The bus smelled like wet grass and exhaustion. Montevideo's squad filled the seats, mud-streaked kits clinging to skin, voices still carrying the energy of the win but beginning to settle into something quieter. The rain continued outside, streaking the windows, but inside was warm with achievement and relief.
Che sat near the middle, García beside him. The substitutes who'd watched most of the match were talking about specific moments—Benítez's goal, Rodríguez's saves, the deflection that almost equalized. Across the aisle, Matías was leaning back with his eyes closed, captain's armband still on his wrist. Fernández was retaping a bandage on his ankle where someone's studs had caught him in the second half.
Ramón stood at the front of the bus as it pulled out of the stadium parking area, one hand gripping the overhead rail for balance. The celebration had been allowed—ten minutes of shouting and embracing and releasing everything they'd carried through ninety minutes. Now came the reality.
"Listen," Ramón said, his voice cutting through the conversations without needing to shout. The bus went quiet. "What you did today was exceptional. Down to ten men, trailing twice, and you found a way to win. That takes character. That takes belief."
Players were nodding, some smiling at the acknowledgment.
"But this was one qualifier," Ramón continued. "One match. We have two more to advance to the tournament. And both teams we face will have watched today. They'll know you can fight. They'll know you won't quit. Which means they'll come at you harder."
The energy in the bus shifted slightly—not deflating, but sobering. The coach was right. This wasn't the end of anything. It was the beginning.
"You should be happy," Ramón said. "You earned this win. But mentally, you need to prepare for what comes next. Saturday's match is against Instituto San José. They're physical, organized, and they haven't lost at home all season. If you think today was difficult, next week will be harder."
Matías opened his eyes, sitting up straighter. Cabrera stopped the conversation he'd been having with Benítez. Even the substitutes who hadn't played were paying full attention.
"Rest tonight," Ramón said. "Celebrate with your families. But tomorrow, we start preparing again."
He sat down, the bus continuing its journey back toward Montevideo. For a moment, silence held. Then Torres spoke up from the back.
"Coach, why didn't Che play?"
The question hung in the air. Other players turned to look—some at Torres, some at Ramón, some at Che. It wasn't accusatory, just genuine confusion. They'd been told Che was approved. He'd arrived at the stadium. He'd warmed up. And then he'd stayed on the bench for ninety minutes.
Ramón stood again, steadying himself as the bus took a turn. His expression was thoughtful, like he'd been expecting this question and had prepared his answer carefully.
"It's true we needed Che today," the coach said. He looked directly at Che for a moment, then back at the squad. "With him on the pitch, we probably create more chances. We probably control possession better. We probably don't struggle as much with being down to ten men."
Players were listening, waiting for the explanation that made sense of keeping their best player on the bench.
"But we also needed you," Ramón continued. "Not as Che's supporting cast. As players who trust themselves. As a team that knows they're capable of competing without needing to be rescued."
He paused, his eyes moving across the bus, making contact with individual players.
"For three weeks, you've trained with someone who sees the game at a different level. You've learned from him—positioning, spatial awareness, decision-making. All of that is now part of how you play. But if you only perform when Che's on the pitch, then you haven't actually learned anything. You've just been following instructions."
Matías was nodding slowly, beginning to understand.
"Today, you proved something," Ramón said. "Not to Rivergate. Not to the scouts. To yourselves. That you own what you've learned. That you can execute it under pressure, with ten men, in a match that mattered. If I'd brought Che on, you might have won. But you would have walked away thinking you needed him to win. Instead, you know now that you have the capability within yourselves."
The bus was completely quiet. The only sounds were the engine, the rain against the windows, the occasional squeak of someone shifting in their seat.
"Self-trust," Ramón continued, his voice carrying weight that went beyond just football. "That's what separates teams that compete from teams that win. You have to trust your own ability, trust your teammates' ability, and trust that the work you've put in has prepared you for moments like today."
He gestured toward Che. "Che will play. In the next qualifier, in the matches after that. He's part of this team. But so are all of you. And when he's on the pitch with you, it needs to be as an addition to your capability, not a replacement for it."
Fernández was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. Cabrera had stopped fidgeting. Even Luna, who'd been thrown into the match with no preparation, was absorbing the message.
"You trusted yourself today," Ramón said. "You trusted Matías to organize the midfield. You trusted Fernández and Álvarez to hold the defense. You trusted Benítez to finish when the chance came. That trust—between teammates, in yourselves—is what won that match. Not tactics. Not individual skill. Trust."
The coach's expression softened slightly. "Che's ability is exceptional. But a team isn't exceptional because of one player. It's exceptional because every player believes they belong on the pitch, that they can contribute, that they have value. Today, you proved you believe that. Don't lose it."
He sat back down, and the bus continued through the outskirts of Montevideo, the city lights beginning to appear as afternoon shifted toward evening.
Che sat perfectly still, processing what he'd heard. Part of him had been frustrated at not playing—confused, even angry at times during the match. But sitting here now, hearing the explanation, watching his teammates absorb the message, he understood.
Álvarez had made the call. Trust them to finish what they started. And they had.
Matías turned in his seat, looking back at Che. "We're better with you on the pitch. You know that, right?"
"I know," Che said.
"But we're also better than we thought we were without you," Matías continued. "And that matters too."
Che nodded. It did matter. A team that only functioned with one player wasn't a team—it was a dependency. What Montevideo had proven today was that they'd absorbed the lessons, internalized them, made them their own.
The bus pulled onto the main avenue leading back to their neighborhood. Outside, the city was moving through its Saturday evening rhythm—people heading home, families gathering for dinner, the ordinary life that continued regardless of football matches won or lost.
But inside the bus, something had settled. Not just satisfaction at winning, but understanding of what the win meant. They were capable. They could compete. And when Che did play alongside them, it would be as part of something larger rather than the reason for it.
García leaned toward Che. "You would've made it easier though."
Che smiled slightly. "Maybe. But they didn't need easier. They needed to know they could do it the hard way."
The bus continued through Montevideo's streets, carrying a squad that had started the day hoping to compete and ended it knowing they belonged.