for the past five minutes.
Cabrera was unmarked. He'd run the entire length of the pitch to get there, and now he was arriving at the edge of the box with space around him.
Che's mind processed it instantly. He could shoot—try to beat Méndez one-on-one with legs that were barely responding, with stamina at forty percent, with accuracy that the System calculated at sixty percent success rate.
Or he could pass.
Navarro committed, lunging forward to block the expected shot. Che's right foot made contact with the ball, but instead of striking it toward goal, he rolled it right. The pass was weighted perfectly, sliding across the grass, bypassing Navarro's dive, arriving at Cabrera's feet just as the midfielder reached the penalty spot.
Cabrera took one touch to set himself. His exhaustion was visible in every movement, but his eyes were locked on the goal. The top-right corner was open—Méndez had committed to covering Che's angle and was now scrambling to adjust.
Cabrera struck it with everything he had left.
The ball rose sharply, driven with desperate power, sailing past Méndez's outstretched hand. It struck the underside of the crossbar, rebounded downward, and crossed the goal line before spinning back out.
Maldonado 2 - 2 Montevideo
For a moment, there was silence. Then the Montevideo bench erupted. The small group of traveling supporters behind the goal were screaming. On the pitch, Cabrera stood frozen, arms slowly rising, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
Che felt his legs give out. He dropped to his knees, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face. His entire body was shaking from exertion. But he was smiling.
Cabrera turned toward him, sprinting across the pitch despite having nothing left in his legs. When he reached Che, he grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up.
"You—" Cabrera's voice broke. "You passed it to me. After what I did. After the penalty—"
Che was still smiling, too exhausted to form words. He just nodded.
Roque arrived next, then Matías, then the entire Montevideo squad converging on them. Hands grabbing shoulders, voices shouting in joy and disbelief. Even Ramón was off the bench, fists clenched, yelling something at the sky.
On Maldonado's side, the players stood in stunned silence. Romero had his hands on his head, staring at where the ball had crossed the line. Their coach was shouting instructions, trying to reorganize them, but they looked shaken. The small thirteen-year-old they'd mocked had just beaten five of their players and created an equalizing goal from nothing.
The head coach turned to his assistant, who was standing frozen at the edge of the technical area. "Still think it was just dribbling?" he asked quietly.
The assistant didn't respond.
Che finally found his breath, straightening up, letting his teammates pull him back toward their half for the restart. His legs were barely responding, his stamina depleted, but he was still standing.
Cabrera stayed beside him, speaking quietly. "I cost us. Three times this match. The penalty, the turnovers before that. The least I could do was finish what you started."
Che looked at him. "You did more than finish it. You buried it."
They jogged back into position as Maldonado prepared to kick off. The match would continue, but something fundamental had shifted. Montevideo had clawed back from the edge. And Che, burning out from the inside, had shown everyone watching exactly what he was capable of.