The pattern continued. San José controlled possession, Montevideo defended desperately, clearing the ball long only to have it come back stronger. Ortega was everywhere—dragging Esteban out of position, creating space for teammates, delivering crosses that Acosta kept getting close to finishing.
Then Montevideo won a goal kick after Medina's shot from the right was deflected wide. Rodríguez collected the ball, moving to the edge of his penalty area, preparing to launch it long like he'd done six times already. Clear it. Reset. Survive another wave.
"¡Rodri! ¡Pará!" Che's voice cut through the noise. The goalkeeper paused, looking toward him.
Che pointed to Esteban, who was positioned wide on the right with space around him. San José's press had pushed high, anticipating the long clearance, leaving the right-back unmarked. Rodríguez hesitated—playing short was risky with San José's aggressive positioning—but Che was already moving into space between Montevideo's defensive and midfield lines, creating a passing option.
The goalkeeper rolled it to Esteban. The right-back took one touch, then played it inside to Che, who had dropped deep to receive, twenty-five meters from his own goal.
In the stands, an older man wearing a faded Nacional shirt leaned toward his companion, shaking his head. "Pobre pibe. Look at him—he's tiny. What are they thinking, putting a kid that small in a match like this? He's going to get destroyed."
His companion nodded. "Against players three, four years older. It's not fair, really. He shouldn't even be out there."
On the pitch, time compressed around Che. The System activated fully, overlaying his vision with crystalline clarity. González was pressing from his left, two meters away and closing. Rivas was shifting position to cut off the forward passing lane. The space ahead was compressed—San José's shape designed to suffocate exactly this kind of buildup.
The ball arrived at Che's feet. González was already there, his challenge aggressive, trying to dispossess before Che could turn.
Che's first touch took the ball away from the pressure—not backward, not sideways, but at an angle that opened up space that hadn't existed a second before. His body shifted, using González's momentum against him. The touch was so precise, so economical, that González's challenge met only air.
The midfielder stumbled slightly, reaching out to grab Che's shirt, but Che was already gone. Not past him—through him, somehow occupying space that González had thought he'd closed off.
The older man in the stands stopped mid-sentence, his mouth open.
Che was accelerating now, the ball at his feet, the System showing him everything. Rivas was closing from the right, trying to cut off the counter before it developed. Cardoso was recovering from deeper. The space ahead was limited but visible—gaps between defenders that would exist for maybe two seconds before closing.
Rivas committed to the challenge, stepping across to block Che's path forward. Che's right foot touched the ball, a subtle shift that made Rivas think he was going left. The defensive midfielder adjusted his weight, and Che immediately cut right with his next touch, using the inside of his left foot to redirect the ball through the gap Rivas had just created.
Two players beaten.
Now Che was in the space between San José's midfield and defense, thirty meters from goal, with the entire pitch opening ahead of him. Costa was stepping forward from his center-back position, trying to stop the counter before it reached dangerous territory. Suárez was holding his line, communicating with his partner.
Che could pass—Cabrera was making a run down the right, Silva was wide left. But the System was showing him something else: Costa's positioning was slightly too aggressive, his weight forward in anticipation of either stopping Che or intercepting a pass. The space behind him existed for exactly one more second.
Che pushed the ball forward with the outside of his right boot—not a long touch, just enough to commit Costa to the challenge. The center-back stepped forward, reaching out, and Che dragged the ball back with his sole, then immediately pushed it through Costa's legs with his left foot.
The nutmeg was clean. Costa twisted, trying to recover, but Che was already accelerating around his right side, collecting the ball in stride.
Three players beaten.
The crowd's noise had changed completely. San José's supporters were silent, shocked. Montevideo's small section was rising to their feet. The older man who'd felt sorry for Che was now leaning forward, his companion beside him equally transfixed.
"¿Qué carajo...?" What the hell...
Suárez was the last defender between Che and Morales. The center-back held his position, refusing to be drawn out, his body language showing he'd learned from watching his teammates get beaten. He was staying compact, forcing Che wide, making sure the angle to goal was closed.
Che drove at him anyway. Twenty meters from goal now. Suárez was backpedaling, staying between Che and the net. Benítez was making a run through the center, calling for the pass, but Suárez's positioning cut off that option.
Che pushed the ball to his left with the outside of his right boot, creating just enough separation to attempt a shot. Suárez lunged, trying to block it, his leg extending—
But Che didn't shoot. The touch that looked like a shot setup was actually another change of direction. His left foot pushed the ball back right, taking it across his body, and suddenly he was past Suárez's outstretched leg, in space, with only Morales ahead.
Four players beaten.
Morales was coming off his line now, making himself large, cutting off angles. But Che was at the edge of the penalty area, and Suárez was recovering desperately, his challenge coming from behind.
The center-back's tackle was late—not malicious, just desperate. His studs caught Che's ankle as the midfielder tried to take his next touch. Che went down hard, the momentum carrying him into a tumble across the grass.
The referee's whistle sounded immediately. Sharp. Clear. Free kick.
Suárez was already raising his hands, acknowledging the foul. The referee was reaching for his pocket—yellow card, though the challenge hadn't been dangerous, just necessary to stop what had been developing.
Montevideo's players converged on Che, pulling him up. Matías was the first to reach him from the bench, shouting something about the run. Cabrera grabbed his shoulders. Even Robles—who'd been too far back to be part of the counter—was jogging over with renewed energy.
"¡Ese es nuestro Che!" Benítez was shouting to the rest of the squad. "They have Ortega—we have him!"
The comparison spread through Montevideo's players like electricity. San José had their weapon—the seventeen-year-old being watched by Nacional's academy, the player scouts had traveled to see. But Montevideo had theirs too. The thirteen-year-old in repaired boots who'd just beaten four defenders in fifteen seconds.