The free kick was cleared, but something had shifted. Montevideo's players were moving with purpose now instead of just reacting. Che's counter had injected belief—if he could beat four defenders, they could compete.
San José responded immediately. Cardoso won possession in midfield and played it wide to Ortega without hesitation. The winger collected it thirty meters from goal, Esteban already positioned to defend, and drove forward with the same explosive pace that had characterized his first twenty minutes.
This time, Esteban stayed compact, refusing to commit early. Ortega cut inside, creating separation, and struck from twenty meters out. The shot was powerful, rising, curling toward the top corner. Rodríguez was positioned well but the trajectory was perfect—
The ball struck the inside of the right post with a metallic crack. It rebounded across the goal face and out for a goal kick. Inches. The closest San José had come.
Ortega stood there for a moment, hands on his head. That should have gone in, he thought. Everything about that strike was right.
Then his eyes moved across the pitch, landing on Che, who was repositioning after the play. The thirteen-year-old who'd just beaten four of his teammates. Ortega had seen quality before—trained with academy players who'd go professional. But that counter had been different. Not just skill. Vision. The kind that couldn't be taught.
He's good, Ortega acknowledged internally. Really good.
Montevideo built from the goal kick, this time maintaining possession through multiple phases. Robles to Vargas. Vargas to Che, who had dropped deep to collect. González pressed immediately, but Che's first touch took him away from the challenge. He played it wide to Silva, who drove forward before being closed down by Ferreira.
The ball came back to Che, who was now positioned twenty-five meters from goal with space opening ahead. Rivas stepped to challenge, but Che had already seen the gap—Cabrera making a diagonal run from the right, dragging Costa out of position.
Che played the pass—weighted perfectly, threading between Rivas and Cardoso, arriving at Cabrera's feet as he reached the edge of the box. The right midfielder took one touch and struck.
Morales dove, getting both hands to it. The save was spectacular—not luck, just perfect positioning and reaction. The ball deflected out for a corner.
From the touchline, San José's coach—a man in his fifties with the precise demeanor of someone who'd managed at academy level—was already making adjustments. He called Rivas over during the corner, speaking urgently.
"Stick to him. Number ten. Don't let him turn. If he accelerates or tries to turn away from you, give the foul. I don't care if it's cynical—we can't let him run at us like that again."
Rivas nodded, jogging back into position.
The corner was cleared, and immediately Che felt the difference. When he dropped to receive possession near the halfway line, Rivas was there before the ball arrived. Not pressing aggressively, just occupying space, making it impossible for Che to turn comfortably.
Che tried to shift the ball to his right, creating separation. Rivas stayed with him, physical but controlled. When Che managed to turn anyway, using his smaller frame to slip past, Rivas's hand grabbed his shirt—subtle enough that the referee didn't call it, firm enough to prevent the acceleration.
The ball was played away under pressure, and the pattern repeated. Every time Che received possession, Rivas was there. Every time he tried to create space, a tactical foul—not violent, just enough to disrupt the rhythm. A tug on the shirt. A late step across. Contact that forced Che to pass instead of drive forward.
He's doing it on purpose, Che thought, after the third such foul in five minutes. Every time I'm about to get away.
The System was tracking it.
Rivas (CDM): Tactical fouling pattern - 4 fouls, 0 cards. Strategy: Prevent Che from transitioning with ball. Effectiveness: High.
On the other side of the pitch, Esteban was watching Rivas's approach with growing frustration. Every time Che got fouled—shirt pulled, body checked, steps blocked—the referee let it go or gave a basic free kick without booking anyone. But when Esteban made similar contact with Ortega, the whistle came immediately.
If they're going to play dirty with Che, Esteban thought, then I'm doing the same.
Ortega received the ball wide left, thirty meters from goal. He took his first touch, preparing to accelerate, and felt Esteban's hand on his shirt—not a pull exactly, just enough resistance to prevent the explosive start that made him dangerous.
Ortega tried to pull away, but Esteban's grip held for half a second. By the time Ortega was free, Robles had already recovered into position, cutting off the inside channel. Ortega had to play it backward.
The winger's jaw tightened. He's holding my shirt before I even start my run.
The next time Ortega received the ball, Esteban was even more aggressive. As the pass came, the right-back stepped across Ortega's path, his body positioned to block the acceleration route. When Ortega tried to go around him, Esteban's hand was there again—tugging the back of his shirt just enough to slow him down.
The referee's whistle sounded. Free kick to San José. But no card.
Ortega looked at the referee, his expression questioning, but said nothing. He understood what was happening. Montevideo had decided that if their best player was being fouled tactically, they'd do the same to San José's weapon.
The pattern established itself. Che would drop deep to receive, Rivas marking him tightly, giving little fouls that disrupted without getting punished. Ortega would get the ball wide, Esteban holding his shirt or stepping across his path, slowing him down just enough that the explosive runs couldn't develop.
Both teams were neutralizing each other's primary threats through tactical fouling that the referee seemed content to manage with free kicks instead of cards.
Che received the ball in midfield, Rivas immediately on him. The midfielder's hand was already on Che's shoulder, preventing the turn. Che tried to spin away, but Rivas stepped across, their legs tangling. The referee blew his whistle—free kick.
"¡Otra vez!" Silva was shouting. "That's the fifth time he's fouled him!"
But no card came. Rivas jogged back into position, his face showing no guilt. He was doing his job.
On the opposite flank, Ortega collected the ball and tried to drive at Esteban. The right-back's positioning was perfect—body between Ortega and the goal, hand subtly on the winger's shirt. When Ortega tried to accelerate, the shirt pulled tight, breaking his stride. By the time he was free, the space had collapsed.
Ortega played it inside to González, who struck from distance. The shot was rising, lacking power. Rodríguez collected it easily.
He's good, Che thought, watching Ortega reposition after the clearance. The way he creates space, the way he times his runs. But they're stopping him the same way they're stopping me.
Ortega was thinking something similar, his eyes finding Che across the pitch. Different styles. But same problem. Can't operate when someone's holding you every time you touch the ball.
The match continued its physical pattern. Both players remained threats—Che creating chances through vision when he could turn, Ortega generating danger with pace when he could accelerate—but neither could dominate the way they had in the opening sequences.
Rivas stayed glued to Che, giving tactical fouls that the referee warned about but never punished with cards. Esteban matched that approach with Ortega, his shirt-pulling and body positioning equally cynical, equally effective.
Both coaches accepted it as part of the game. Both players adapted, still contributing but unable to break free completely. The battle within the battle, fought with hands on shirts and bodies positioned to obstruct, both sides playing at the edge of what the referee would allow.