The number on the board was Pereira's. The left-back who'd been pushed into midfield after Luna's substitution, who'd created that chance earlier with the shot Gutiérrez had saved spectacularly. Coming off for a defensive midfielder—Robles—to shore up the center after Pereira picked up a yellow card twenty minutes ago.
Che's hands, which had been pulling at his warm-up top, went still. The brief surge of anticipation drained away, replaced by something heavier. He watched Robles jog onto the pitch, exchanging words with Pereira as they passed. The formation was shifting again—more conservative, protecting the draw with ten men rather than pushing for the win.
He sat back down on the bench, the wet aluminum cold through his shorts. The System's tactical overlay faded from his vision, no longer needed. García glanced at him but said nothing.
For a moment, Che just sat there, processing. He'd been approved by the board. He'd arrived at the stadium. He'd warmed up. But he wasn't going to play. Not today.
Then he stood up.
"¡Vamos Montevideo!" His voice cut through the rain and crowd noise, sharp and urgent. "¡Dale! Keep pressing!"
The other substitutes looked at him—some surprised, others understanding. García stood with him. Then Juárez, the player who'd been substituted off earlier. One by one, Montevideo's bench rose, their voices joining Che's.
"¡Matías! Push up!"
"¡Cabrera! Wide right!"
"¡Fernández! Hold the line!"
On the pitch, Matías glanced toward the bench during a break in play. He saw Che standing, arms raised, shouting encouragement. The captain's expression shifted—not disappointment that Che wasn't coming on, but something else. Recognition, maybe. That Che was still contributing, just differently.
Torres called out to Benítez, pointing toward where Rivergate's defense was organizing. The striker nodded, adjusting his positioning. Fernández was communicating with Álvarez on the pitch—not the assistant coach managing from the sideline, but the center-back who'd scored the equalizer and was now back in his defensive role.
Montevideo's players weren't looking toward the bench waiting for Che to save them. They were fighting with what they had. Ten men. Fifteen minutes left. Level at 2-2. That was enough.
Earlier, in the brief moment between Montevideo's equalizer and the substitution decision, Ramón and Álvarez had their conversation in the technical area. The rain provided cover, the crowd noise ensuring privacy.
"Che," Álvarez had said, not a question but a statement opening a discussion.
Ramón nodded, arms still crossed, watching the pitch. "He's ready. He'd make an impact."
"I know." Álvarez paused, choosing his words carefully. "But I don't think we should put him on."
The head coach turned slightly, giving Álvarez his attention.
"They've been fighting for sixty minutes without him," Álvarez continued, gesturing toward the players on the pitch. "They equalized with ten men. They're believing in themselves—not in what Che can do for them, but in what they can do. If we bring him on now, we risk them thinking they need him to win instead of trusting what they've already proven."
Ramón was quiet, processing this. His eyes moved across the pitch—Matías organizing the midfield, Fernández holding the defensive line, Benítez who'd just scored his first competitive goal.
"They've learned from him," Álvarez said. "Everything we've drilled—the positioning, the spatial awareness, the belief they can compete—it's already in them. This match, right now, is about proving they own it. Not that Che gave it to them, but that they earned it."
The head coach studied his assistant for a long moment. Álvarez was young, inexperienced at this level of decision-making. But the logic was sound. More than sound—it was the kind of developmental thinking that built teams instead of just winning individual matches.
"If we lose?" Ramón asked.
"Then we lose with a team that fought until the end, that discovered they're capable of more than they thought. That's worth more than a win where they're rescued." Álvarez's expression was serious. "But I don't think we're going to lose."
Ramón looked back at the pitch, then at Che on the bench, then at the players fighting with everything they had. He made his decision.
"Pereira comes off for Robles," Ramón said. "We shore up the center, protect the draw, but let them finish what they started."
Álvarez nodded, already turning to signal the substitution board.
"And Che?" the assistant coach asked.
"He'll understand," Ramón said. "Maybe not today. But eventually."
On the pitch, Montevideo was defending with organized desperation. Rivergate pressed forward, sensing that time was their enemy now—if the match ended in a draw, both teams would advance, but Rivergate wanted the outright win to secure first place in the qualifier group.
Olivera collected the ball in midfield and drove forward, forcing Robles to step out and challenge. The captain played it wide to Páez, who cut inside past Luna's challenge and struck from the edge of the box. The shot was powerful, rising, aimed at the top corner.
Rodríguez leaped, getting a hand to it, deflecting it over the bar. Another save. Another moment where Montevideo's goalkeeper proved why they were still level.
The corner was delivered toward the penalty spot. Soria rose highest, but Fernández was positioned perfectly, getting his head to it first. The clearance went out to midfield where Matías collected it.
Montevideo countered. Matías to Cabrera. The right midfielder drove forward with exhausted legs that still found another gear. He reached the edge of the box and crossed low toward Benítez. The striker arrived at the near post, but Mendoza got his body in front, blocking the shot.
Back and forth. Neither team able to gain control. Both creating half-chances that couldn't convert. The rain continued, the pitch deteriorating, players covered in mud and exhaustion.
From the bench, Che watched it all. His voice never stopped—calling out encouragement, identifying spaces, pointing out positioning adjustments. Not coaching, just supporting. Being part of the team even from fifteen meters away.
Torres won a free kick after Soria's challenge was late. The foul was thirty-five meters from goal—too far for a direct shot but close enough for danger. Matías stood over it, the entire squad pushing forward despite having ten men.
The delivery curled toward the far post. Fernández rose, meeting it with his forehead, but the header went just wide. Montevideo's supporters groaned. So close.
The match continued its relentless pace. Rivergate trying to win it. Montevideo refusing to lose it. Ten minutes remaining. Then eight. Then five.
Neither team could break the deadlock.