The warm-up drills moved with familiar rhythm. Montevideo's players spread across their half of the pitch, working through the sequence Ramón had drilled into them—dynamic stretches, short passing combinations, shooting practice from distance. Matías was calling out encouragement between repetitions. Roque's shots were finding the target with satisfying consistency. The nerves from earlier had transformed into focused preparation.
But underneath the routine was an awareness they couldn't shake.
During a water break, Fernández gathered the squad near the touchline, his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry to their opponents.
"We need to win at least this first round," he said. "Just one. That's all I'm asking."
Cabrera nodded, understanding the weight behind those words. "We haven't won a match all season. Not one."
"Exactly," Fernández continued. "And you know when we last played in this tournament? Five years ago. Before any of us were even at the school."
Silva was listening, arms crossed. "Five years without qualifying. That's what people remember about our program."
"Which is why today matters," Matías said. "Even if Che doesn't make it. Even if we're down a player and a coach. We can't let this be another year where we just show up to lose."
Roque was nodding. "One win. That's the standard. Just prove we belong here."
The conversation ended as Álvarez called them back for the final warm-up sequence, but the message had settled. This wasn't just about advancing in the tournament—it was about establishing that Montevideo's program existed as something more than an afterthought.
On the other side of the pitch, Rivergate was going through their own warm-up with visible confidence. Their movements were sharper, their organization tighter. They'd played in this tournament before, had advanced past the first round twice in the last three years. This was familiar territory.
Their assistant coach—the same one who'd mocked Montevideo earlier—was watching Álvarez try to organize a tactical drill with obvious amusement.
"That's the team we're supposed to take seriously?" he said to one of his players. "They've never even played in this tournament. School hasn't qualified in what, five years?"
The player—a tall midfielder with the build of someone who'd filled out early—laughed. "Probably why they needed to recruit a middle schooler. Can't compete with their actual roster."
Another Rivergate player joined the conversation. "I heard their coach isn't even here. Some center-back is managing them."
"Easy match then," the midfielder said. "We'll be done by halftime."
But their captain—a lean forward with intelligent eyes—stepped into the conversation, his expression serious. "Shut up, both of you."
The laughter died. The captain had authority that the assistant coach couldn't override.
"You see that?" the captain said, gesturing toward where Montevideo was working through their drills. "They're organized. They're focused. And they wouldn't be here if they weren't capable of competing. So I don't care if they've never played in this tournament before. I don't care if their coach is missing. We play like they're dangerous, or we're going to regret it."
The midfielder started to protest, but the captain cut him off. "Remember what happened last year? We underestimated that team from Paysandú, thought it would be easy. We lost in penalties. You want that again?"
Silence. The memory was apparently still fresh.
"Then focus on winning, not on mocking. Understood?"
The squad nodded, returning to their warm-up with chastened energy. The assistant coach said nothing, but his expression suggested he still thought his captain was being overly cautious.
The referee's whistle signaled the end of warm-ups. Both teams began moving toward their respective changerooms—small concrete structures on either side of the pitch, basic but functional.
Montevideo's squad filed into theirs, the space cramped with twenty players trying to organize themselves on narrow benches. Álvarez stood near the door, his clipboard in hand, waiting for everyone to settle.
The room smelled like liniment and nervous sweat. Someone's boots squeaked against the concrete floor. Matías was adjusting his captain's armband. Roque was retying his laces for the third time.
Álvarez looked at each of them, his expression carrying the weight of responsibility he'd been given.
"I'm not Ramón," he said. "I can't give you the tactical breakdown he would. I can't read the game the way he does." He paused. "But I can tell you what I see."
The squad was listening.
"I see players who've worked harder in the last three weeks than they have all season. I see a team that's learned to trust each other's movement, to anticipate each other's positioning. You've been taught by someone who sees the game differently than anyone else at our level, and you've absorbed that."
He gestured toward the door, toward where Rivergate was preparing in their own changeroom.
"They think we're easy. They think because we've never been here before, we don't belong. But you know what? That gives us an advantage. They're not taking us seriously. Which means they won't see us coming until it's too late."
Fernández straightened. Cabrera's jaw set.
"Our system is simple," Álvarez continued. "Four-four-two, compact defensive shape, quick transitions when we win possession. Matías and Vargas, you control the center. Don't let their midfield dictate tempo. Cabrera and Silva, stay wide but track back when they push their fullbacks forward. Roque and Torres, you're isolated up front, but when we win the ball, we get it to you immediately."
He paused, looking at the empty space on the bench where Che would normally be preparing.
"And when Che gets here—if he gets here—we're going to show him that what he built didn't fall apart the moment he left. We're going to show him we learned."
The squad absorbed this in silence. Then Matías stood, his voice carrying authority that came from two years of being captain.
"Five years," Matías said. "That's how long it's been since this school played in this tournament. Today, we change that. Today, we prove we're not just here to participate. We're here to compete."
Roque stood next, then Fernández, then the entire squad rising as one. The nervous energy had transformed completely now—not into arrogance or overconfidence, but into focused determination.
Álvarez nodded toward the door. "Let's go."
In Rivergate's changeroom, the atmosphere was different. Not nervous—they'd been here before. Not uncertain—they'd watched their opponents warm up and hadn't seen anything that concerned them. Just the professional focus of a team that understood the task ahead.
Their head coach—a man in his fifties with the precise demeanor of someone who'd spent decades in youth football—stood at the front of the room, arms crossed.
"Montevideo is weak on the left side," he said. "Their left midfielder—Silva—doesn't track back consistently. We exploit that. Push our right-back high, create overloads in that channel."
The squad nodded, taking in the tactical instruction.
"Their forwards are isolated. They're playing a four-four-two, but their midfield isn't creative enough to supply them effectively. We press high, force turnovers, transition quickly."
The captain—the forward who'd warned his teammates during warm-ups—raised his hand. "What about the player who's not here? The one everyone's talking about?"
The head coach's expression didn't change. "If he shows up, we adjust. Until then, we play the team in front of us. And the team in front of us is inexperienced, poorly coached at this level, and probably already intimidated."
He paused, his eyes moving across his squad.
"But we don't underestimate. We execute our system. We maintain discipline. We win professionally." He gestured toward the door. "Now get out there and prove you belong in the next round."
Rivergate's squad rose, their movements coordinated and confident. They filed out toward the pitch, where the referee was already waiting at the center circle, checking his watch.
The stands had filled slightly—maybe sixty people now, including the scouts who'd been taking notes during warm-ups. The ongoing match had finished, and the pitch had been cleared for the qualifier.
Montevideo emerged from their changeroom moments later, moving toward their bench area. Álvarez was positioning himself in the technical area, his clipboard held with white knuckles. The starting eleven moved onto the pitch for the coin toss.
The referee called both captains to the center circle. Matías and Rivergate's captain shook hands—a gesture of respect that carried no warmth, just acknowledgment of competition.
The coin was tossed. Rivergate won, choosing to receive.
The teams took their positions. Rivergate's players spreading across the pitch with practiced efficiency. Montevideo's squad organizing themselves, voices calling out final adjustments.
The referee checked his watch. Raised his whistle.
In a car parked outside a textile factory across the city, Che stared at a building entrance, waiting for his mother to appear so they could make a meeting that would determine whether he'd be allowed to play in any of this tournament.
On the pitch, the whistle blew.
The match began without him.