The bus was idling in the parking lot, its engine rumbling as Montevideo's squad loaded their bags into the luggage compartment. Che was sitting on the curb near the bus, his legs still trembling slightly from exhaustion, when he heard footsteps approaching.
The Maldonado head coach—the older man with gray hair—was walking toward him with deliberate purpose. His assistant trailed a few steps behind, looking uncertain about whatever was happening.
Matías, who'd been standing nearby talking to Roque, noticed immediately. "Che," he said quietly, gesturing toward the approaching coach.
Che stood up, his legs protesting the movement. The Maldonado coach stopped a respectful distance away, studying him with an expression that was difficult to read.
"Can I speak with you for a moment?" the coach asked. His tone was formal but not unfriendly.
Che glanced at Matías, who looked as confused as Che felt, then nodded. "Sí."
The coach stepped closer, his assistant remaining at a distance. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who'd spent years evaluating talent.
"How old are you?"
"Thirteen," Che said.
The coach nodded slowly, like this confirmed something he'd already calculated. "And when you finish primary school, which high school will you attend?"
Che gestured vaguely toward his own team's bus. "Escuela Técnica Superior. The same school I'm playing for now."
The coach was quiet for a moment, his eyes moving from Che's face to his still-shaking legs, then back up. "What you did today—that wasn't normal. You understand that, yes? Players your age don't see the game the way you see it. They don't make the decisions you made."
Che didn't know how to respond, so he just waited.
"I want you to consider coming to our school," the coach said. "Instituto Atlético Maldonado. We have better facilities than what you're training with now. Proper pitches, strength and conditioning programs, tactical coaching from staff who've worked at professional academies. More importantly, we have connections. Scouts from Nacional, Peñarol, Defensor—they watch our matches regularly. If you want to be scouted by a real academy, being at our school increases those chances significantly."
Che felt something tighten in his chest. The offer was clear, and it made sense from every tactical angle. Better training. Better exposure. Better pathway to professional football.
But there was a problem that couldn't be solved with positioning or vision.
"I can't afford your school," Che said quietly.
The coach's expression shifted slightly—not surprise, but something closer to resignation. He'd probably known this before asking. "Your family's financial situation?"
"My mother works at a factory. We live in Barrio Pérez. I have younger cousins she supports, and my grandmother is sick. Private school tuition—" Che didn't finish the sentence. The math was obvious.
The coach nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. "I understand." He paused, seeming to wrestle with something internally, then spoke again. "Our school doesn't offer athletic scholarships. I wish we did, but the board doesn't operate that way. If you could find the tuition somehow, the offer stands. But I understand that's not realistic."
Che felt the weight of it settling. An opportunity that existed in theory but was impossible in practice.
"Thank you for the offer," Che said, keeping his voice steady.
The coach placed a hand on Che's shoulder briefly—a gesture of respect more than comfort. "You have something rare. Don't let circumstances make you give up. Keep playing. Keep improving. Eventually, someone will notice."
He turned and walked back toward his own team's bus. His assistant followed, glancing back at Che once before boarding.
Che stood there for a moment, watching them leave, feeling the distance between what was possible and what was accessible.
Matías approached, his expression cautious. "What did he want?"
"To talk," Che said.
"About what?"
"Let's get on the bus. I'll tell everyone."
The ride back to Montevideo began in relative quiet. Players were exhausted, some sleeping against windows, others talking in low voices about the match. Che was sitting in his usual spot by the window when Matías slid into the seat beside him.
"So?" Matías asked. "What did he say?"
Several players in nearby seats turned their attention to the conversation. Roque leaned over from the seat behind. Cabrera, sitting across the aisle, was listening too.
Che kept his eyes on the passing landscape—the rural fields giving way to scattered buildings, the first signs of Montevideo's outer neighborhoods appearing. "He asked me to come to their school. Instituto Atlético Maldonado. Said they have better facilities, better coaching. Better chances of getting scouted."
There was a moment of silence. Then Roque spoke. "Are you going to?"
"No."
"Why not?" Cabrera asked. "That's a good school. Their program is way better than ours."
Che turned away from the window to look at them. "Because I can't pay for it. It's a private school. The tuition is probably more than my mother makes in three months."
The bus went quiet. Not just their immediate section, but the surrounding seats too. Players who'd been half-listening were now fully paying attention.
Matías leaned back in his seat, processing this. "Did he offer a scholarship?"
"Their school doesn't do scholarships," Che said. "He said so."
Roque made a sound of frustration. "So he just offered you something impossible? What's the point of that?"
"I don't think he knew about my situation until I told him," Che said. "He was just recruiting. Doing what coaches do when they see someone who can play."
Cabrera was shaking his head. "That's fucked up. You're better than anyone on his team—better than anyone in this entire league probably—and you can't even get into a better program because of money."
"That's how it works," Che said quietly.
The bus continued its journey toward Montevideo, the city lights beginning to appear on the horizon as afternoon shifted toward evening. Around Che, his teammates were processing what he'd told them, but nobody seemed to have answers. Just shared frustration at a system that recognized talent but couldn't accommodate it.
Che turned back to the window, watching the landscape change, feeling the exhaustion in his body mixing with something heavier. The match had shown him what he was capable of. And the conversation afterward had shown him the limits of where that capability could take him.
Back at the Maldonado sports complex, the two coaches were standing near their own bus as the last players boarded. The assistant coach was watching Instituto Atlético Maldonado's bus pull out of the parking lot, his expression still confused.
"I've worked with you for three years," the assistant said. "I've never seen you recruit someone from an opposing team. Not once."
The head coach was gathering his things, his movements methodical. "That's because I've never seen someone worth recruiting."
"But you knew he couldn't afford it. His uniform was worn. His boots were secondhand. You could tell just looking at him that money was an issue."
"I know."
"Then why ask?"
The head coach paused, his hands going still. "Because in ten years, when he's playing professionally—and he will be—I want to be able to say I recognized it early. That I tried to help, even if I couldn't actually change anything."
He turned to face his assistant directly. "That boy is going to play at a level we can't even imagine right now. Not because of facilities or coaching or opportunities. Because he has something that can't be taught. And it's unfortunate—genuinely unfortunate—that we're in a system where talent like that gets wasted because his mother works in a factory."
The assistant was quiet, absorbing this.
"We don't do scholarships," the head coach continued. "The board has made that clear. We're not a charity school. We serve families who can pay tuition. That's our model."
"Do you think that's wrong?"
The head coach looked at the parking lot where Montevideo's bus had disappeared. "I think it's practical. But I also think we just watched someone who could've elevated our program to a national level, and we couldn't offer him anything real. So you tell me if it's wrong."
He boarded the bus without waiting for an answer.
The assistant stood alone for a moment longer, then followed.
When Montevideo's bus finally pulled into the school parking lot, it was early evening. The sun had set during the drive, and the city was transitioning into its night rhythm. Players began filing off, grabbing their bags, saying goodbyes.
Che stepped down carefully, his legs still protesting every movement. Matías walked beside him toward the street where they'd separate—Matías heading north toward his neighborhood, Che heading west toward Barrio Pérez.
"You played incredible today," Matías said. "First real match, and you were the best player on the pitch."
"We lost," Che said.
"By one goal. Against a team that's been together for two years. And we almost won because of you." Matías paused at the corner where their routes diverged. "Fuck that coach for offering you something you can't take. But also—you don't need their fancy facilities. You got this good training on broken concrete. Imagine what you'll be when you actually have proper support."
Che managed a small smile. "Thanks."
"See you Tuesday," Matías said, turning toward his street.
Che continued alone, walking through neighborhoods that gradually became more familiar, more compressed, more like home. The walk took forty minutes, and by the time he reached his building, full darkness had settled over Barrio Pérez.
His mother was in the kitchen when he entered, still in her factory uniform. She looked up, taking in his exhausted appearance, his dirt-stained kit, the way he was moving like every step hurt.
"How was it?" she asked.
"We lost," Che said. "Three to two."
She studied his face. "But?"
"But I played well. Really well. The coach from the other team asked me to come to their school."
Her expression shifted immediately—hope and concern mixing together. "What did you say?"
"I said we can't afford it. Because we can't."
His mother was quiet for a long moment. Then she turned back to the stove where she was heating water. "Sit. I'll make you something to eat."
Che sat at the small table, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. His body was destroyed. His mind was processing too many things at once. But he was home.
And for now, that was enough.