The heavy clouds over Bearwood seemed to weigh down the afternoon, but inside the training ground, the atmosphere was almost electric. Players trickled into the meeting room, boots squeaking on the polished floor, the buzz of chatter fading as they noticed Rafael Moretti already standing at the front — no notes, no projector, no distractions.
Just him.
And a simple whiteboard with two bold words scrawled across it:
The Mission.
When the last player — Loum — took his seat, Rafael scanned the room. His gaze was steady, almost uncomfortably sharp. There were no smiles today.
"This," he said, tapping the whiteboard, "is what today is about."
He let the silence sit for a second longer than normal, tightening the room's focus.
"Thirteen games left," he continued. "Fifty points. We're 10th. Ten points off the playoffs."
He paced once across the front of the room, hands behind his back, like a general briefing his soldiers before a campaign.
"I'm not here to tell you it's easy. I'm here to tell you it's possible."
Murmurs of agreement around the room. Yiadom sat forward slightly, eyes locked in. McIntyre nudged Wharton in encouragement. Even João, usually the most laid-back, looked locked in.
Rafael planted his foot with a quiet thud.
"Our mission is simple: get into sixth place. Steal it. Rip it away from anyone who thinks it's theirs."
He pointed at the table pinned on the wall: Norwich, West Brom, Blackburn — all bunched around that coveted sixth spot.
"Those teams?" he said, voice low. "They're comfortable. They think their seasons are already written. That it's all downhill now. We're going to tear that script apart."
He tapped the board again, harder this time.
"And when we get our chance…" His voice dipped, dangerous now. "We don't blink."
There was a fire spreading in the room now — the kind players feel deep in their chests, even before they realize it.
Rafael paused, letting the weight of it all settle. Then he smiled — a small, sharp smile.
"You are good enough," he said quietly. "You are ready."
The players rose almost together, energy crackling, the mission planted in their heads.
Top six.
Or nothing.
…
Matchday 34 – Rotherham (A)
It was ugly.
The pitch looked like a battlefield, the wind howled like it had a grudge, and Rotherham fought like their lives depended on it.
Reading didn't flinch.
They played their football. Controlled, patient, tireless. The breakthrough came in the 72nd minute — Maatsen's driven cross skipped through a mess of legs and landed at Casadei's feet at the back post.
1–0.
Not pretty. But precious.
In the dressing room, Rafael stood still, looked around at the group, and said only three words:
"One down. Next."
Matchday 35 – Blackburn Rovers (H)
Emotion thickened the air for this one. Wharton, now in Reading blue, lined up against his boyhood club.
He didn't blink.
Reading set the tone early — Ince slalomed down the right and smashed one in off the near post by the 11th minute.
Wharton ran the midfield like a conductor. Before the break, he picked out João with a laser-guided ball behind the lines. João took one touch, then buried it.
2–0.
The fans gave Wharton a standing ovation as he left the pitch late on.
A torch passed. A message sent.
Matchday 36 – Preston North End (A)
A cold Tuesday under the lights.
Preston scored first — a whipped free-kick nodded in past Lumley.
It didn't faze Reading. If anything, it woke them up.
Casadei equalized from a corner — a bullet header. Then João added a second from the spot after Savio was tripped in full flight.
The best came late: Savio collected a long ball on the turn, jinked inside, and curled a left-footed beauty into the far top corner.
3–1.
Another away day. Another statement.
Matchday 37 – Hull City (H)
Back at the Madejski. The wind was calmer, but the intent was not.
Reading flew out of the blocks. Maatsen bombed down the left, cut it back to Ince, 1–0 inside five minutes.
Hull tried to play. Reading didn't let them.
Wharton danced through midfield traffic and slipped in Casadei for the second. Then, in the 81st, a set piece — Carroll, rising like it was 2012 again.
3–0.
Moretti didn't smile. He nodded once. The machine was working.
Matchday 38 – Swansea City (A)
The first real setback in the run.
Swansea played their own version of chess — slow, deliberate, and frustrating.
Reading still carved chances, but the final touch was missing. Ince skimmed the bar. João hit the post.
In the 84th minute, Swansea scored against the run with a breakaway. But Reading answered — Savio danced through three in stoppage time and squared it for Hoilett to tap home.
1–1.
Two points dropped or one saved?
Depends on your lens.
Moretti called it "a necessary lesson."
Matchday 39 – Watford (H)
The bounce-back was brutal.
Reading tore into Watford like they had a personal grudge.
Savio was unplayable — two assists before the 30-minute mark. João finished both. Casadei added a third from distance. Ince curled in a fourth with a wink to the crowd.
4–0.
The fans didn't stop singing for ten minutes after the whistle.
One of those nights.
Matchday 40 – Bristol City (A)
Dogfight.
Bristol pressed, clawed, fouled, slowed the game to a crawl.
But Reading stayed composed.
Wharton and Loum smothered the middle. Eventually, the cracks came. Ince pounced on a loose ball and buried it near-post.
The last 20 minutes were survival — bodies on the line, Sarr with a vital block, Lumley tipping one over the bar.
1–0.
Earned, not given.
Matchday 41 – Cardiff City (H)
The fans expected a win. Reading gave them more.
Wharton opened the scoring — a rare goal, but a beauty. One touch out of his feet, one curling strike from 25 yards.
Then came Savio. And again. Two goals that defied physics — quick feet, sharper mind. A low rocket, then a dinked finish that drew laughter from the stands.
3–0.
Maatsen even tried a rabona assist.
They were having fun now. But not losing focus.
Matchday 42 – Birmingham City (A)
Devastation.
Reading didn't just win — they destroyed.
5–0.
João with a hat-trick — every finish cleaner than the last. Savio ran rings. Ince pulled strings. Maatsen got two assists.
The home fans booed. Reading fans sang for twenty minutes after full-time.
Moretti called it "our most complete performance yet."
No one disagreed.
Matchday 43 – Millwall (H)
A different kind of test. Grit, not flair.
Millwall came to scrap. Reading rose to it.
McIntyre scored early from a corner. The game became a grind. Tackles flew. Cards came out.
But Reading never wavered. They held the line, saw it through.
1–0.
Not champagne football — but a bottle of something vintage.
Matchday 44 – Stoke City (A)
Pressure mounting. Reading now within touching distance of the playoffs.
Stoke tried to sit deep. It didn't work.
Casadei picked the lock. Savio opened the vault.
João added one more just for good measure — a low curler across the keeper.
3–1.
Reading were now level on points with sixth.
The dream was alive.
….
The overhead lights buzzed gently in the early evening quiet. The rest of the building had mostly emptied out, but in Rafael Moretti's office, the light still glowed, the air thick with purpose.
Dempsey leaned over the table, arms crossed, staring at the whiteboard where the league table was scribbled in marker. Rafael stood nearby, one hand on his hip, the other gripping a pen like it might give him the answer he needed.
"Sixth: Coventry, 78 points. Plus 15 goal difference," Dempsey said slowly, tapping his finger against the number. "Seventh: Us. Also 78. Plus 12."
Rafael's jaw was tense. "So we need two things by the end of all this," he muttered. "Points — and margin."
Dempsey nodded. "Two more games. Sunderland away. Sheffield United at home. Not exactly soft landings."
Rafael exhaled through his nose, then looked over his shoulder at the wall — a calendar hung there, with every fixture circled and annotated in black and red. They had clawed back from 18th place. A miracle run. But now, it was razor-thin margins.
"Stoke was solid," Dempsey said, trying to lighten the tone. "Three goals away from home. We're the form side in the league."
Rafael didn't respond at first. His eyes flicked to the table again. Then he said quietly, "Sunderland have nothing to lose. That makes them dangerous."
"They're 11th," Dempsey agreed. "No playoffs, no relegation. Just vibes and chaos."
Rafael paced slowly in front of the table. "We'll need to control the tempo. Stay patient. One mistake now…" He stopped pacing. "…and everything we built can slip in a heartbeat."
Dempsey sat down, letting the silence stretch for a moment.
"Do you realise," he said after a while, "how absurd this is?"
Rafael glanced at him.
"From twenty-third place," Dempsey continued, "to joint-sixth. In three months. This isn't just form. It's a revolution."
Rafael didn't smile. But he did nod. "And revolutions don't stop until something changes forever."
He looked down at the table one last time.
"Two matches," he said. "Two opportunities."
Dempsey leaned back. "And a margin of three goals."
Rafael gave a half-smirk. "I don't care how many goals it takes."
He turned away from the whiteboard, eyes narrowing as he pictured the Stadium of Light.
"I just know we're not finished yet."
…
@EFLZone
Reading have collected 56 points from their last 21 games under Rafael Moretti.
They were 23rd. They're now one win from the playoffs.
This isn't just a turnaround.
This is a miracle.
#ReadingFC #EFL
@ChampionshipFiles
What Moretti is doing at Reading is historic.
21 games unbeaten
56 points collected
5th best attack, 2nd best form in Europe
This is the story of the season.
#ReadingFC
@Tactical_Tales
Forget league positions for a moment — the way Reading are playing under Moretti is sublime.
Fluid football. Tactical bravery. Relentless pressing.
They're not surviving — they're ascending.
#EFL #ReadingFC
@TheFootballArchive
Teams that have gone 21 unbeaten in the Championship since 2010:
Leeds (2020)
Burnley (2023)
Reading (2023)
Except Reading did it after being 23rd in the table. Unreal.
#ReadingFC
….
[Gameweek 45: Away at Sunderland]
The Stadium of Light shimmered under the floodlights, a cathedral of steel and noise. Rain slicked the pitch, falling in sheets that blurred the lines and turned every blade of grass into a knife-edge.
But Reading didn't flinch.
They had come here with purpose. With belief. With twenty-one games of proof behind them.
Fifty-six points from a possible sixty-three. Moretti's Reading were the story of the season — fast, fluid, fearless. Unbeaten since January. One point from the playoff places.
And tonight, everything was on the line.
From the first whistle, they were electric. Adam Wharton and Casadei dictated the rhythm like twin conductors. Maatsen and Savio terrorized the flanks, carving open Sunderland's wide spaces with every overlap and inverted run.
By the 10th minute, Reading had rattled the post twice.
First, João rose above Ballard and crashed a header off the bar. Moments later, Ince curled one from the edge of the box — fingertips and timber saving Sunderland again.
Moretti barely moved on the sideline. Arms folded. Expression unreadable. But his eyes — his eyes were devouring the pitch, living every second.
By halftime, it was still 0–0, but the stats told the story.
Possession: 63% Reading.
Shots: 14 to 3.
xG: 1.7 to 0.2.
In the dressing room, it was quiet.
Not tense.
Focused.
Rafael stood in front of them, soaking wet but dry in tone.
"You know what to do. Just do it."
The second half began with the same rhythm.
Relentless. Methodical. Brilliant.
Loum's shot was deflected just wide. Savio danced past two men on the touchline and clipped a ball across the six-yard box that João missed by a toe.
Sunderland had no answers — only retreat.
Their keeper made save after save. The defenders hacked clearances into the stands. Their bench never sat down.
Then came the 70th.
Maatsen surged down the left again, linking with Wharton, who slipped a disguised pass through the lines to Casadei. The Italian burst into the box, opened his body — and the ball curled just wide of the far post.
Moretti turned to Dempsey and muttered, "It's coming."
But it didn't come.
Not the goal.
Not the breakthrough.
Just more chances, more pressure, more near misses.
And then… the 89th minute.
Reading won a corner.
Maatsen trotted over, Savio standing nearby to offer the short option. In the box, the big men crowded — João, Loum, and Naby Sarr made their way in.
The delivery wasn't perfect. A bit too high, a bit too flat. Sunderland cleared it to the edge, and then launched it long.
The ball skidded through the wet grass — hard, fast, spinning — and Sarr was there.
Alone.
Just past halfway.
A simple control. One touch, then cycle it back.
Except…
His plant foot went.
Just a slip.
His boot caught the turf wrong — wet and uneven — and his legs tangled beneath him.
He fell.
And the stadium held its breath.
Because in that instant, it was done.
Sunderland's striker — quick, ruthless — was already charging. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter.
He took the ball in stride and flew forward, nothing between him and the goal but a desperate Joe Lumley.
Reading scrambled. McIntyre ran. Yiadom ran. But there was no catching him.
Lumley charged out.
The striker stayed calm.
One touch left. One shot.
The net rippled.
1–0.
The stadium exploded — red and white flares, fists pumping, guttural roars that swallowed the night.
Moretti didn't move.
He stood on the touchline, soaked to the bone, frozen in the moment.
Behind him, the bench dropped into silence.
Sarr lay on the ground, hands over his face. Casadei crouched at the edge of the box, fists clenched.
Maatsen punched the turf. Wharton just stared ahead.
The whistle blew three minutes later, but it felt like the game had ended the moment Sarr slipped.
…
In the tunnel, there was nothing to say.
Rafael walked slowly, alone, past reporters who knew better than to ask. Past Sunderland staff trying not to gloat. Past his own players, heads low, jerseys heavy with rain and regret.
He paused outside the dressing room.
A single breath.
Then he walked in.
The room was quiet. No shouting. No chairs kicked. Just the weight of injustice. The pain of knowing they had done everything… and lost anyway.
Sarr sat on the bench, still in full kit, head in his hands.
Rafael walked over.
He didn't speak.
He sat beside him.
For a long time, they just sat there.
Then Rafael put a hand on Sarr's shoulder.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly. "We prepare."
Sarr didn't lift his head, but he nodded.
…
Outside, the headlines were already writing themselves.
@SkyEFL
FT: Sunderland 1–0 Reading. A heartbreaker for the Royals. One mistake. One slip. And Reading's 21-game unbeaten run comes to a crashing end.
@EFLZone
Moretti's men dominated for 89 minutes. But football doesn't care. It's cruel. It's brutal. And tonight, it was unforgiving.
@RoyalTalks
We were the better team. We've been the better team for 3 months. But this game… this game broke us.
@TheChampionshipHub
Reading: 56 points from 21 games under Rafael Moretti. One defeat. But it might be the one that costs them everything.
…
Rafael lay awake that night.
Not angry.
Not devastated.
Just… quiet.
He replayed every second in his mind. The pressing. The passing. The chances. The slip.
He thought about how far they'd come.
How far they still had to go.
Then his phone buzzed.
A single message.
From Pep.
"Now let's see what kind of man you are, Rafael. This is where it gets interesting."
….
Reading Need a Final-Day Miracle to Make the Playoffs — But Don't Count Them Out Yet
By [Lucy Grimsby]
When Rafael Moretti took charge of Reading in December, they were 23rd in the Championship — adrift, disjointed, and destined for another year of disappointment. Fast forward to April, and Reading are now one of the most in-form sides in the league. They've gone 21 games unbeaten, taken 56 points from a possible 63, and transformed from relegation candidates to playoff contenders.
But after Friday night's heartbreak at the Stadium of Light — a crushing 1–0 defeat to Sunderland, courtesy of a cruel 89th-minute counterattack after Naby Sarr's slip — Reading's playoff hopes are hanging by a thread.
Here's the situation heading into the final day of the season:
6. Coventry City - 81 points. GD: +15
7. Reading -78 points. GD: +11
For Reading to reach the playoffs, three things must happen on Matchday 46:
Reading must beat Sheffield United away — already a monumental task given the Blades are top of the table.
Coventry must lose to Burnley — who are second and pushing to win the title.
Reading must overcome a 3-goal gap in goal difference.
If Coventry lose by one, Reading need to win by at least four.
If Coventry lose by two, Reading need to win by three.
A 5-goal swing seals it with certainty.
It's a tall order — but not an impossible one.
Can Moretti perform one more miracle for Reading?