Tuesday's training was focused on defensive transitions—how to recover shape quickly after losing possession, how to cut off counterattack routes before they developed. The squad worked through scenarios repeatedly, Ramón adjusting positioning, Álvarez demonstrating movements. Che was positioned in left midfield, executing the drills with the same precision he brought to every session.
During a water break, Ramón approached him at the sideline, his expression unreadable. "Che, let me see your boots."
Che looked down. The Adidas his mother had secured months ago—the secondhand boots that had carried him through his first match at Maldonado, through weeks of training, through today's session—were deteriorating. The sole on the right boot had separated from the upper along the inside edge, creating a visible gap. The left wasn't much better—the leather near the toe box had split, exposing the inner lining.
"They're fine," Che said.
Ramón knelt down, examining them more closely. "The right sole is nearly off. If it separates completely during a match, you can't play. Tournament regulations require proper footwear."
"They'll hold," Che said.
"For how long?" Ramón stood, crossing his arms. "We have a qualifier on Saturday. If those boots fall apart during the match, I have to substitute you off. We can't risk it."
Matías had walked over, overhearing the conversation. He looked at Che's feet, then at his own boots. "I have an extra pair at home. You can use them."
"Your feet are bigger than mine," Che said.
"By how much?"
"Enough that they won't fit."
Cabrera joined them. "What size are you?"
"Thirty-five," Che said. Most of the squad was wearing thirty-eight, thirty-nine, even forty. His feet hadn't grown at the rate his training had improved.
"My cousin might have something," Fernández offered. "He's smaller. I can ask."
"I'm not taking someone else's boots," Che said, his voice carrying an edge that made the others pause. "These are fine. I'll make them work."
Ramón's expression tightened. "Che, this isn't about pride. If you can't play because your equipment fails, that affects the entire team."
"They won't fail," Che said. "I'll fix them."
"How?"
"I'll figure it out."
The coach studied him for a long moment, reading something in Che's posture—the way his jaw had set, the tension in his shoulders. This wasn't just about boots. This was about something deeper that Ramón wasn't going to solve by pushing harder.
"Saturday morning, I check them before the match," Ramón said. "If they're not in acceptable condition, you're not playing. Understand?"
"They'll be fine," Che repeated.
Training resumed, but the conversation had left residue. When Torres made a comment about "just getting new ones" during the next drill, Che's response was sharp enough that Torres didn't bring it up again. The suggestion—casual, well-meaning—carried an assumption that buying new boots was simple, that it was just a matter of deciding to do it.
As if four hundred pesos wasn't two weeks of his mother's grocery budget. As if asking her to find money for boots when his grandmother needed medication was reasonable. As if throwing away the boots she'd worked to secure—boots that had come from someone's kindness, not a store—was something he could do without feeling like he was wasting what she'd sacrificed to provide.
The rest of training passed in silence from Che. He executed every drill correctly, responded to coaching adjustments, but the energy that usually characterized his involvement had muted.
That night, after he'd collected Sofia and Diego from preschool, after he'd helped them with homework and made sure they were settled, after dinner had been eaten and his uncle had retreated to watch television, Che went to the bathroom with a small tube of glue he'd found in the kitchen drawer.
The apartment's bathroom was barely large enough for one person—a toilet, a sink, a shower stall with a curtain that didn't quite close. Che sat on the closed toilet lid, his boots on the floor, examining the damage in the harsh fluorescent light.
The right sole had separated by maybe two centimeters along the inside edge. The left boot's split near the toe was smaller but still concerning. He opened the glue tube—some kind of all-purpose adhesive his uncle had used to fix a broken shelf months ago—and carefully applied it to the separated sole.
He pressed the rubber back against the leather upper, holding it in place, counting seconds. The glue's chemical smell filled the small space. He held it for two minutes, then carefully set the boot aside to dry, moving to the left boot's split.
The bathroom door opened.
His mother stood in the doorway, still in her factory uniform, exhaustion visible in the way she held herself. Her eyes moved from Che's face to the boots on the floor to the glue tube in his hands.
Che's first instinct was to hide them—pull the boots behind his back, pretend he was doing something else. But she'd already seen. There was no point.
"The soles are separating," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "I'm fixing them."
His mother didn't respond immediately. She just looked at the boots—the ones she'd secured through a coworker's generosity, that had been his only option because buying new ones wasn't possible. Then she looked at Che, and something in her expression shifted.
"Move," she said quietly.
Che stood, making room. His mother knelt where he'd been sitting, picking up the right boot he'd just glued. She examined his work, testing the bond with her fingers.
"This won't hold through a match," she said. Not criticizing, just stating fact. "The glue's too weak for this kind of stress."
"It's all we have," Che said.
"No. It's not." She stood, leaving the bathroom. Che heard her moving through the apartment, opening drawers, searching for something. She returned with a different tube—industrial adhesive, the kind used for leather repair. "From the factory. One of the women uses it to fix bags."
She knelt again, this time taking the boot fully into her hands. Her movements were practiced, confident—someone who'd spent years working with materials and understanding how they failed and how to fix them.
She cleaned the glue Che had applied, wiping it away with a damp cloth until the surfaces were ready for proper bonding. Then she applied the industrial adhesive with precision—not too much, not too little, spreading it evenly along the separation. She pressed the sole against the upper, her fingers applying pressure at exact points where the stress would be greatest.
"Hold this," she said, handing the boot to Che. "Keep pressure here and here. Don't move for five minutes."
Che took it, positioning his hands where she'd indicated. His mother moved to the left boot, examining the split near the toe box. She worked the