14th December 2022
Rafael shut the door behind him, the sound echoing through the quiet of his new flat in Reading. It wasn't anything flashy—just a small, modern one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a red-bricked complex a short drive from the stadium.
The walls were still bare, the faint scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. A grey sofa sat awkwardly in the middle of the open-plan living room, still wrapped in some of the delivery plastic. His flat-screen TV leaned against the wall, wires sprawled like spaghetti waiting to be plugged in. The kitchenette, all black cabinets and matte silver handles, looked sleek but unused. A kettle hummed to life as he tossed his bag on the counter and slumped into a barstool.
He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. This was real now.
He opened his phone, checking the time. 10:41 AM.
The board meeting was scheduled for eleven.
"Shit."
Rafael grabbed the blazer he'd reluctantly bought two days ago and shrugged it on over a plain white tee. Not exactly Pep Guardiola, but it would have to do. He splashed some water on his face, gave himself a quick once-over in the hallway mirror, and then grabbed the Reading FC lanyard left for him in a welcome envelope.
Out the door, down the stairs, into the cab. As the car pulled away from the curb, Rafael glanced out the window at the quiet streets of Reading. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't London. But it was his first shot at building something.
And it all started with this meeting.
…
The boardroom sat in stillness, broken only by the ticking of a sleek wall clock and the occasional ruffle of paper. Morning clouds cast a soft gray light through the tall windows that overlooked the training pitches below, where a few academy players knocked the ball around.
Chairman David Holloway stood at the window with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the movement outside but thoughts clearly elsewhere. Behind him, Paul Kendrick—Reading FC's long-serving sporting director—sat at the table, flipping through the slim dossier on Rafael Moretti, a skeptical frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"This is madness," Paul muttered, closing the folder with a quiet thud. "Nineteen years old, David. He's barely older than some of the academy lads. What are we doing putting the future of this club in his hands?"
David didn't respond immediately. He kept his eyes on the training ground, watching the rhythm of passing drills, the distant shouts of a coach. Finally, he spoke.
"He has all the credentials. UEFA Pro License. Tactical certifications. Psychological development training. Everything checks out."
Paul let out a dry laugh and leaned back in his chair. "You and I both know that managing isn't about what's on paper. It's about presence. Authority. When you walk into that dressing room, players have to believe in you before you even say a word. How's he supposed to do that when some of those lads have more facial hair than he does?"
David turned from the window, his face calm but firm. "He played the game. He understands it from the inside, even if his career was short. That matters."
Paul shook his head. "Maybe. Or maybe we're just so desperate for a new direction, we'll hand the wheel to anyone willing to steer."
There was a pause between them. An unspoken tension, thick with years of disappointment and managerial reshuffles that led nowhere.
David walked over to the table, resting both hands on the back of a chair. "He might be young, but he's not aimless. If we'd offered this to some ex-pro in his 40s, nobody would've batted an eye. But this kid? He's different. Driven. And frankly, we've got nothing to lose."
Paul sighed, pushing the folder aside. "Let's just hope the dressing room doesn't eat him alive."
Before David could respond, the faint click of the door handle broke the quiet. Both men looked up as the door eased open, and Rafael stepped into the room.
He was dressed in a blazer that didn't quite sit right on his shoulders, but his posture was straight, and his gaze was steady. There was a seriousness in his eyes—something tempered, worn in, like a fire that had already survived the wind.
For a brief second, Paul and David just watched him.
He didn't look like a manager. But something about him felt like he would become one.
Rafael took the seat offered to him at the end of the long oak table. A glass of water had been set in front of him, untouched. The chair didn't creak, the air felt a little too still, and the weight of the room was heavier than he'd expected. He sat straight, like he'd trained himself to do during those long, grey rehab sessions in the hospital—not because anyone had asked, but because it made him feel like he still had control.
Paul was the first to speak. He leaned forward, hands clasped together, his voice calm but clearly measured.
"Rafael, first off—welcome officially. We know this wasn't exactly a conventional appointment. And this—" he gestured vaguely between them "—isn't going to be a conventional job either."
David gave a small nod, then opened a slim folder of printed documents.
"We've brought you in because we believe there's something different about you," David added. "That being said, we're still a club with objectives. Expectations."
Rafael nodded once, already anticipating what was coming.
Paul pulled out a sheet and slid it across the table toward him. "Here's the initial brief. You'll get more details over the coming days, but these are the key goals we expect you to hit in your first six months."
Rafael picked up the paper. A neat list, bullet points in bold.
Secure Mid-Table Finish.
Avoid the relegation battle. Climb out of the bottom half. Finish 12th or higher.
Go Five Games Unbeaten.
League only. Draws count, but the focus is on stability and form.
Bring Through At Least One Academy Player.
Minimum five first-team appearances before the end of the season.
Improve Team Morale and Discipline.
Reduce yellow and red card counts. Improve post-match player ratings by average of 0.5.
Win the Fanbase Over.
At least 75% approval in post-match surveys within three months.
He scanned them carefully, jaw tightening just slightly. Not impossible. But for a squad hovering near the relegation zone with a manager barely out of his teens—it wouldn't be a walk in the park either.
"We're not expecting miracles," David said, as if reading his thoughts. "But we are expecting fight. Grit. Something to believe in again."
Paul added, "This isn't about playing champagne football. We need results. Consistency. Make the players believe in something. Then the fans will follow."
Rafael looked up, folding the paper neatly in half and sliding it into the notebook he'd brought with him.
"I understand," he said. His voice was calm, clear. "I'll deliver."
Paul raised a brow, slightly surprised at how steady he sounded.
David smiled faintly, the first sign of real warmth in the meeting. "Good. Because your first game's in five days. Away at Millwall."
Rafael gave a small, confident nod. Five days. Mid-table. Five unbeaten. A broken team, a skeptical board, and one shot at turning it all around.
Just as Rafael turned to leave the boardroom, David reached under the table and pulled out a thick, navy-blue folder with the Reading FC crest embossed on the front.
"One more thing before you go," he said, holding it out. "This is everything you'll need to get started."
Rafael took it in both hands. The folder had weight—real, physical weight, like it carried not just pages but pressure. Expectations. It was heavy in all the right ways.
Paul leaned forward, his voice steady but firm. "Inside, you'll find full reports on every senior and academy player—fitness levels, mental evaluations, injury records, strengths, weaknesses. You name it. We've also included the contact numbers for the regular starters. We'd advise reaching out to them before training tomorrow. Start building that relationship early."
David spoke next, his tone more serious now. "We want to be transparent with where things stand. Right now, we're sitting 23rd in the table. Twenty-two points from twenty-two games. Four wins, ten draws, eight losses. We're not cut off, but it's tight. The mood around the dressing room? Fragile. A few of the experienced players are reportedly frustrated, maybe even doubting the club's direction."
Rafael stayed silent, absorbing every word. No flinch, no frown—just focus. He tucked the folder under his arm like it belonged there.
"There's also the January transfer window to think about," Paul added, almost like an afterthought. "We've set aside £7 million. It's not much, but with the right approach, it could bring in two or three players who make a difference. You'll have full say in who comes and who goes—but just know, if you want to move players out, you'll have to have those conversations yourself."
David nodded in agreement. "We'll support you where we can, but this is your team now."
Rafael gave a slow nod. Already, ideas were turning in his head—players he'd admired, undervalued talents in lower leagues, maybe even a loanee or two. Seven million wasn't a war chest, but it was a chance.
"And your assistant," Paul said, flipping through one last folder before sliding it across the table. "Mark Dempsey. He's staying on. Been with the club for two seasons. Knows the squad, understands the club culture, and the lads respect him. He's a good man to have by your side, especially while you're still getting your bearings."
Rafael opened the folder slightly. Dempsey looked sharp in his photo—mid-40s, the kind of face that had seen the highs and lows of football and was still in love with the game.
"Thanks," Rafael said. "I'll meet him this afternoon."
"He's not one for fluff," David warned with a faint grin. "But he knows what he's talking about."
Paul leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You've got five days before we head to Millwall. Use them well. Set the tone early."
Rafael straightened, folder and file tucked under one arm.
"I will," he said. Then, with a final nod, he turned and walked out of the boardroom—no longer the boy with a shattered dream, but the man with a second chance, stepping into the unknown with only belief and a plan.
Rafael stepped out of the boardroom, the thick navy folder tucked tightly under his arm. The door clicked shut behind him with the kind of finality that seemed to echo through the quiet hallway. The building was clean, quiet—too quiet for a football club. The kind of silence where thoughts got loud and nerves started creeping in.
He didn't know his way around yet, so he just walked—down corridors lined with framed photos of past teams, old glories, reminders of what Reading had once been and what it wanted to be again.
Then suddenly, just as he turned a corner, something flickered in front of his eyes.
[System Notification] — Absorb Tactical Folder?
He stopped in his tracks.
"What the—?"
The folder in his hands grew warm, a soft hum beneath the surface like a heartbeat pulsing through the leather.
[Absorb all club and player data directly into memory?]
Rafael blinked. He glanced around. No one. Just him and the strange floating message in his vision.
He sighed. "Screw it. Let's see what happens."
[Confirmed. Absorbing…]
A rush of data surged through him—like a dam bursting. Names, faces, match stats, medical reports, psychological evaluations, formation preferences, even personality notes. Everything from the U18s to the senior squad. He staggered slightly, grabbing the wall as the wave passed, his mind adjusting to the weight of it all.
When it cleared, he straightened. He didn't just know who his players were—he understood them. What made them tick. What they feared. What they could become.
The doors at the end of the corridor led out to the training ground. Rafael stepped through and was hit by a rush of cold air and the familiar sound of boots against grass, whistles, laughter, and clipped shouts. Players were already out running drills across the pitch, sweat on brows, breath misting in the winter sun.
On the sideline, barking instructions with a commanding tone, was a shorter man in his forties, sturdy build and greying around the edges. He turned the second Rafael stepped onto the pitch.
That had to be him.
[Mark Dempsey – Assistant Manager. Loyal. Blunt. Tactical IQ: 74.]
"Ah," Mark said, jogging over. "You must be the new gaffer. Christ, you're even younger in person."
"Rafael Moretti," he replied, offering a hand.
They shook, firm and brisk.
"Mark Dempsey. Interim head coach—until now, I suppose."
Rafael gave a calm nod. "I officially start in two days."
Mark arched a brow. "Could've fooled me. You're walking around like you already run the place."
"I'm just doing my homework," Rafael replied. "Wouldn't feel right showing up cold."
Mark gave a dry, almost amused grunt. "Good. You'll need that attitude. And maybe a thick skin, too."
Rafael tilted his head. "Why's that?"
Mark jerked a thumb toward the training pitch. "Some of the lads… they've already got their opinions. You're young. Fresh-faced. A couple of 'em have been calling you 'too cute to be a gaffer.'"
Rafael blinked. "Cute."
Mark smirked. "Welcome to the Championship."
Rafael turned his gaze to the players, some of whom were clearly whispering among themselves as they snuck glances his way.
"Let 'em talk," he said. "I've been doubted before. Doesn't bother me."
Mark studied him for a moment—more carefully now. "Then you're already one step ahead. Look, I'll help where I can. These boys need structure, but they also need to believe. And that starts with you."
Rafael nodded once. "Then let's get to work."
Mark's smirk turned into something closer to respect. "Alright, boss. Let's see what you're made of."