The city of Reading hadn't slept.
Not really.
Not since the 8–0. Not since they tore Sheffield United's title dreams into ashes and stormed into the playoffs in the most ridiculous, unbelievable, miraculous fashion in Championship history.
The pubs were still packed. The mural of Savio celebrating in front of the East Stand had already begun to appear on tiles and phone cases and Twitter headers. Fireworks had gone off somewhere near the university campus. Taxi drivers talked of Rafael Moretti the same way Italians once spoke of Sacchi or Conte — but with more swearing, more disbelief, more love.
In the training ground at Bearwood, the mood was buzzing. But inside Rafael Moretti?
There was only focus.
The job wasn't done.
It was Monday morning. Just four days until the first leg against Luton Town.
Rafael stood at the edge of the pitch as training began. The skies were grey but dry — for once. In front of him, the squad buzzed through warm-up rondos. Fontana stretched with McIntyre. Wharton laughed with Casadei. Savio and Maatsen were practising one-twos at half-speed, like dancers rehearsing a routine.
Junior Hoilett jogged past and called out with a grin, "Boss, that 8–0 still on repeat in my dreams."
Tom Ince added, "You reckon they're still looking for their centre-backs in Sheffield?"
Laughter followed. Light. Free.
But Rafael raised his hand.
"Alright. Back to work. We're not done yet."
The players snapped back to task immediately. That was the thing now. They listened.
As the team split into two groups for tactical drills, Dempsey came to his side, clipboard under one arm.
"We've got everything on Luton's set pieces," he said. "They've scored nine in their last ten games from dead-ball situations. Three from back-post corners, four from near-post flick-ons. They thrive on chaos."
Rafael nodded. "Which is why Fontana starts."
Dempsey blinked. "The kid? Over Sarr?"
"He's not just tall. He's clean. Every single set piece we've faced with him on the pitch — he's cleared it."
Dempsey raised a brow. "You trust him? Under this pressure?"
Rafael glanced across the pitch where Fontana — 17 years old, fearless — was intercepting a pass with a neat read of the play, then spinning away with the ball as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"He plays like he was born in the back line," Rafael said. "I trust him."
Dempsey nodded. "Then so do I."
….
Later that afternoon, Rafael stepped out of his new car, a clean grey Mercedes. It had been five months since he visited — back to the narrow street where his mother still lived in the same modest terrace house.
She opened the door with flour on her hands and a half-finished focaccia in the oven.
"Rafa," she said, a smile lighting her face as she pulled him into a tight hug. "You don't visit enough. Only when you're stressed."
He smiled. "That obvious?"
They sat down in the small kitchen where the walls were lined with family photos — Rafael as a boy in Chelsea blue, then later in Reading colours, and eventually one photo of him coaching the U18s in Italy before the injury.
His mother poured him coffee and said nothing for a while. She just looked at him, studying him.
"You look tired," she said. "But focused. Like your father used to before big matches."
"It's not a match," Rafael said. "It's a war. Two legs. Luton."
"They're not better than you," she said immediately. "I've seen how your boys play. They follow you like you're a general."
Rafael gave a soft laugh. "They believe. That's the part that scares me. Belief is heavy."
His mother placed a hand over his. "But it's also beautiful."
They talked for another hour — not just football, but life. The pressures. The path. The question everyone kept asking: what would he do next? Would he leave for Valencia? Chelsea? City?
She smiled when he asked it aloud.
"I know you, Rafa. You don't walk away from things unfinished. You never have."
…
The next morning, Rafael sat across from Chairman David Holloway in the club's boardroom. A steaming cup of tea sat between them, untouched.
"You've exceeded everything I dreamed of when we brought you in," Holloway said. "That result against Sheffield? Unforgettable. We'll be talking about it for decades."
"I appreciate that," Rafael said. "But we're not done yet."
"Which is why I wanted to meet," Holloway continued. "If — no, when — we go up, you'll have the biggest transfer budget Reading's ever seen. We want you here long-term. Not just to survive in the Premier League. To compete. To grow."
Rafael didn't answer immediately. He looked out the window at the training pitch below.
"I'm not thinking about offers," he said. "Not right now. I've got four days to prepare for Luton. That's where my head is."
Holloway smiled. "That's why you're the right man."
…
That night, the Sky Sports studio buzzed with post-season chaos.
A special panel had been called for what was now being dubbed the Greatest Final Day in Championship History.
On the panel: Jamie Carragher, Thierry Henry, Roy Keane, and Micah Richards.
Carragher sat back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. "I still don't know what I watched. Eight-nil. Eight."
Micah cracked up laughing. "They didn't just beat Sheffield. They destroyed them. Tactical annihilation, and I don't say that lightly."
Roy Keane, arms crossed, looked like he was still processing it. "Embarrassing for Sheffield. You're going for the title and you crumble like that? I don't care how good Reading were — and they were good — that's a disgrace."
Thierry Henry spoke calmly, eyes glittering with something like admiration. "What Rafael Moretti has done with this Reading team — it's genius. Tactical genius. He gave his players freedom, fluidity, and belief. And they repaid him with history."
Carragher nodded. "And let's be clear — they're not sneaking into the playoffs. They're marching in."
Micah added, "Savio, Maatsen, Wharton — these boys are playing like they belong in the Prem already. And Rafael? He's the story of the season."
"Rafa to the Prem?" Carragher mused.
"I'd love to see it," Henry smiled.
"Not if they play like that against my team," Keane muttered.
Laughter followed — but beneath it all, the message was clear:
Reading were real.
And Rafael Moretti had built something terrifying.
Back at Bearwood, Rafael walked the pitch alone under the moonlight. Training was over. Everyone had gone home. But he remained.
He thought about the journey. The relegation zone. The late-night tactical rebuilds. The youth promotions. The Savio gamble. The 21-game unbeaten run. The heartbreak in Sunderland. The explosion in Sheffield.
He looked up at the sky and whispered, "We're not done."
Not yet.
Not until they were in the Premier League.
And maybe not even then.
…
The days leading up to the semi-final first leg were almost monastic in their routine.
Bearwood was quiet—no interviews, no distractions, no music blaring from speakers. Rafael had orchestrated it that way. Silence sharpened focus. Every drill, every passing pattern, every minute spent walking through the tactical plan was a brushstroke on a larger painting. The players rehearsed defensive shape until it was second nature. They ran through set-piece routines until their movements clicked like choreography.
And in a tucked-away corner of the training ground, Frank—the club's soft-spoken but brilliant set-piece coach—unveiled a new corner routine. Subtle, clever, reliant on disguise and movement rather than brute force. It would be stored in the chamber. If the moment came, they'd be ready.
The day arrived under heavy clouds. Not rain, not storm—just that pressure in the air that hinted at something significant. Something that mattered.
The Madejski was a hive of anticipation. The fans packed in early, scarves up, tension mounting. The entire city of Reading seemed to hold its breath.
Kickoff.
From the opening whistle, Reading looked exactly as Rafael had envisioned: patient but menacing. The 4-2-3-1 morphed seamlessly into a 3-2-5 in possession, with Maatsen pushing high, Wharton dropping into build-up, and Ince and Savio constantly switching flanks. Luton's defensive block was resolute—but every pass Reading played was a question. Every run, a challenge to answer.
Then, the breakthrough.
13th minute. Casadei, stationed between the lines, shaped to turn but instead chipped a perfectly weighted ball over Luton's midfield line. Savio—timing his run like a metronome—ghosted past his marker, took the ball on his chest, and before it could hit the ground, volleyed it clean into the bottom-right corner.
1–0. The stadium erupted. The kind of eruption that shook the bones of the past few years of mediocrity.
Luton responded with a set piece, earning a corner in the 21st. But the 17-year-old Luca Fontana rose above everyone, clearing the danger with conviction. No hesitation. No nerves. Just dominance.
The ball broke loose, and before anyone could reset, Maatsen sprinted onto it like a bullet. He was the fastest player in the squad, and tonight, he looked like the fastest in the country. As he surged forward, Ince pulled alongside him—but Maatsen ignored him. One quick stepover. Then he knocked it past the final man, and suddenly, it was just him and the keeper.
Bang. Smashed low and hard into the far corner. 2–0.
The commentators lost it.
"Is this kid a left-back or Mbappé?" one shouted, almost laughing.
Luton were stunned. The first half ended with Reading completely in control.
After the break, Luton tried to build some composure. Their passes were slower, more careful, but the tension was visible. As if they were scared of what might happen if they pushed too far forward.
In the 54th minute, Wharton pounced on a heavy touch from a Luton midfielder, slid the ball to Loum. Loum shifted it right to Yiadom, who surged up the flank and found Casadei between the lines again.
Casadei spun, danced past a challenge with a flip-flap that left the defender flat-footed, and threaded a pass through the chaos.
Ince got there first. One touch, square ball.
João.
Cool as ice.
3–0.
The Reading bench exploded. Not with wild celebration—but with the satisfaction of a job executed flawlessly.
In the 65th, Rafael made two changes—protective ones. Off came Savio and Wharton, replaced by Hoilett and Fornah. The game was done. It was about preservation now.
The final whistle felt more like a signal. Not just of victory. But of something stirring in the Championship. Reading weren't just playing good football—they were dominating, dictating, dismantling.
And as the players walked off the pitch—calm, not over-celebrating—Rafael Moretti stood by the tunnel, arms folded.
One leg done.
One to go.
The floodlights still bathed the Madejski in a soft glow long after the final whistle. Inside the press suite, reporters buzzed with excitement. On a wall-mounted screen, the post-match analysis had already begun.
The Sky Sports studio lit up in its usual hues of blue and silver, the air thick with anticipation. Four of the game's most recognisable voices leaned over the sleek desk, their expressions ranging from amused to impressed.
Jamie Carragher was the first to speak, his Scouse accent cutting through the hum of post-match graphics. "I'll be honest," he said, pointing toward the highlights looping behind them. "That was domination. Reading didn't just win — they dismantled Luton. That left side — Savio and Maatsen — it's electric. That's not normal for a Championship team. That's top-tier stuff."
Beside him, Micah Richards let out a booming laugh, nearly knocking over his water. "Mate — Maatsen! He's a full-back playing like Mbappé! That solo run for the second goal? Come on! I nearly stood up and applauded in the studio." He threw his hands in the air. "And then you've got Casadei doing flip-flaps like he's back at Stamford Bridge for a testimonial. Madness."
Thierry Henry, ever the composed tactician, leaned forward with a knowing smile. "It's not just skill — it's intelligence. Every movement had a reason. Loum and Wharton, they controlled the centre like chess players. You watch Fontana — seventeen years old, making grown men look nervous on set pieces. That's not coaching — that's culture. That's belief."
Then Roy Keane, arms folded and brow furrowed, gave his verdict. "They were good. Very good. But let's calm down a bit, yeah? It's one leg. You don't win the playoffs in the first game. I've seen teams bottle it after bigger leads. Let's see how they handle the pressure away."
Carragher raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Roy. Be honest — that's one of the best playoff performances you've seen in a while."
Keane shrugged. "It's the best I've seen Reading play in ten years. But like I said, Wembley's still two games away. Don't hand out medals just yet."
Back at the stadium, Rafael Moretti watched the analysis quietly on a small TV in his office. Dempsey leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and grinning. "Mbappé's cousin, huh?"
Rafael smirked. "Let's hope Luton see it that way too."
The city of Reading was still buzzing outside. But inside the training ground, the mood was measured. They were halfway to something extraordinary — and no one knew that more than Rafael himself.
The second leg was tighter, just as Rafael expected. Kenilworth Road was buzzing, Luton desperate to claw something back. They pressed higher, tackled harder, forced Reading into a slower rhythm.
But Reading didn't panic. They absorbed the pressure and struck when it mattered.
In the 23rd minute, Wharton slid a pinpoint ball through to Savio, who danced past his man and curled it into the far corner. 1–0 Reading on the night. 4–0 on aggregate.
Luton answered with fire. A scrappy rebound goal in the 37th minute brought the crowd to life, cutting the deficit to 4–1 overall. It was the first time Reading had looked unsettled in weeks.
But not for long.
In the 64th minute, Ince sealed it. A clever flick-on from João fell kindly, and he rifled it into the roof of the net.
5–1 on aggregate.
From there, Reading controlled everything. The crowd quieted. The final whistle blew.
They were going to Wembley.
…
The lights in Rafael Moretti's apartment were dim, the curtains drawn against the moonlight as the city of Reading murmured outside his windows. The usual hum of late-night traffic and distant pub chatter was muted tonight — or maybe Rafael just couldn't hear it over the noise in his own head.
He sat on the edge of his couch, still in a half-buttoned shirt, shoes untied, his suit jacket thrown haphazardly over the back of a nearby chair. His phone buzzed silently beside him, messages pouring in: congratulations, good luck, see you at Wembley. He didn't touch it.
The TV was off. The laptop closed. All he had in front of him was a single sheet of paper — Middlesbrough's likely starting XI. A simple list. But it might as well have been carved in stone.
Wembley.
It wasn't just a stadium. It was theatre. Pressure. Noise. History.
This wasn't like Rotherham away or Birmingham on a cold Wednesday night. This was the game. The last step. One match to decide everything. Promotion. Glory. A seat at the Premier League table. Or the heartbreak of just falling short.
And he knew Middlesbrough were no easy opponent. Quick on the wings. Sharp on transitions. Chuba Akpom — ruthless in the final third. Their midfield pivot was agile and combative. They could sit deep or press high. Their shape was disciplined, their goals often sudden.
But it wasn't the tactics that had Rafael pacing the room. It was the occasion.
He had prepared for every opponent this season. Picked them apart. Out-thought them. But Wembley was different.
Not because of the size of the pitch. Not because of the grandeur.
Because of the pressure.
Some players froze under it. He'd seen it before — good teams wilt under bright lights. The weight of expectation dulling sharpness, dragging down the legs.
His players weren't Premier League stars. They were a team of believers. Of fighters. Of promise and grit. But how would they respond when 80,000 eyes were watching? When every pass, every mistake echoed under the arch?
Would Fontana still dominate in the air?
Would Savio still dance in the final third?
Would Wharton still conduct the midfield like he had all season?
Rafael exhaled deeply and stood. Walked to the window. Looked out.
The town was still.
Tomorrow would be training. Then media duties. Then meetings with analysts. It would all blur together.
But tonight, all he could do was think.
He thought of his journey — from his injury at Cobham, the collapse of his playing dreams, to this new purpose. To Reading. To Savio. To Maatsen. To Wharton. To every single player who had trusted his vision.
And he thought of the opponent.
He didn't fear Middlesbrough.
He feared what pressure could do.
But then again, hadn't Reading thrived under pressure?
Burnley. Sheffield United. Luton.
They said it couldn't be done.
And they did it anyway.
Rafael returned to his desk and picked up the pen.
He scribbled three words on the back of the Middlesbrough sheet.
"Nothing to fear."
Then he smiled — small, calm, dangerous.
Because he wasn't just thinking anymore.
He was planning.
Wembley was waiting.
Rafael was just about to shut off the lights when the soft blue glow flickered to life again.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Milestone Unlocked: Reached the Playoff Final
Progress: Tactical Destroyer – Level 51
Reward:Early Access – Future Wonderkid
Rafael raised an eyebrow.
"Another one?" he muttered, almost amused.
The screen shifted, revealing a name in sleek, glowing font:
Desire Doué
"Huh," Rafael whispered. "Desire?"
He typed it quickly into his phone.
A few taps later, he found himself staring at a stats page.
Desire Doué – Stade Rennais.
Just 17. Versatile. Could play as a 10, a winger, even deeper in midfield.
Four goals. One assist. Thirty-four appearances.
Not mind-blowing numbers, but then again — at 17? In Ligue 1? That alone was impressive. He watched a short clip. A darting run from midfield, a clever dribble, a low, precise shot into the corner.
"He's got something," Rafael murmured.
It wasn't flashy. It was sharp. Clean. Efficient.
Exactly the kind of player you got early and developed into a monster.
He opened his personal scouting file and jotted the name down under "2023/24 Targets".
Desire Doué – Rennes
17 years old – composed, mature decision-making, low centre of gravity, two-footed? Vision? Watch more.
He paused. Then underlined the name once.
Twice.
Because if the system said this kid had potential… he wasn't about to ignore it.
Wembley was the next mission.
But beyond that?
Desire might just be part of the future.
——
Long time no update. Sorry about that guys. The Nico Varela story is a lot more popular so I will be updating that one more frequently than this one.