The rain had settled into a steady drizzle, turning the pitch into something between grass and mud. Montevideo's throw-in was taken quickly by Esteban, finding Matías in the center circle. The captain controlled it, his boots sliding slightly on the wet surface, and immediately looked for options upfield.
Torres was making a run down the right channel, calling for it. Matías played the pass, but the weight was slightly off—the ball held up in the moisture just enough that Mendoza could step across and intercept. The center-back didn't waste time. He played it immediately to Núñez, who had dropped deep to collect.
Montevideo's shape was stretched. Matías had pushed forward with the throw-in. Vargas was too far left. The defensive line had stepped up slightly, anticipating the attack continuing rather than breaking down so quickly.
Núñez saw it instantly. He took one touch forward, drawing Vargas toward him, then played a diagonal ball over the top toward the right wing. Páez had already started his run, timing it perfectly to stay onside by half a meter.
Pereira was caught between two decisions—step forward to challenge Páez or drop back to cover the space behind. He chose wrong, stepping forward, and Páez's first touch took the ball past him down the line. The winger was through, accelerating into the open space with only Álvarez tracking back desperately from his center-back position.
Páez drove toward the penalty area. Álvarez was closing the angle, trying to force him wide, but the winger cut inside with his left foot, opening up the center of the pitch. Fernández was abandoning his marking of Olivera, sprinting across to provide cover.
Páez could have shot. The angle was tight but possible. Instead, he saw something better—Olivera had continued his run after being released by Fernández, now arriving unmarked at the penalty spot. Páez played the pass across the face of goal, low and driven, weighted perfectly.
Olivera met it in stride. One touch to control, his second to strike. Rodríguez was diving, but the angle was impossible. The ball passed him and buried itself in the bottom corner.
Rivergate 1 - 0 Montevideo
Olivera wheeled away, arms raised, running toward the corner flag. His teammates converged on him, voices rising in celebration. Their small crowd erupted—relief mixed with triumph. Finally. The breakthrough they'd been pushing for.
On the pitch, Montevideo's players stood motionless for a moment. Silva had his hands on his hips, staring at the ground. Esteban was bent over, hands on his knees. The weight of the goal settled across them like the rain—steady, inescapable.
But Matías was already moving. He walked toward Torres, clapping his hands once, sharp and loud.
"¡Vamos!" Matías's voice cut through the celebration noise. "We're still in this. Nothing's changed."
Torres looked up, his expression showing doubt.
"Nothing's changed," Matías repeated, louder this time. He turned to face the rest of the squad. "One goal. We've come back from worse in training. This is what we've been preparing for."
Fernández joined him, pulling Pereira up by his shoulder. The left-back had been blaming himself—the hesitation that let Páez through was visible in his face. "Forget it," Fernández said. "Next play. That's all that matters."
Roque was nodding, moving into position for the kickoff. Cabrera jogged past Silva, tapping the midfielder's shoulder. "Stay wide. They'll push forward now. We'll have space."
The reset wasn't perfect—some players were still processing the goal, still feeling the sting of conceding—but the collapse that Rivergate had anticipated wasn't coming. Montevideo was bruised but not broken.
Rivergate kicked off with confidence that bordered on arrogance. They'd scored. The hard part was done. Now they just needed to manage the game, maybe add another to seal it.
But Montevideo responded with pressure they hadn't shown all match. When Ledesma received the ball in midfield, Vargas was on him immediately—not passive containment but aggressive pressing. The midfielder was forced to play it backward under pressure.
Rojas collected it, tried to turn, but Matías had already closed the space. The captain's challenge was physical—a shoulder into Rojas's back that was borderline but not quite a foul. The ball broke loose, and Silva was there, winning it before any Rivergate player could react.
Silva drove forward three meters before playing it inside to Matías. The captain took one touch and immediately looked upfield. Torres was making a diagonal run from the right toward the center, dragging Mendoza out of position. Matías played the pass into the channel that opened up.
Torres controlled it with his first touch, but Soria was already closing from behind. The striker tried to turn, but the defender's positioning was too good. Torres played it backward to Vargas, who had continued his run forward after winning the initial press.
Vargas struck it first time from twenty-five meters. The shot was rising, curling toward the top corner. Gutiérrez was positioned well, but the wet ball made it difficult to judge. He leaped, getting fingertips to it, deflecting it over the bar.
Montevideo's small section of supporters were on their feet. "¡Dale Montevideo! ¡Dale!"
The corner was delivered by Silva, curling toward the near post. The wet ball made the trajectory unpredictable—it dropped shorter than intended. Roque arrived first, getting his head to it, redirecting it toward goal from six meters out.
Gutiérrez reacted instinctively, throwing himself across the goal mouth. His hand made contact, deflecting the ball onto the post. It bounced back into play, and immediately five players converged on it.
Mendoza got there first, his clearance desperate and powerful, sending the ball fifty meters upfield and out for a throw-in.
Close. Too close. Rivergate's certainty was eroding with every Montevideo attack.
The pattern shifted. Rivergate was no longer dominating possession. The game had compressed into something more chaotic—neither team controlling it, both creating half-chances that lacked the final quality to convert.
Montevideo won the ball through Fernández's interception and immediately transitioned forward. Matías to Cabrera. Cabrera driving down the right, forcing Castro to backpedal. The right midfielder reached the edge of the box and crossed low toward the penalty spot.
Torres arrived, striking it first time with his right foot. The connection was clean, the ball rising toward the top corner. Gutiérrez dove, getting both hands to it, deflecting it over the bar for another corner.
Rivergate's defense was under constant pressure now. Every clearance was being won back by Montevideo within seconds. Every transition was being pressed aggressively. The one-goal lead that should have given them breathing room was instead making them more defensive, more cautious.
Silva took the corner, another inswinging delivery. This time, Álvarez rose highest, meeting it with his forehead. The header was powerful, aimed toward the bottom corner. Gutiérrez was positioned perfectly, diving to his right, catching it cleanly despite the wet conditions.
The goalkeeper held it for a moment, trying to slow the tempo, but the referee gestured for him to play on. Gutiérrez rolled it out to Vega, who immediately played it forward to Ledesma.
Ledesma tried to turn, but Vargas was pressing him instantly. The ball broke loose, and Matías was there, winning it before Ledesma could recover. Montevideo attacked again.
Matías drove forward, creating space. He played it wide to Silva on the left. The winger cut inside, beating Vega with a simple change of direction, and struck from the edge of the box.
The shot was low, skidding across the wet surface. Gutiérrez dropped to his knees, making himself large, and the ball struck his body. It deflected out for another corner.
Rivergate's players were communicating frantically now—"Stay compact!" "Mark up!" "Close him down!"—but the organization that had characterized their first twenty-five minutes was fragmenting under Montevideo's relentless pressure.
Another corner. Silva delivering it with the same inswinging trajectory. Fernández arrived at the near post, flicking it on toward the far post where Roque was positioned. The striker struck it with his head, redirecting it toward goal.
The ball was going in. Trajectory perfect, power sufficient. But Mendoza appeared from nowhere, throwing his body across the goal line, blocking it with his chest. The ball deflected out for yet another corner.
Montevideo's supporters were screaming now. Four corners in six minutes. Chance after chance. The goal felt inevitable.
But the fifth corner was cleared more convincingly. Mendoza won the header cleanly, directing it out to midfield where Núñez collected it. Rivergate tried to counter, but Montevideo's recovery was immediate. The ball was won back before they could build anything.
On Rivergate's bench, their head coach was standing now, hands cupped around his mouth, shouting instructions that were barely audible over the rain and crowd noise. His assistant was beside him, no longer smug, just concerned.
"They're not supposed to be this good," the assistant said again, but this time it wasn't dismissive. It was acknowledgment of a mistake.
In Montevideo's technical area, Álvarez was on his feet too, fists clenched, shouting encouragement. "¡Vamos! ¡Keep pressing! It's coming!"
The rain continued. The pitch was deteriorating—the center circle was almost entirely mud now, patches of grass torn up by sliding tackles and hard turns. Players' kits were unrecognizable under the dirt and moisture.
But Montevideo kept attacking. Cabrera won possession on the right and played it inside to Matías. The captain took one touch and struck from twenty meters. The shot was powerful but rising—it sailed just over the crossbar by inches.
Gutiérrez's goal kick was short, finding Soria under pressure from Torres. The center-back tried to play it forward, but his pass was intercepted by Vargas. Montevideo attacked again.
Vargas to Silva. Silva cutting inside, creating a yard of space. He struck with his right foot, aiming for the far post. The ball was curling, dipping, heading toward the bottom corner.
Gutiérrez dove, his body fully extended. His fingertips made contact, deflecting it just enough to send it wide of the post.
The Montevideo supporters groaned collectively. So close. Again.
But their team wasn't dropping their heads. Matías was clapping, calling out encouragement. Roque was gesturing for the corner to be taken quickly. Even Silva, who'd just missed the target, was already repositioning himself for the next opportunity.
Rivergate had scored. They were winning. But they looked like the team that was losing—defending desperately, absorbing pressure, waiting for the final whistle like it was salvation.
And in a car parked outside a factory across the city, Che stared at a building entrance, still waiting.