Olivera walked into the changeroom behind his teammates, the noise of their conversations washing over him without registering. His eyes found Martínez immediately—his defensive partner already sitting on the bench, unlacing his boots with the same unhurried efficiency he brought to everything.
The thought arrived unbidden, carrying weight it always did: It's so unfortunate that he doesn't take this seriously.
Because if Martínez actually cared about football the way Olivera did, they could go far together. Really far. National team far. Professional contracts far. The kind of partnership that scouts would travel to watch, that coaches would build systems around.
But Martínez didn't care. Not the way he should. Not the way someone with his talent needed to.
FLASHBACK: Eight Months Earlier
The academy's director sat across from Olivera in an office that smelled like leather and disappointment. The man's expression was professionally sympathetic, but his words were final.
"We've signed a new prospect for your position. He's younger, comes with strong recommendations from our youth coordinator. We need to make space in the squad, and unfortunately—"
"I understand," Olivera interrupted, his voice flat. He didn't need the explanation drawn out. He was being released. After four years in the academy system, training with players who went on to sign professional contracts, being told he was good enough to make it—he was being let go for someone younger.
The director continued talking—something about keeping in touch, about how releases were part of football, about other opportunities. Olivera stopped listening. His mind was already moving to what came next.
He needed a team. Somewhere to play while he prepared for trials at other academies. The school team was the obvious choice—easy to join, required no tryout, would give him matches to maintain fitness and visibility.
When he arrived for his first training session at Colegio Técnico del Sur, the difference was immediate and jarring. These weren't academy players. Their touches were adequate but not polished. Their tactical understanding was basic. Their physical conditioning was recreational rather than professional.
Olivera dominated from his first session. Playing as a central midfielder, his vision and technical ability were so far beyond his teammates that training drills felt like exercises in patience. When they scrimmaged, he controlled the tempo completely, seeing passes before they developed, executing with precision that made everyone else look slower than they were.
He was the best player on the team. By far. And everyone knew it.
But he wasn't staying. This was temporary. A stepping stone to the next academy, the next opportunity. These players were nice enough, but they weren't serious. This wasn't real football.
The first match came—a league game against another local school. Olivera played his usual position in central midfield, orchestrating possession, creating chances, completing every pass he attempted. They won three-nil, and he was directly involved in all three goals.
He walked off the pitch satisfied but not impressed. This level was beneath him. He'd known that already.
Then he saw Martínez.
The center-back had played the full ninety minutes, defending with intelligence that Olivera hadn't expected from a school team player. But it was after the match, when Olivera was reviewing his own performance mentally, that he actually watched what Martínez had done.
Every aerial duel won. Every positioning decision correct. Reading of the game that anticipated rather than reacted. And two long passes—real, weighted, professional-quality passes—that had started attacks from nothing.
Olivera approached him after training two days later, curious. "You're good. Really good. Where did you play before this?"
Martínez shrugged, packing his bag. "Nowhere. Just here."
"No academy? No youth club?"
"No."
Olivera frowned. "Why not? You could play at a higher level."
"Not interested," Martínez said simply. "I play for the school because it's an extracurricular. Looks good for university applications. But it's not serious."
The words hit Olivera like cold water. "Not serious? You have genuine talent. You could—"
"Could what?" Martínez interrupted, his tone still calm but carrying finality. "Make football my whole life? Train every day hoping some scout notices me? That's your dream, not mine. I play because it's fun and it helps with school. That's enough."
Olivera stared at him, processing words that didn't make sense. Someone with this much natural ability—the kind of defensive instinct and technical quality that couldn't be taught—was treating it like a hobby. Like something that didn't matter.
"That's insane," Olivera said, his voice rising. "You're wasting your talent. Do you understand how rare what you have is?"
Martínez looked at him, his expression showing no anger, just mild interest. "Why does it bother you so much?"
"Because—" Olivera stopped, trying to articulate fury that felt disproportionate but real. "Because I was just released from an academy. I've spent years working for this, and I got cut for someone younger. And you're standing here with abilities most players would kill for, and you don't even care."
"So because you got released, I should dedicate my life to football?" Martínez's tone remained even, almost curious. "That doesn't make sense."
The argument escalated over the following weeks. Every training session brought new moments where Martínez's casual brilliance conflicted with Olivera's intensity. When Martínez arrived five minutes late because he'd been studying for an exam, Olivera called him unprofessional. When Martínez skipped optional conditioning work, Olivera accused him of laziness.
It came to a head after a match where Martínez had played exceptionally—controlled the entire defensive third, made three goal-saving interventions, completed two perfect long passes that created scoring chances. And afterward, while Olivera was reviewing tactical details with the coach, Martínez left immediately to meet friends for a movie.
Olivera found him the next day. "I hate you."
Martínez looked up from his lunch, his expression unchanged. "Okay."
"I'm serious. I hate that you have this talent and treat it like it doesn't matter. I hate that you could be great and you've chosen to be average. I hate that you make it look easy while some of us—" his voice cracked slightly, "—work for years and still don't have what you have naturally."
Martínez was quiet for a moment, then spoke with the same calm that characterized everything he did. "You take football too seriously. It's a game."
"It's not a game. It's—"
"It is a game," Martínez interrupted. "And you've made it your entire identity. So when it doesn't work out, you have nothing else. That's not my problem. That's yours."
Olivera wanted to argue, wanted to explain why Martínez was wrong. But the words didn't come. He just stood there, anger and frustration mixing with something he couldn't name.
"I don't hate you," Martínez continued, his voice still even. "I think you're obsessed in a way that's unhealthy. And I think you're angry at me because I remind you that there's more to life than football. But that's your issue, not mine."
They didn't speak for two weeks after that. Trained in silence, played matches without acknowledging each other beyond what tactics required. The team noticed but said nothing, sensing this was something that needed to resolve itself.
Then came the match against Instituto del Este—a mid-table team that pressed aggressively and created problems for Técnico's usual defensive approach. Ten minutes in, their starting center-back—Valdés—went down with an ankle injury that required substitution.
The coach looked at Olivera. "You're moving to center-back. Partner with Martínez."
Olivera had never played defense before. His entire career had been as a midfielder—orchestrating play, creating chances, controlling tempo. But they had no other options, and his tactical intelligence could translate to defensive positioning if he was smart about it.
He took his position beside Martínez, who nodded once in acknowledgment. No words. Just recognition that they had a job to do.
The first ten minutes were chaotic. Olivera was learning positioning on the fly, reading where to stand based on where the ball was, how his partner was moving. He made mistakes—stepped out when he should have held, held when he should have stepped out. But Martínez covered. Every time. Without complaint, without making Olivera feel inadequate, just adjusting his own positioning to compensate.
Then something clicked. Olivera saw how Martínez read the game—not just reacting to immediate threats but anticipating them seconds before they developed. And he started doing the same. When Martínez shifted left to cover a run, Olivera automatically shifted right to maintain balance. When Olivera stepped forward to press, Martínez dropped to cover the space behind.
They didn't need to communicate verbally. The understanding was instinctive, built from matching tactical intelligence even if their motivations were completely different.
Twenty minutes into their partnership, Instituto mounted a dangerous attack—three forwards against two defenders. Olivera read the play developing, saw the pass coming before it was struck. He stepped across to intercept, winning it cleanly. His clearance went long, accurate, finding their striker who converted the counterattack into a goal.
Martínez jogged past, offering the smallest nod of approval. "Good read."
That was all. But it meant something.
They kept the clean sheet. Defended together for eighty minutes with understanding that looked like it had been built over years rather than developed during one match. After the final whistle, as they walked off the pitch, Olivera felt something shift.
"You're good at this," Martínez said, the first real conversation they'd had in two weeks. "Center-back suits you."
"I've never played there before," Olivera admitted.
"I know. But your reading of the game translates. You think like a defender even when you're playing midfield."
Olivera looked at him, processing. "You covered my mistakes. Every time."
"That's what partners do," Martínez said simply. "You read one side, I read the other. We balance each other."
From that match forward, Olivera played center-back permanently. The partnership that had started from necessity became something more—not friendship exactly, but understanding. Mutual respect built from recognizing what each brought to the defense.
They still didn't agree on football's importance. Martínez still showed up five minutes late sometimes, still skipped optional conditioning, still treated it as an extracurricular rather than a calling. And Olivera still lived for the game, still trained extra hours, still watched professional matches to study positioning and tactics.
But on the pitch, they functioned as one. Martínez's natural talent combined with Olivera's obsessive preparation. Olivera's tactical intelligence paired with Martínez's effortless execution. They became the best defensive partnership in the school league, then the regional tournament, then this national competition.
And somewhere along the way, the resentment transformed into something else. Not acceptance of Martínez's casual approach—Olivera still thought it was wasteful. But recognition that his partner's perspective, while frustrating, came from a place of genuine contentment rather than laziness or disrespect.
They became friends despite themselves. Partners who understood each other completely on the pitch, even if they disagreed about everything off it.
PRESENT: Halftime
"You okay?" Martínez's voice pulled Olivera from his thoughts. His partner was looking at him with the same calm expression that had characterized their entire partnership.
"Yeah," Olivera said, managing a small smile. "Just thinking."
"About?"
Olivera looked at his partner—the most talented defender he'd ever played alongside, the player who could have been professional if he'd wanted it, the friend who drove him crazy with his casual brilliance.
"It's so unfortunate," Olivera said, his tone carrying affection underneath the words, "that you're so carefree about football. That you don't care about it the way you should."
Martínez smiled slightly, understanding the subtext. "And yet we're still the best partnership in this tournament."
"Because I've learned from you," Olivera said, the admission coming easier than it would have months ago. "Your instincts, your reading of the game—I've absorbed all of it. You have the most potential of anyone I've ever played with. And you're wasting it on university applications."
"Maybe," Martínez agreed, not arguing. "But I'm happy. Are you?"
Olivera opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. The question was more complicated than it should have been.
They smiled at each other—partners who would never fully understand each other's motivations but had learned that didn't matter. What mattered was what they created together on the pitch.