The factory entrance remained unchanged. Workers came and went in the same steady rhythm—blue uniforms, tired faces, the mechanical routine of shift changes. Che's eyes tracked each person who emerged, hoping, then resetting when it wasn't her.
10:14.
His hands were gripping his knees again, fingers pressing into the fabric of his match shorts hard enough to leave marks. The meeting was in sixteen minutes. The drive would take at least twenty, probably more. The math was impossible, but his mind kept calculating it anyway, looking for a solution that didn't exist.
Ramón's phone buzzed. The coach checked it, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn't share what he'd read, but Che could guess—an update from Álvarez, probably about how the match was going. How they were managing without him.
"She'll come," Ramón said quietly, more statement than reassurance.
Che nodded but didn't respond. His throat felt tight. Outside the car window, the factory continued its Saturday operations, indifferent to the fact that his entire future was balanced on whether one woman could leave her shift early.
Another worker emerged. Not his mother.
10:16.
On the pitch, the stalemate continued. Neither team could establish control. Montevideo defended with desperate organization, throwing bodies into challenges, blocking shots, winning headers. Rivergate created chances but couldn't convert—shots deflected wide, crosses cleared, opportunities wasted by the finest margins.
The physical intensity hadn't decreased. If anything, it had escalated. Every loose ball was contested like it mattered more than the last. Silva went down after a challenge from Vega that was borderline but not quite a foul. The referee waved play on. Silva got up slowly, favoring his left ankle, but stayed on the pitch.
Matías won possession in the center circle, turned, and immediately played it forward to Torres. The striker tried to hold it up, but Mendoza was physical—a hand on his shoulder, positioning that prevented the turn. Torres played it backward under pressure, and Rivergate transitioned immediately.
Ledesma collected it and drove forward, forcing Montevideo's defense to drop deeper. He played it wide to Páez, who cut inside and struck from distance. The shot was rising but lacked precision—it sailed over the bar again. Rivergate's finishing was letting them down.
In Rivergate's technical area, their assistant coach was no longer smiling. His arms were crossed, his expression frustrated. Montevideo wasn't supposed to be this difficult. They were supposed to fold under pressure, to make mistakes, to confirm everything he'd assumed about them.
But they weren't folding. They were fighting for every meter of space.
Olivera, Rivergate's captain, collected the ball in midfield after another Montevideo clearance. He took one touch to set himself, surveying the field. His teammates were making runs, calling for the ball, but the spaces weren't as open as they'd been in the opening minutes. Montevideo had adjusted their shape slightly—Matías dropping deeper to help Vargas, the wingers tracking back more aggressively.
Olivera played it to Rojas, who tried a through-ball toward Díaz. But Fernández read it, stepping across to intercept. The center-back cleared it long, and the cycle repeated.
On Rivergate's bench, one of their substitutes—the tall midfielder who'd been mocking Montevideo during warm-ups—leaned toward his teammate.
"They're not supposed to be this good," he said quietly.
His teammate nodded. "Captain was right. We underestimated them."
The realization was spreading through Rivergate's squad. This wasn't the easy match they'd expected. Montevideo might be inexperienced, might be missing their coach and their best player, but they were organized, disciplined, and refusing to break.
The weather was changing. Clouds had moved in during the first twenty minutes, and now a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Not heavy enough to stop play, but enough to make the ball slicker, the grass more treacherous. Players were adjusting their footing, taking shorter strides on turns.
Cabrera received the ball on the right wing, his boots already muddy from where he'd slid to make a tackle earlier. He tried to push forward, but Castro closed him down quickly. The ball went out for a throw-in.
Esteban took it, finding Vargas in space. The midfielder controlled it, turned, and immediately played it forward to Roque. The striker had dropped deeper, trying to find possession in areas where he wasn't immediately pressed. He laid it off to Torres, who tried a first-time pass to Silva on the left.
The pass was slightly heavy. Silva had to stretch to reach it, and by the time he controlled it, Vega was already on him. The ball broke loose in the challenge, and immediately both players were scrambling for it. Vega won it, his positioning better, and Rivergate transitioned again.
The drizzle was becoming steadier. The ball was picking up water, making control more difficult. Passes that would have been accurate on dry grass were now skidding or holding up in the moisture. Players were wiping their hands on their shorts, trying to keep grip.
Núñez collected possession in midfield and played it forward to Olivera. The captain took one touch, then another, trying to create space. Álvarez closed him down from his center-back position, refusing to give him room to turn. Olivera played it sideways to Ledesma under pressure.
Ledesma struck from distance—a hopeful effort that was more about testing Rodríguez than genuine scoring intent. The shot was low but lacked power. Rodríguez collected it easily, the wet ball sticking in his gloves.
The goalkeeper held it for a moment, wiping rain from his face, then rolled it out to Pereira. The left-back played it inside to Matías, who was immediately pressed by Rojas. Matías played it backward to Fernández, and Montevideo reset.
The pattern was grinding both teams down. No flow, no rhythm, just constant pressure and counter-pressure. The midfield was a mess—players slipping on the wet grass, challenges coming in harder as frustration built, the ball moving but going nowhere productive.
Torres won a free kick after Soria's challenge was late enough that the referee finally blew his whistle. The foul was thirty-five meters from goal—too far for a direct shot, but close enough for a dangerous delivery into the box.
Matías stood over it, considering options. Montevideo's taller players pushed forward—Fernández, Álvarez, Roque. Rivergate's defense organized quickly, marking tightly.
The delivery was accurate, curling toward the near post where Roque had positioned himself. But Mendoza won the header cleanly, directing it out toward the touchline. The ball was cleared, and Rivergate countered.
Ledesma collected it and immediately looked for Díaz on the left. The winger was making a run, but Silva had tracked back, staying with him. The pass was intercepted, and Montevideo had possession again.
Silva played it inside to Vargas, who took one touch forward before being closed down by Núñez. He played it sideways to Matías, who was immediately pressed by Rojas. Matías tried to turn, but his boot slipped slightly on the wet grass. The ball broke loose, and immediately three players converged.
Rojas won it, playing it quickly to Olivera. The captain drove forward, and Montevideo's defense dropped deeper, organizing themselves. Olivera played it wide to Páez, who cut inside past Pereira's challenge and struck from the edge of the box.
The shot was well-struck, but Rodríguez was positioned perfectly. He caught it cleanly, absorbing the wet ball into his chest before securing it in his hands.
The drizzle continued. The pitch was becoming muddier in patches, particularly in the center circle where most of the play was concentrated. Players' kits were streaked with dirt and grass stains. The white lines were beginning to fade under the moisture.
In Rivergate's technical area, their head coach was making notes on his clipboard, his expression unreadable. His assistant stood beside him, clearly frustrated.
"Why can't we finish?" the assistant muttered. "We're creating chances. We're dominating possession. They should be down two goals by now."
The head coach didn't look up from his notes. "Because they're defending properly. Compact shape, disciplined positioning, quick transitions when they win it. This is exactly what I warned about."
"But they're—"
"Inexperienced? Yes. Missing their coach? Yes. Missing their best player? Also yes." The head coach looked at his assistant. "And they're still making us work for every meter. That tells you something."
On the pitch, Olivera was calling for his teammates to stay patient, to keep pressing, to trust the process. But his voice carried an edge of frustration that hadn't been there at the start.
Montevideo won a throw-in deep in Rivergate's half—a rare moment of sustained pressure. Cabrera took it, finding Matías in space. The captain controlled it and immediately played it to Torres, who had dropped to the edge of the box.
Torres took one touch to set himself, then struck. The shot was rising, aimed for the top corner. Gutiérrez dove, getting fingertips to it, deflecting it over the bar.
Montevideo's small section of supporters erupted. Their first real chance of the match. Their first shot on target. The energy shifted slightly—not dramatically, but enough that Rivergate felt it.
The corner was delivered by Silva, curling toward the penalty spot. The ball was wet, its trajectory affected by the moisture. It dropped shorter than intended, and Mendoza headed it clear before any Montevideo player could reach it.
The ball went out to midfield where the pattern continued—possession changing hands every few seconds, neither team able to maintain control, the game descending into exactly the messy affair the man in the Nacional cap had predicted.
Zero-zero. The scoreboard hadn't changed. But something else had: Rivergate's certainty was cracking, and Montevideo's belief was growing.
.