The headlines came first.
VALENCIA EYES READING'S YOUNG PRODIGY
CHELSEA SHORTLISTS MORETTI FOR U23 HEAD ROLE
GERMAN CLUBS MONITORING MORETTI'S RISE
FROM THE BASEMENT TO THE BRINK: THE RISE OF RAFAEL MORETTI
Then came the flood.
Agents. Journalists. Sporting directors. Old friends he hadn't heard from in years. Everyone wanted a piece of Rafael Moretti.
It was the kind of attention that could make a man dizzy. But Rafael didn't feel dizzy. He felt… dislocated. Like a man walking through a dream he'd had a thousand times before — only now, it was happening, and it didn't feel like a dream at all.
Valencia's offer was the first to go public. It had leaked like all good stories do — not from the club, not from the agent, but from someone in the room who wanted it known. Within hours, Spanish football Twitter had ignited.
@LaLigaVibes
Valencia have submitted a formal approach to Reading for 19-year-old Rafael Moretti. The plan? Hand him the keys. Immediate first-team role. Total control. They want to rebuild from the ground up — and they think he's the answer.
@FootyRomance
Moretti ball at the Mestalla? Inject it into my veins.
@Valencia_Inside
The youngest manager in English football — one of the brightest tactical minds in Europe. You let other clubs have a shot, and we'll be stuck in this cycle forever. Give him the job.
The English media caught wind quickly. Then came the Germans — Eintracht Frankfurt, Freiburg, even a whisper from Leverkusen. Each wanted a conversation, a meeting, a plan. Even Ajax had reportedly sent scouts to watch Reading's Luton performance. "This is the football we used to play," one Dutch paper had written. "And he's doing it in the English second division."
But closer to home, something else stirred.
Chelsea had been quiet, but not absent. It wasn't the first team job — not yet — but the U23s. Their academy was legendary, their pipeline deep. And perhaps they thought Moretti could mould it, refine it, elevate it. There was an intimacy in the approach. A whisper, not a shout. They knew the emotional play too — Cobham was where Rafael had grown up, trained, dreamed.
The idea of returning was… complicated.
And that's what this was. Complicated.
The morning meetings at Bearwood had begun to feel surreal. One moment he was sketching pressing triggers for a home match against Cardiff, the next he was reviewing emails titled "Personal Interest: Directorial Contact — Valencia CF."
Dempsey tried to keep things light.
"You're officially a hot topic, boss," he said, scrolling through notifications as he passed Rafael a coffee. "Careful, or I might need a raise just to keep working for you."
But even his smile carried something heavier.
They both knew what this meant. Rafael had changed things — at Reading, in the Championship, in the eyes of Europe. And now the question wasn't if he would be poached.
It was when.
Late in the afternoon, after training had ended and the press calls were done, Rafael stood alone in his office. Rain rolled down the windows in uneven trails, the skies above Berkshire turning to a familiar shade of grey.
He turned toward the tactics board. His team — still only half-built, still imperfect — was pinned in magnetic shapes. Casadei in that advanced left half-space. Wharton dropping deep to bait pressure. Maatsen and Savio like dual blades slicing through the flanks.
It had taken him weeks to build this. And now they moved like music. Fluid. Fearless.
He thought of Fontana — just a boy, now suddenly thrown into first-team football and holding his own.
He thought of the fans, singing his name. The chants weren't just about the players anymore. "Moretti's Royals," they'd begun to call them.
And he thought of the press conference, just days ago. When he was asked — not whether he'd be at Reading next year — but whether he'd still be here next month.
He didn't have an answer.
That night, the complex was nearly empty. Rafael stayed late, eyes stinging with fatigue, reviewing video clips, making notes that didn't need making. The silence was familiar now — a balm, a space to think.
At 8:07 p.m., his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number. No Caller ID.
He let it ring once.
Twice.
A third time.
And then, something in him answered.
"…Hello?"
A pause.
Then a voice. Soft. Polite. Impossible to mistake.
"Rafael. Good evening. This is Pep."
There was a beat of silence, as if the call had cut out. But it hadn't. Rafael just didn't know what to say.
Pep Guardiola. On his phone. Speaking his name like they were colleagues. Equals.
"I saw your last few matches," Pep continued, almost conversationally. "Luton especially. The movement. The spacing. The way you've got Wharton playing like a tempo controller — very, very good."
Rafael blinked, stunned silent.
"Listen," Pep said. "I'm in London for a few days. I'd like to have dinner. Tomorrow night, if you're free."
Still no answer. Rafael could barely hear himself breathing.
"Don't worry. Nothing formal. I just… I like to meet people who see football clearly. It won't be long."
Finally, Rafael found his voice.
"…Yes. Of course. I'd be honoured."
"Good," Pep said. "I'll have someone send the address. Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Don't be late."
The call ended.
Rafael sat in the dark for a long while.
Phone still in his hand.
Mind spinning.
Not with ego.
Not with pressure.
But with possibility.
Because this — this wasn't a job offer.
It was something far more dangerous.
A door.
Opening.
And the question now wasn't whether Rafael Moretti could step through it.
It was whether he should.
The restaurant was quiet — not silent, but hushed in a way that made every detail feel sharper. The low clink of cutlery, the rustle of napkins, the gentle hum of soft jazz from a nearby speaker. Rafael sat near the back, the table reserved under a name he didn't recognize. Of course it was. Pep Guardiola wouldn't use his own.
It was strange, how calm he felt. Dressed in a tailored navy suit, his hair still damp from a shower he hadn't really needed — just something to keep his mind busy — Rafael sipped water and glanced at the door.
At 8:02 p.m., it opened.
Pep arrived not with an entourage, but alone. No fanfare, no press. Just a black coat draped over one arm and that unmistakable presence — focused, light on his feet, intense even in stillness. He spotted Rafael, nodded once, and approached.
"Rafael," he said warmly, extending a hand. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course," Rafael replied, standing. "Thank you for the invitation."
They sat. The waiter approached, took their orders without comment, and vanished as if on cue. Silence settled between them — not awkward, but weighted. Pep studied Rafael for a long second, eyes sharp and curious.
"You know," Pep began, "I don't normally do this."
Rafael smiled faintly. "Dinner?"
Pep chuckled. "No. Reach out. To young coaches. But… what you're doing — it caught my attention. Not just the wins. The style. The structure. The freedom."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You're not afraid of the ball. Most young coaches try to copy tactics. You're building principles."
Rafael's heart thudded, but he masked it well. Praise from Guardiola — it was surreal. But also… strangely grounding.
"I grew up watching your Barcelona," Rafael said. "Then your Bayern. And City, of course. It's all been an education."
Pep nodded. "And you're a good student. But what I want is to offer you something more."
The food arrived, but neither reached for it. Pep's eyes didn't leave Rafael.
"I'm not going to coach forever. Two years, maybe three — and then I'll move on. But this game… it doesn't let go of people like us. Not really. I've been thinking more about what comes after. Not for me — for the game itself. For what comes next."
Rafael stared at him, the words still catching up to their meaning.
Pep continued. "Come work with me. Spend a year — maybe two — inside. Learn everything. Not just training plans or tactics. But leadership. Culture. The small things that no one teaches you."
Rafael blinked. "You mean… as your assistant?"
Pep smiled. "No. As my student. I don't need assistants. I need someone who can carry this forward. Someone who thinks. Someone who listens. Someone who knows when to break the rules."
The offer hung there — heavy, glowing.
"You're young," Pep said. "You have time. But you also have opportunity. This — this moment you're in right now — it can vanish fast. One bad season. One injury crisis. One wrong job. But if you come with me, I'll give you the time to shape yourself."
Rafael sat back, his mind racing. What he'd built at Reading — the trust, the squad, the belief — it was his. Tangible. Real. But this?
This was legacy.
"I don't want to pull you from your project," Pep added, voice softer now. "But I see something in you. Something rare. And if you come, I'll help you become what you're meant to be."
The food lay untouched.
Rafael looked out the window for a moment — at the streetlights flickering on wet pavement, at the shadows of passing cars — and then back at the man across from him.
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Pep didn't expect him to.
"You have time," he said, finally picking up his fork. "But not forever."
….
[2 Days Later]
The lights of Loftus Road bathed the pitch in icy white as Reading stepped onto QPR's turf, a team transformed. Ten games unbeaten. A reputation building. But tonight wasn't about streaks. Tonight was about proof.
And they delivered it.
From the first whistle, Reading looked sharper — not just technically, but emotionally. They played with a purpose that cut deeper than tactics.
It started with Casadei.
In the 12th minute, he slipped a pass between the lines to Savio, who dropped his shoulder, shifted inside, and played a disguised ball across the box. João pounced — one touch, top corner.
1–0.
Minutes later, Adam Wharton intercepted a loose ball and launched a stunning switch to Maatsen, who combined beautifully with Savio again. The Brazilian curled a teasing cross into the box — Ince met it with a volley.
2–0.
QPR pulled one back with a towering header, but Reading didn't flinch. In fact, they raised the tempo.
Casadei made it three just before half-time. A 30-yard thunderbolt — pure venom. The away end exploded.
Then came the moment of magic.
In the 67th minute, Reading countered. João drew defenders wide, Ince cut in, but instead of shooting, he squared it. Maatsen, arriving from deep, smashed it home off the inside of the post.
4–1. Statement made.
The whistle blew. Reading's players didn't just celebrate — they exhaled. They were playing football that mattered now.
…
After the match, Rafael stood in the mixed zone, hood of his coat pulled back, rain dotting his shoulders. The questions came fast.
But one cut through the usual noise.
"Rafael, there's been a photo doing the rounds. You and Pep Guardiola. Dinner in London. It's gone viral — any truth to the rumours swirling?"
Rafael chuckled, shaking his head slowly.
"We were just talking tactics," he said dryly.
"Nothing more scandalous than possession triangles and inverted full-backs."
Laughter rippled through the press group. But the follow-up came quick:
"Seriously — Valencia are circling. Chelsea U23s too. And your name's being whispered in Premier League circles. Are you staying at Reading?"
Rafael looked up at the crowd of microphones and notepads.
And then, calmly, he said it.
"Yes. I'm staying."
A hush. A flicker of surprise.
"I've got unfinished business here," he continued. "We were 23rd when I arrived. Now we're playing football that matters. But we're not done. Not close. We've built something — together — and I'm not walking away when we've just started carving our identity."
Cameras clicked. Reporters scribbled. But Rafael just offered a small nod and turned toward the tunnel.
…
Hours later, the team bus hummed softly as it carved its way through the night. Most of the players were half-asleep, headphones on, the glow of their screens lighting up the dark.
Rafael sat at the front, scrolling through his phone. Headlines. Praise. Clips of goals. The photo with Pep — filtered, cropped, memed a hundred different ways.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
See you in the Premier League next season then.
He blinked, already smiling.
How are you so sure I'll be there?
A pause.
Then:
Because you're building something that can't be ignored.
Because football always catches up to ideas that matter.
And because people like you don't stay in the shadows for long.
Rafael leaned back, phone resting in his palm.
Pep saw it.
The world was beginning to see it too.
But none of that mattered more than this:
Reading wasn't finished. And unfinished business never sat right with Rafael Moretti.
…
Sky Bet Championship – Standings (Top 12 after Matchday 33):
Burnley – 73 points
Sheffield United – 71 points
Luton Town – 69 points
Middlesbrough – 67 points
Watford – 61 points
Millwall – 60 points
— (Playoff Line)
Sunderland – 58 points
Blackburn Rovers – 56 points
West Bromwich Albion – 53 points
Reading – 50 points
Norwich City – 48 points
Preston North End – 48 points