The factory entrance opened, and she emerged. Blue uniform, hair tied back, exhaustion visible even from thirty meters away. Che's chest loosened immediately. Ramón was already starting the engine.
She walked toward the car without hurrying—not slow, just the pace of someone whose legs had been standing for four hours straight. When she opened the rear door and slid into the back seat, Che turned in his passenger seat to look at her.
"What took so long?" he asked.
His mother was adjusting her seatbelt, not meeting his eyes. "Had to finish something. The supervisor needed me to complete a section before I could leave."
Ramón pulled out of the parking area immediately, navigating back onto Avenida Italia with more urgency than he'd shown on the drive there. The meeting was in twelve minutes. The drive would take at least eighteen if traffic cooperated.
Che caught his mother's reflection in the rearview mirror. Her face carried the particular exhaustion that came from work that demanded constant standing, constant movement, constant attention to machinery that didn't care about human fatigue. She'd woken earlier than usual this morning—he'd heard her moving through the apartment at 5:30 AM, preparing for a shift that should have been her day off.
She'd sacrificed the overtime pay. She'd convinced her supervisor to let her leave. She'd prioritized this meeting over money they actually needed.
He didn't say any of that. Just turned back to face forward, feeling the gratitude settle in his chest without giving it words.
"Gracias, Mamá," he said quietly.
She made a small sound of acknowledgment, already closing her eyes against the headrest, stealing whatever rest the eighteen-minute drive could provide.
On the pitch, Montevideo's momentum was building like pressure behind a dam. Rivergate couldn't get out of their own half. Every clearance was being won back within seconds. Every attempted counter was being cut off before it could develop.
Matías won possession in the center circle after Núñez's pass was intercepted by Fernández. The captain drove forward three meters, drawing Ledesma toward him, then played it wide to Cabrera on the right.
Cabrera took one touch to control the wet ball, then accelerated past Castro's challenge down the line. He reached the edge of the box and looked up. The penalty area was crowded—Rivergate's entire defensive shape compressed into a tight block. He crossed it low anyway, aiming for the near post.
The delivery was dangerous, skidding across the wet surface. Torres arrived first, but Mendoza got his body in front, blocking the striker's attempt. The ball deflected out to the edge of the box where it bounced loose, wet and unpredictable.
Three players converged on it—Soria, Vargas, and Roque all arriving at the same moment. Bodies collided. The ball squirted free, rolling toward the left side of the penalty area where Silva was positioned.
Silva's first touch was heavy on the wet surface—the ball bounced ahead of him instead of sticking. Vega closed him down immediately. Silva tried to cut back inside, but his boot slipped slightly. The ball broke loose again, this time rolling toward the top of the box.
Álvarez was there. Not in his usual center-back position but pushed forward from one of Montevideo's corners, still recovering back. The ball arrived at his feet twenty meters from goal, slightly left of center. Defenders were closing—Ledesma sprinting from midfield, Núñez adjusting his angle—but Álvarez didn't have time to set himself properly.
He struck it first time with his right foot. No backlift. No preparation. Just pure reaction—meet the ball, drive through it, aim low.
The connection was clean. The shot was driven, rising slightly, skidding across the wet surface with pace that the moisture only enhanced. Gutiérrez saw it late—his vision blocked by the cluster of bodies in the box. By the time he reacted, diving to his right, the ball was already past him.
It struck the inside of the post with a sound that cut through the rain and crowd noise. For a fraction of a second, it looked like it might bounce back out. Then it crossed the line and settled into the side netting.
Rivergate 1 - 1 Montevideo
Álvarez stood motionless for a moment, like his mind was still processing what had just happened. Then his teammates were on him—not celebration exactly, more like urgent acknowledgment. Matías grabbed his shoulders, pulling him toward the center circle. Roque was already running to collect the ball from the net.
"No time!" Matías was shouting. "Get the ball! We can still win this!"
The Montevideo players weren't jumping, weren't running toward the corner flag, weren't doing any of the theatrical gestures that usually accompanied goals. They were moving with purpose—getting into position, demanding the ball be returned to the center spot, treating the equalizer like it was just another step toward what they actually wanted.
Roque placed the ball at the center circle and immediately gestured for Rivergate to hurry up. The message was clear: we're not done.
Rivergate's players looked shaken. Olivera was trying to reorganize them, calling out instructions, but his voice lacked the authority it had carried ten minutes ago. Their assistant coach was shouting something from the touchline, but the rain was drowning it out.
They kicked off with caution replacing their earlier confidence. The one-goal lead that should have carried them to halftime had evaporated. Now they were level, with Montevideo's momentum still building and minutes left before the break.
Ledesma received the kickoff and immediately played it backward to Soria. The center-back tried to build from the back, but Torres was pressing aggressively. Soria played it sideways to Mendoza under pressure. Mendoza launched it long toward Díaz, but Fernández read it, stepping across to head it clear.
The ball landed at Matías's feet. He didn't waste time—one touch to control, immediate pass forward to Cabrera on the right. The midfielder drove at Castro, forcing the left-back to backpedal. Cabrera reached the edge of the box and cut inside, creating a yard of space.
His shot was struck with his weaker left foot, rising toward the far post. Gutiérrez was positioned well, but the wet ball made it difficult to judge. He caught it cleanly, absorbing it into his chest before securing it in his gloves.
The goalkeeper held it, trying to waste time, but the referee gestured for him to play on. Gutiérrez rolled it out to Vega, who immediately played it forward to Páez. The winger tried to drive at Pereira, but the left-back's positioning was better now—more aggressive, more confident. The ball went out for a throw-in.
Montevideo was pressing higher, forcing Rivergate to play more directly. Every long ball was being contested and won. Every loose ball was being recovered before Rivergate could consolidate possession.
Silva won the ball on the left side after intercepting Vega's attempted clearance. He drove forward five meters before playing it inside to Vargas. The midfielder took one touch and struck from distance—a speculative effort that was more about maintaining pressure than genuine scoring intent. The shot was rising, sailing over the bar by two meters.
But the message was clear: Montevideo wasn't backing off. They'd equalized and were hunting for the lead.
Rivergate tried to respond. Núñez won possession in midfield after Matías's pass to Torres was slightly overhit. The defensive midfielder played it forward to Olivera, who tried to turn and drive at Montevideo's defense. But Fernández was on him immediately, physical and uncompromising. The captain tried to shield the ball, but Fernández's positioning was too good. The ball broke loose, and Álvarez was there, clearing it upfield.
The pattern repeated. Rivergate trying to build attacks, Montevideo pressing aggressively, turnovers happening before anything dangerous could develop. The tactical balance had shifted completely—Rivergate defending their half, Montevideo controlling territory and tempo.
Cabrera won a free kick on the right side after Rojas's challenge was late. The foul was thirty meters from goal—too far for a direct shot, but close enough for a dangerous delivery.
Matías stood over it, considering options. The penalty area was crowded—both teams pushing bodies forward, knowing this could be the last set piece before halftime. Silva positioned himself at the near post. Roque and Torres occupied the center. Fernández and Álvarez pushed up from defense.
The delivery was driven, aimed toward the penalty spot. The wet ball made its trajectory unpredictable—it dipped sharper than expected. Roque arrived first, but Mendoza got his head to it simultaneously. The contact was awkward, both players challenging at the same moment.
The ball deflected upward, looping toward the far post. Gutiérrez was scrambling, trying to adjust his positioning. The ball dropped just under the crossbar, and for a moment it looked like it would cross the line. But Soria appeared, throwing his body across the goal mouth, heading it clear from inside the six-yard box.
The clearance went out to the edge of the penalty area where Vargas was waiting. He struck it first time—another driven shot that Gutiérrez had to dive to save, deflecting it out for a corner.
Montevideo's supporters were on their feet, voices rising above the rain. Their team was dominating now, creating chance after chance, overwhelming Rivergate with pressure that showed no signs of relenting.
The corner was delivered by Silva, another inswinging ball toward the near post. This time, the goalkeeper came off his line, punching it clear. The ball went out to midfield where Núñez collected it and immediately launched it long toward Díaz.
The winger tried to control it, but Esteban was positioned perfectly, heading it back toward Rodríguez. The goalkeeper collected it, and Montevideo built from the back again.
The referee checked his watch. Seconds left before halftime.
Rodríguez rolled it out to Pereira, who played it inside to Matías. The captain took one touch forward, surveying his options. Torres was making a run down the right channel. Silva was positioned wide left. The space was compressed, but opportunities existed.
Matías played it forward to Torres, who tried to hold it up. Mendoza was physical, preventing the turn. Torres played it backward to Cabrera, who struck from distance. The shot was rising, aimed for the top corner.
Gutiérrez leaped, getting fingertips to it, deflecting it over the bar. Another corner. The last action before halftime.
Silva delivered it with the same inswinging trajectory, but this time Mendoza won the header cleanly, directing it out toward the touchline. The ball was cleared.
The referee's whistle blew—three short blasts.
Halftime: Rivergate 1 - 1 Montevideo
Both teams walked toward their changerooms, but the body language told different stories. Rivergate's players moved slowly, shoulders slumped, the momentum completely against them. Montevideo's squad walked with purpose—not celebrating, not satisfied, just determined.
They had forty-five minutes to finish what they'd started.