The venue was different from anything Montevideo's squad had experienced. Not a school pitch with worn grass and faded lines, but a proper municipal stadium—small, maybe capacity for two hundred spectators, but maintained with care that showed in every detail. The grass was cut uniformly, the lines crisp and white, the goals standing with nets that weren't torn or sagging.
A match was already in progress when the bus pulled into the parking area. Two teams Che didn't recognize, playing with intensity that suggested this tournament mattered. Maybe forty people scattered in the stands—parents, scouts with clipboards, a few curious locals. The sound of the game carried across the complex: boots striking ball, voices calling for passes, a referee's whistle cutting through.
Álvarez led the squad off the bus, his clipboard held with less confidence than Ramón usually displayed. He was a capable center-back, solid and reliable, but he'd never managed a competitive match before. The responsibility sat visibly on his shoulders.
The players gathered near the touchline, watching the ongoing match while they waited for their turn. Matías was bouncing on his toes, releasing nervous energy. Roque kept adjusting his shin guards, his hands needing something to do. Even Fernández, usually composed, was scanning the stands like he was counting how many people would be watching them play.
"This is bigger than I thought," Cabrera said quietly. "Look at those scouts. They're actually taking notes."
"That's the point of qualifiers," Matías said. "Real people watching. Real stakes."
Silva was standing slightly apart from the group, arms crossed. "We're at a disadvantage without Che. You all know that."
The statement hung in the air. Nobody contradicted him because it was true. In the three weeks since Maldonado, Che had become central to how they trained, how they thought about the game. His passes opened spaces they didn't see. His positioning created options they'd learned to depend on.
"He carried us in training all week," Roque added. "Half the drills wouldn't have worked without his vision."
Matías nodded. "Even Ramón's not here. It's just us and Álvarez trying to figure this out."
The squad's energy was deflating before they'd even started warming up. The reality of facing a knockout qualifier without their most creative player and their head coach was settling in like weight.
Then a voice cut through their conversation—not from their group, but from near the bench area where their opponents were setting up.
"That's the team that needs a middle schooler to compete?"
The Rivergate assistant coach was standing ten meters away, speaking to his own players but loud enough to carry. He was younger than Ramón, maybe thirty, with the build of someone who'd played recently. His expression showed amusement mixed with contempt.
"Can't even bring their full squad. Half their strategy probably relies on a kid who's not even in high school yet."
Montevideo's players went quiet. Some looked at the ground. Others looked toward Álvarez, waiting to see if he'd respond.
Álvarez's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent. He wasn't Ramón—didn't have the authority or experience to fire back at another coach. Instead, he turned to face his own squad, positioning himself so his back was to Rivergate's bench.
"Forget them," Álvarez said, his voice low but carrying enough for all his players to hear. "They're trying to get in your heads before we even start."
But the damage was already visible. Matías's hands had gone still. Roque was staring at his boots. The nervous energy had transformed into something heavier—doubt.
Álvarez looked at each of them, his expression hardening. "You think Che's the only reason we've improved?"
Nobody answered.
"You think everything you've learned in the past three weeks only works when he's on the pitch?"
Matías finally looked up. "He sees things we don't."
"Yeah, he does. But you know what else he does? He believes you can execute what he creates. Every pass he makes, he's trusting you'll be there. Every space he identifies, he's counting on you to exploit it." Álvarez's voice was getting stronger now. "He's not carrying you. He's elevating you. There's a difference."
Fernández straightened slightly. Cabrera's arms uncrossed.
"Every drill this week, you learned something," Álvarez continued. "About positioning, about timing, about how to read each other's movement. Che was part of that, but so were you. That knowledge doesn't disappear just because he's not here today."
He paused, letting that settle.
"Ramón told me something before he left. He said Che's best quality isn't his skill—it's his belief that his teammates are capable of more than they think they are. So here's my question: if Che believes in you that much, why don't you believe in yourselves?"
The squad was listening now. Really listening.
"We're going to play our system. We're going to execute what we've trained. And when Che gets here—if he gets here—we're going to show him that what he built with us didn't disappear the moment he left." Álvarez's expression shifted into something fiercer. "Now get warmed up. We have a qualifier to win."
The atmosphere changed. Not completely—the nervousness was still there, the awareness of Che's absence still real—but underneath it now was something else. Determination. The understanding that they'd been given tools over the past three weeks, and those tools were theirs to use.
Matías was the first to move, jogging toward the warm-up area. Roque followed. One by one, the squad dispersed across the pitch, beginning their preparation with renewed focus.
Across the city, Che stood at the entrance of Escuela Técnica Superior, his school uniform replaced by the match kit he'd packed that morning. The stadium where his team was warming up felt impossibly distant. His phone showed 9:27 AM. Three minutes until Ramón was supposed to arrive.
The school grounds were empty—it was Saturday, no classes, just the silence of a building that existed for weekday education. Che had his small bag with water and an extra shirt, nothing else. His legs felt restless, wanting to move, to run, to do something other than stand and wait.
A car turned onto the street—not Ramón's. It passed without slowing. Che checked his phone again. 9:29.
Then he saw it: Ramón's sedan, the same one that had taken them to Maldonado, approaching from the west. The coach pulled up to the curb, and Che was moving toward it before the car fully stopped.
"Morning," Ramón said as Che climbed into the passenger seat. The coach looked tired—lines around his eyes suggesting he hadn't slept well. "Your mother works at the textile factory on Avenida Italia, right?"
"Yes. Building C."
Ramón pulled back into traffic, navigating through the Saturday morning streets that were less congested than weekdays but still busy with people running errands, heading to markets, moving through their weekend routines. The drive from the school to the factory district took fifteen minutes, passing through neighborhoods that shifted from residential to industrial—buildings becoming larger, more utilitarian, the architecture of production rather than living.
The textile factory was a sprawling complex, three large buildings arranged in a U-shape around a central loading area. Trucks were backed up to delivery bays. Workers in uniforms moved between buildings, some arriving for shifts, others leaving. The smell of fabric and chemical treatments carried on the morning air.
Ramón parked near Building C's entrance. Through the glass doors, Che could see the reception area—a small desk with a guard, a few chairs, notices posted on a bulletin board. The clock on the building's exterior read 9:48 AM.
"We wait here," Ramón said. "Her shift ends at ten, right?"
"That's what she said. If they let her leave."
The coach nodded, settling into his seat. The engine idled quietly. Around them, the factory continued its Saturday operations—reduced staff, but still active. A truck pulled away from one of the loading bays. Two workers walked past carrying toolboxes.
Che watched the entrance to Building C. People came and went—some in the blue uniforms that marked factory workers, others in street clothes that suggested office staff. None of them were his mother.
Ten o'clock approached. The meeting with the tournament board was scheduled for 10:30. The drive from here to the city center would take at least twenty minutes, maybe more depending on traffic. They had almost no margin.
Ramón checked his watch but said nothing. Che kept his eyes on the entrance.
A woman in a blue uniform emerged—not his mother. Another worker, laughing about something with a colleague. They walked toward the bus stop across the street.
10:02. Still no sign of her.
Che's hands were gripping his knees, his body tense despite his attempts to stay calm. The System was quiet, offering no calculations or recommendations because this wasn't a problem data could solve. This was waiting—the hardest thing to do when everything depended on circumstances beyond your control.
Ramón's phone buzzed. He checked it, read something, then put it away without commenting. Probably Álvarez, updating him about the warm-ups, about how the squad was preparing without them.
The factory entrance remained steady with activity. Workers coming and going. The guard at the desk visible through the glass, occasionally answering a phone.
10:06.
Che stared at the doors, willing his mother to appear, knowing that willing something didn't make it happen but unable to do anything else.
They waited.