The days leading up to the clash with West Brom passed in quiet preparation. There was no press frenzy, no unexpected transfer drama, just a steady, unbroken focus at the training ground. Rafael liked it that way. The calm before the storm.
But now, standing in the away dugout at The Hawthorns, he felt the tension tightening in his chest. This wasn't just another league fixture—this was a test. West Brom were no pushovers. They were fifth in the table, a team with one eye on the playoffs and the other fixed on any weakness in their opponent. Rafael knew that if he went toe to toe with them in midfield, he'd lose. They had weapons—sharp, tireless, clinical. And at the heart of it all was Jayson Molumby.
Molumby wasn't just good—he was a machine. Box-to-box, relentless in the press, able to pick up loose balls, win duels, break lines, and unleash a shot from thirty yards that could change a game. Rafael respected players like him. And more importantly, he feared what they could do to a side that wasn't prepared.
He looked down at his notes, the final copy of a game plan that had taken days of consideration.
Bypass the midfield. Compact the centre. Hit them where they're slow.
His own midfield didn't have the legs to keep up with a player like Molumby, and Rafael knew it. So he flipped the script. Rather than try to contain him in open space, they'd avoid the space altogether. Instead of trying to dominate possession, they would surrender it strategically—waiting, baiting.
Andy Carroll would be key—an aerial titan. The plan was simple in theory: long balls up to Carroll, who would bring it down or flick it to the flanks. He'd start Ejaria and Ince—his quickest wingers—to punish the spaces West Brom's high fullbacks would leave behind.
Hoilett, normally a winger, would drop into midfield, where his composure and experience could help ride the chaos of the game. The number 10 position? Gone. Instead, an 8, someone more industrious, better suited to help close the spaces Molumby would try to exploit.
It wasn't the prettiest football, but it was practical. Ruthless. Purposeful.
And if they executed it right, it could be enough.
Enough for three points.
A win tonight would carry them out of the thick fog of relegation and into clearer skies—18th place. Not glamorous, but significant. Breathing room.
But what had Rafael staring longer at the league table wasn't just the safety it promised. It was the distance between them and sixth place—20 points.
A stretch, maybe even delusional.
But football was built on the improbable. And Rafael, young as he was, had never been one to surrender to logic when belief still had room to breathe.
He closed the table on his phone and tucked it into his coat pocket. One step at a time. Beat West Brom. Move to 18th. And then?
Then they could dream.
A win tonight would carry them out of the thick fog of relegation and into clearer skies—18th place. Not glamorous, but significant. Breathing room.
But what had Rafael staring longer at the league table wasn't just the safety it promised. It was the distance between them and sixth place—20 points.
A stretch, maybe even delusional.
But football was built on the improbable. And Rafael, young as he was, had never been one to surrender to logic when belief still had room to breathe.
He closed the table on his phone and tucked it into his coat pocket. One step at a time. Beat West Brom. Move to 18th. And then?
Then they could dream.
….
"Big one tonight," Martin Tyler began as the players took their positions on the pitch. "For West Brom, three points takes them to fourth—just six off that automatic promotion spot. The pressure's on."
Don Goodman nodded, eyes on the team sheets. "And for Reading? A win takes them to 18th. Out of the relegation scrap and into that congested midtable where it's just a six-point swing between 30 and 36 across seven teams. This could change everything."
"They've been turning heads under Rafael Moretti," Martin added. "Two wins on the bounce and a real sense of momentum. But tonight—this is a real test. West Brom have quality, and they don't give much away."
As the camera panned across the field and the players adjusted into shape, the commentary team locked into deeper analysis.
"Now tactically," Don Goodman began, "this one's fascinating. We've seen Moretti make bold choices before, but tonight he's clearly chosen to bypass the midfield battle altogether. He's starting Andy Carroll up top, and it looks like Reading will look to him as an aerial pivot—long balls into him, then quick support from the wings."
"Yeah, and you've got Ince on the left and Ejaria on the right," Martin Tyler added. "Two of the quickest in that squad. The idea seems simple—win the second ball, hit the channels, and run at the fullbacks."
"And speaking of fullbacks," Don continued, "West Brom have made a couple of changes of their own. Out go the usual older heads—Townsend and Furlong—and in come the younger legs. Maybe Corberán looked at Reading's pace and figured he needed defenders who could keep up."
Martin nodded. "Makes sense. He knows Moretti's system has its dangers. Those overlapping runs, that direct play—it's not elegant, but it's brutally effective when done right."
"And then there's Hoilett," Don pointed out. "Not out wide tonight, but tucked in—almost like a third midfielder. Gives them a bit of control without sacrificing energy. That'll help when they're out of possession."
"They're compact, disciplined, and quick to break. It's not traditional Championship stuff," Martin mused, "but it's working."
"And it'll need to be at its best tonight," Don said. "Because if West Brom get a grip on this early, especially with someone like Molumby roaming around, they could dominate."
The players settled. The referee looked at his watch. The stage was set.
The whistle pierced the cold Midlands air, and the match kicked off under the heavy skies of The Hawthorns. West Brom took control immediately, zipping passes around the midfield, confident and composed in possession. Reading, however, weren't flustered—they'd come prepared for this exact pressure.
Rafael stood on the touchline, arms crossed, eyes tracking every movement. His side had sacrificed control of the ball for control of the space. The midfield sat compact. The back line held firm. It was a chess game, and the first counter was already in motion.
Twelve minutes in, West Brom earned a corner and pushed bodies forward. The ball swung in—cleared by Holmes. It fell kindly to Hoilett just outside the box. He didn't hesitate. A simple pass to Ejaria, who turned and set off down the left with purpose. With one deft touch, Ejaria flicked it wide to Ince, who was already burning down the right channel.
Ince took one touch to steady himself and then accelerated, cutting through the defensive gap. Ejaria kept running, and Ince found him again with a precise square ball across the edge of the area. Ejaria didn't even break stride—one touch, bottom corner.
The net rippled. 0–1 Reading.
The away fans erupted in the corner of the ground, fists in the air, voices rising above the stunned home crowd.
But West Brom, fighting for promotion, were never going to fold. They pressed harder, pushing Reading deeper with every minute. In the 34th, John Swift—drifting between the lines—picked up a half-yard of space and clipped a ball to the back post. Thomas-Asante leapt high and cushioned a header back across the face of goal, where Jed Wallace bundled it over the line.
1–1. The Hawthorns found its voice again.
As the second half began, the pressure intensified. West Brom's midfield trio rotated beautifully, forcing Reading's players to chase shadows. Then, at the hour mark, Molumby broke forward, dancing past a tired challenge. He struck from outside the box—a vicious, swerving shot. Button parried, but couldn't hold. Swift reacted first again, stabbing the rebound into the net.
2–1 West Brom.
Rafael didn't panic. He turned to Dempsey. "Time."
"Fornah," he called.
Loum was withdrawn. But this wasn't a like-for-like substitution. Fornah's role was different—sharper, more aggressive. He didn't sit and screen the back four. He pushed up, pressing the space between West Brom's midfielders, cutting out passing lanes, and harrying Molumby with every stride.
The balance shifted almost instantly.
Hoilett, now playing higher, buzzed around the final third. Fornah's energy breathed new life into Reading's midfield. Suddenly, it wasn't West Brom dictating play—it was Reading, snapping into duels, winning second balls, and driving into space that didn't exist fifteen minutes ago.
In the 70th minute, Holmes launched a searching ball forward. Carroll, towering above the defence, rose like a titan and flicked the header perfectly into the path of Ejaria. He took one touch to steady, another to open his body—and passed it into the far corner with calm precision.
2–2.
The Reading bench erupted. Fans behind the goal jumped and roared. The momentum had flipped.
The game opened up as both teams hunted for a winner. End to end. Breathless.
Then came the 85th.
A clearance dropped awkwardly to Hendrick, thirty yards from goal. The crowd sucked in its breath—but Hendrick didn't hesitate. He shifted his weight, let it bounce once, and struck through the ball with brutal clarity.
It flew. A rising, dipping rocket. The keeper stretched, fingertips grazing air. It kissed the underside of the bar and slammed into the net.
3–2 Reading.
The players swarmed Hendrick in celebration. He pointed to the badge, knowing this might be his last for the club—but what a way to go out.
The final minutes were tense, but Reading saw them out with grit and control. The whistle blew, and the match was over.
A stunning win. Away from home. Against a playoff-chasing side.
The away fans stood in unison, bursting into their familiar anthem:
"His name is Rafael Moretti, the handsome bloke from Chelsea, oh we're in love already, Rafael Moretti!"
And up in the private stands, Rafael caught the eye of the club's owner. A nod of approval. Rafael returned it, eyes calm, already thinking about what came next.
Reading had just climbed to 18th. Thirty-one points. Out of the danger zone—and into the thick of the Championship battleground.
The fire was lit.
….
Twitter was ablaze after Reading's dramatic 3–2 win at The Hawthorns. What was initially expected to be a tight fixture turned into one of the most entertaining matches of the season—and fans, pundits, and stat accounts were all losing their minds over it:
@ChampionshipStats:
Reading's xG vs West Brom: 4.61. West Brom's: 1.57.
Away from home.
Moretti didn't just win—he coached a 5–1.
@BallWatchingPod:
Tactical masterclass from Rafael Moretti. Pressed when it mattered, compact when it counted, then flipped the game on its head at 2–1 down. Sensational.
@RoyalRiot1871:
GAME. OF. THE. SEASON.
Moretti is HIM.
That 85th-minute Hendrick screamer?! TAKE A BOW. And Carroll turning into peak Giroud??
@JustChampionshipThings:
You realise Reading were 23rd like… two games ago? This guy has them playing like a playoff side.
@xGfc:
*Reading's xG under the last manager:
0.97
0.73
1.01
1.12
Reading's xG today: 4.61.*
@HoilettHive:
Hoilett in that midfield role is actually crazy. Moretti might've just reinvented him.
@EPLscouts:
Clubs better start watching this Moretti guy. What he's doing with this Reading team is unreal.
@AdamWhartonFanPage:
I don't even support Reading but I'd die for Rafael Moretti.
@TomInceSzn:
We're 18th. 3 points off 12th. 5 points off 9th.
THIS ISN'T EVEN MY FINAL FORM.
@ReadingFan123:
Moretti coached a 5–1
I'm crying this man's a magician
I love my manager
@CFCYouthBible:
One of our own is cooking up a Pep regen masterclass in the Championship while we're rotting in 10th with this fraud in charge
RAFAEL MORETTI MASTERCLASS EVERY WEEK
BRING BACK MY STAR BOY
😭😭😭
The vibes? Off the charts.
The Championship? Shook.
Rafael Moretti? Him.
….
The Sky Sports panel returned, and Jamie Carragher was leaning forward, clearly eager to get his words out. A graphic of the xG chart appeared beside him, showing a steady climb for Reading across the match—culminating in a staggering 4.61 compared to West Brom's 1.57.
"I'll tell you what I loved about this game," Carragher began, pointing toward the screen. "This substitution right here—Loum off, Fornah on—this wasn't just a change of legs. This was a signal. A tactical bait. Moretti knew West Brom had started to relax, thinking they had the midfield battle won. They were dominating possession, pinning Reading deeper, and then boom—he flips the whole rhythm of the game."
The footage rolled of Fornah charging into a duel, winning the ball, and sparking one of several second-half counterattacks.
"West Brom's younger full-backs had been pushing high trying to keep the pressure, but that left space behind. With Fornah's energy and Hoilett tucking in, suddenly Reading had outlets everywhere. He turned the pitch into a trap."
Micah Richards whistled, leaning back in his chair. "Takes some bottle to do that away at West Brom, I'll tell you that."
Jamie nodded. "Exactly. It's a risk—but all top managers take risks at the right time. The individual brilliance from Hendrick at the end might've sealed it, but make no mistake—this was a coached win. Moretti read the game, made the change, and flipped the whole story. That's the hallmark of someone special."
The clip then replayed all of Reading's high xG chances—Ince's missed one-on-one, Joao's blocked effort, Carroll's near-post header—moments where the tactics had worked perfectly, even if the finishing hadn't always followed.
"Reading could've scored five," Jamie said with a grin. "West Brom never saw it coming."
Carragher leaned into the replay as another Reading counterattack flashed on screen—Ejaria bursting through the middle, Hoilett peeling wide, Ince darting inside.
"You know what this reminds me of?" he said, almost amused. "It's almost reminiscent of 17/18 Liverpool. The way they sprung forward—direct, electric, ruthless in transition. Obviously, there's a gap in quality, let's not kid ourselves, but the intention, the structure of those counters—it's all there."
He gestured at the screen again as Reading flooded forward in numbers. "Look at the movement—Ejaria driving, Carroll playing the decoy, Ince peeling into space. It's not just chaos, it's coordinated chaos. That's the key."
Micah chuckled. "Coached chaos."
"Exactly," Jamie said, pointing again. "That comes from training ground work. From a manager who's got them believing in it. Moretti's building something at Reading, and it's not just vibes—it's tactics, it's discipline, and it's execution."
He paused as the clip rolled Hendrick's goal again, that curling strike from the edge of the box.
"And then you get the cherry on top—a moment of brilliance to finish it off. West Brom didn't know what hit them."
…
It was late. The hum of the night settled over the training ground as the lights dimmed and most of the staff had gone home. Rafael sat alone in his office, the adrenaline of the game still humming faintly in his chest. The team had returned from The Hawthorns not long ago. Spirits were high, but there was also a tinge of bittersweetness in the air—they'd just bid farewell to Jeff Hendrick.
The players had gathered around him on the team coach, clapping, joking, thanking him for everything. Hendrick had smiled, a touch emotional beneath his usual calm exterior. Rafael shook his hand with a firm grip and said, "Thank you for everything, Jeff. That goal… that was a sendoff."
Now, in the quiet of his office, Rafael rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He opened his laptop, half out of habit. Among the usual post-match reports and staff notes, a new email pinged at the top of his inbox. It was from Marcos.
Subject: Savio – Contract Terms
Body: "Savio would like to come by tomorrow to finalise discussions on his contract. Let me know a time that works."
Rafael allowed himself a small smile. Everything was starting to move.
He typed a quick reply:
"Tomorrow works. 11AM. See you then."
He hit send, then closed the laptop and exhaled deeply, already thinking about how to structure the conversation. A new era was beginning.