The café Rafael had chosen for brunch wasn't particularly flashy — a quiet little spot tucked away just off Broad Street, with sun-streaked windows and the soft clink of plates and cutlery in the background. He liked it that way. No distractions, just a place to talk.
Opposite him sat Adam Wharton and his agent. The midfielder, tall and lean in a grey hoodie, looked alert but cautious, like someone who'd been burned before.
Rafael smiled, setting down his espresso. "I'll get straight to the point," he said. "You're 19. You've been sitting on the bench at Blackburn while players with less upside start ahead of you. You need a manager who trusts you. And I need a midfielder who can see passes others can't."
Wharton glanced at his agent, then back. "And you think I'm that midfielder?"
"I know you are," Rafael said. "I'm not just buying a player. I'm building a project. We're not aiming for safety. We're aiming for something long-term. And I want you at the heart of it."
There was a long pause. Wharton stirred his coffee slowly.
"Look, I won't lie. Reading wasn't exactly top of my list," Wharton admitted, bluntly. "But I've been watching. I saw the Huddersfield match. I saw what you've done with Savio."
Rafael leaned in slightly. "You think Savio's the only one getting chances here? We've got Ejaria turning into a different player. Fornah stepping up. Carroll scoring again. This club was sleepwalking — now it's waking up."
Wharton nodded. "It's tempting."
His agent jumped in. "We still want to talk to Blackburn. Get their position clear. But if they're open…"
Rafael grinned. "We're ready. The fee's not a problem. Just tell me you want this."
Wharton smirked slightly. "I want it. Just need a bit of convincing."
Rafael raised a brow. "Dinner next time, then?"
Wharton chuckled. "Only if you're paying."
They shook hands over the table — nothing official yet, but something was turning.
…
Later that evening, the light had dimmed to gold. The Bearwood training grounds lay quiet under the setting sun — except for the buzz of football boots, the thud of passes, the occasional sharp shout of encouragement. A 5 p.m. session wasn't typical, but Rafael had scheduled it on purpose. In two days, they'd be facing Burnley — top of the table — and he wanted his players' internal clocks aligned to the challenge.
He stood near the touchline, arms folded, watching. Sweat beaded on foreheads. The tempo was tight, intense. There was a weight to the drills tonight — everyone seemed sharper, hungrier.
He summoned the system — not on a phone, but through the translucent interface that shimmered into view before him, only visible to his eyes. He scanned the data. Player metrics, fatigue levels, positioning heatmaps… and then the numbers that mattered most.
Ratings.
Most of the squad had climbed — the base level now comfortably at 72 overall. The core players — Ince, Hoillett, Loum, João, McIntyre — had climbed to 75.
Savio, naturally, was holding at 79. The squad's crown jewel. His metrics were on fire — acceleration, flair, dribbling, decision-making. No surprise there.
But something else stood out.
Ovie Ejaria — a player who had been rated at 70 just a few weeks prior — now showed a gleaming 76.
Rafael narrowed his eyes. "What the hell?"
A notification blinked at the top corner of the interface.
"Competition between players for positions can unlock hidden potential."
He looked out across the pitch and saw Ejaria dancing through defenders in a rondo drill — sharper, quicker, more focused. Maybe he'd seen Savio's rise. Maybe he didn't want to be left behind.
Whatever the reason, it was working.
Rafael closed the interface with a flick of his wrist, arms folding once again as he observed the players. The wind carried distant chatter, the slap of a ball against a boot.
The sun had dipped low, casting a golden haze over Bearwood Park. The 5pm session was unconventional—but every detail was intentional. Rafael wanted their bodies primed to perform at the exact hour their toughest fixture of the season would kick off: away at Burnley.
The squad jogged out onto the crisp grass. Their breath rose in vapour as Rafael gathered them near the centre circle. His black training coat fluttered slightly in the wind as he stepped forward, eyes focused.
"This game," he began, voice calm but cutting through the chill air, "isn't going to be won by shape alone. Burnley are top of the league because they're disciplined, they're compact, they suffocate mistakes."
He paused, scanning each face.
"So we don't play our system. Not this week."
That turned a few heads. Rafael's tone didn't change.
"We attack differently. We work differently. This week is about fluidity. Controlled chaos."
He took a step forward, boots crunching on the turf.
"Forget positions. They're nothing more than limitations if you treat them like boxes. You're not a ten. Or a winger. Or a pivot. You're footballers. Smart ones. And we're going to outthink them."
The players were silent, absorbing.
"If Savio pulls into a more central space, Ince drifts wide. That hesitation—who do they follow?—buys us time. If Carroll drops short, Hoilett or Ejaria break in behind. If Loum is pressed, Fornuh slots in as the outball."
He glanced between them.
"They won't know what to track. This isn't about being the better footballers. This is about being the smarter ones."
Savio's eyes lit up—he lived for this kind of freedom. Ejaria nodded faintly, his jaw set. The last few days had changed something in him.
"Poetry," Rafael muttered under his breath. "Not prose."
….
Dempsey chuckled softly beside him. "You've been rehearsing that one, haven't you?"
But then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "He looks sharper, doesn't he?" Dempsey motioned subtly toward Ejaria, who'd just bounced a pass off Loum and cut between cones with a burst of speed.
"Looks like he's willing to fight for his position."
Rafael smiled slightly. "He's been watching. Feeling the pressure."
As training broke into waves—positional drills disguised as chaos—Rafael saw the movements take shape. Ince flared wide when Savio tucked in, Carroll pulled markers to create half-spaces, Fornuh offered calm, intelligent support in the pivot. Ejaria, sharper than he'd been in weeks, slipped past pressure and moved with intent.
The goal was deception. If they could appear unpredictable but function as one, Burnley's rigidity could become a weakness.
The players weren't just executing.
They were thinking.
And Rafael could feel it in his bones—this session was the spark.
The sun had dipped low, casting a golden haze over Bearwood Park. The 5pm session was unconventional—but every detail was intentional. Rafael wanted their bodies primed to perform at the exact hour their toughest fixture of the season would kick off: away at Burnley.
The squad jogged out onto the crisp grass. Their breath rose in vapour as Rafael gathered them near the centre circle. His black training coat fluttered slightly in the wind as he stepped forward, eyes focused.
"This game," he began, voice calm but cutting through the chill air, "isn't going to be won by shape alone. Burnley are top of the league because they're disciplined, they're compact, they suffocate mistakes."
He paused, scanning each face.
"So we don't play our system. Not this week."
That turned a few heads. Rafael's tone didn't change.
"We attack differently. We work differently. This week is about fluidity. Controlled chaos."
He took a step forward, boots crunching on the turf.
"Forget positions. They're nothing more than limitations if you treat them like boxes. You're not a ten. Or a winger. Or a pivot. You're footballers. Smart ones. And we're going to outthink them."
The players were silent, absorbing.
"If Savio pulls into a more central space, Ince drifts wide. That hesitation—who do they follow?—buys us time. If Carroll drops short, Hoilett or Ejaria break in behind. If Loum is pressed, Fornuh slots in as the outball."
He glanced between them.
"They won't know what to track. This isn't about being the better footballers. This is about being the smarter ones."
Savio's eyes lit up—he lived for this kind of freedom. Ejaria nodded faintly, his jaw set. The last few days had changed something in him.
"Poetry," Rafael muttered under his breath. "Not prose."
…
Dempsey chuckled softly beside him. "You've been rehearsing that one, haven't you?"
But then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "He looks sharper, doesn't he?" Dempsey motioned subtly toward Ejaria, who'd just bounced a pass off Loum and cut between cones with a burst of speed.
"Looks like he's willing to fight for his position."
Rafael smiled slightly. "He's been watching. Feeling the pressure."
As training broke into waves—positional drills disguised as chaos—Rafael saw the movements take shape. Ince flared wide when Savio tucked in, Carroll pulled markers to create half-spaces, Fornuh offered calm, intelligent support in the pivot. Ejaria, sharper than he'd been in weeks, slipped past pressure and moved with intent.
The goal was deception. If they could appear unpredictable but function as one, Burnley's rigidity could become a weakness.
The players weren't just executing.
They were thinking.
And Rafael could feel it in his bones—this session was the spark.
As the session flowed, the cold air buzzed with energy. Rafael stood with arms crossed, watching every angle, every run. The drills had morphed into live positional play—fluid movement, rotations, shifting pockets
of space.
The two of them watched a few more rotations. Ince had now drifted wide again as Savio tucked into the half-space. The backline marking looked confused, disconnected. Loum split two lines with a pass into Ejaria, who spun and drew a foul.
Dempsey clapped his hands once, loud. "Alright! Bring it in!"
Players slowed, jogged back toward the centre circle. Breathing hard, sweat steaming in the cold, but alert. Focused.
Rafael stepped forward again, voice steady but low enough that they had to lean in.
"That's what it looks like when you trust the movement. When you think two steps ahead."
He looked at them.
"You keep this tempo for ninety minutes—Burnley won't know what hit them."
…
The small studio buzzed with low chatter as the podcast began to roll. Tom, Alfie, and Marcus sat in front of their mics, the familiar hum of the recording equipment surrounding them. The air smelled faintly of coffee and sports nostalgia, with old matchday programs stacked on a nearby shelf.
"Alright, welcome back to Championship Talk," Tom started, adjusting his headset. "We've got another big one today. And I think we all know what the focus is this week."
Alfie grinned. "Burnley versus Reading. Turf Moor. It's the clash we've all been waiting for."
Tom nodded, glancing at the fixture list. "Burnley, top of the table, looking to hold off Sheffield United—just one point ahead. If they drop points here, Sheffield leapfrog them. So this isn't just a regular game for Burnley. This is a do-or-die moment if they want that automatic promotion spot."
Marcus leaned forward, looking straight into the mic. "You can feel the pressure. They're not just fighting for the title; they're fighting to keep that momentum. Sheffield is breathing down their necks. I mean, this is big."
Alfie chimed in. "But let's not forget, Reading's been on fire recently. Four wins in a row now. They're starting to look dangerous under Moretti. He's turned things around for them completely. A win here, and they're right back in the mix."
Tom smiled, "Absolutely. I mean, after that Huddersfield game—let's be honest, Savio's goal was something else. His debut? Unreal. I don't think anyone saw that coming."
Marcus nodded. "Yeah, that goal was insane. But it's not just Savio. It's Moretti, too. He's brought in a new intensity. That's four wins in a row, and they're playing with a lot of confidence right now. But Burnley? They've been here before. They've been at the top all season."
Alfie looked thoughtful. "Burnley's experience is crucial, though. They know how to handle the pressure. They've got the strength, the depth. And Reading, as good as they are now, they still don't have the kind of squad that Burnley do. That's what's gonna make the difference in this one."
Tom nodded, making a quick note on his pad. "Right. So, predictions?"
Alfie spoke first. "I think Burnley takes this, 2-1. Reading will give them a tough game, but Burnley have too much quality. It'll be close, but they'll edge it."
Marcus was next. "I agree. I see a 1-1 draw. Reading's confidence will keep them in the game, but I think Burnley's firepower will get them a point at least."
Tom glanced between his co-hosts, taking a breath. "I think Burnley will win 2-0. They'll put a statement down. It's not just a title race; it's about momentum. And with Reading still finding their feet, I don't think they'll get a result here."
There was a pause as all three of them thought about the match ahead.
"Could be a tactical chessboard," Marcus mused. "I can see Moretti setting Reading up to counter. But Burnley will be prepared."
Alfie agreed. "Yeah, it won't be easy for Burnley, but they've got the edge. The pressure's on them, though. This is a must-win."
Tom leaned back, tapping his pen. "Definitely one to watch. But Burnley have been here all season. I think they'll prove why they're at the top."
As the outro music began to fade in, Marcus added, "Well, no matter what happens, it's gonna be a fun one."
The podcast ended with the sound of the hosts laughing, but their thoughts lingered on the upcoming game—an exciting challenge for both sides, but Burnley's experience was still the factor they leaned on.