The rain taps steadily against the windows of Bearwood Park, streaking the glass with watery lines as Rafael Moretti sits back in his chair, alone in his office. The day has been heavy, the kind of grey, bone-deep English winter that soaks into your skin. His eyes flick to the folder on his desk — Adam Wharton's contract, signed and sealed. A step forward. A small victory.
But victories often come at a price.
Crystal Palace had come in heavy and quick for Ovie Ejaria, their £8 million offer turning heads from the moment it landed in the club's inbox. Rafael knew it was coming — the moment a Premier League club sniffed around, things would get complicated. Even still, a part of him had hoped Ejaria would stay. The midfielder had been sharpening, finally unlocking his best form under Rafael's new system. His passing was crisper, his dribbling more daring. There was a future here for him — but Premier League football talks louder than promises.
It wasn't the first time this kind of decision had surfaced. The phone calls, the offers from clubs with deeper pockets. Players face it all the time. Rafael had seen it when he was younger, when clubs had come for him. But that was different. This time, it felt personal. Ejaria had grown so much under his system, and Rafael couldn't help but wonder if the player still believed in his vision, or if his head was already set on the Premier League.
He glanced at the clock. It was nearly dusk now, the last rays of daylight dying in the grey sky. The perfect setting for what lay ahead. With a deep breath, Rafael stood and left his office, making his way to the training ground. His boots slapped against the cold concrete floor as he walked toward the field, and through the gathering fog, he saw Ejaria.
Alone.
Ovie stood there, ball at his feet, rolling it back and forth slowly, as if trying to make sense of something. His face was expressionless, but Rafael could tell that the young man was struggling with a decision that weighed heavier than any training drill.
"Oi," Rafael called softly, his voice breaking through the silence of the empty field. "You alright?"
Ejaria didn't turn immediately. His hand lingered on the ball, his fingers tapping rhythmically, like he needed a moment before facing Rafael. Then, slowly, he looked up. The tension in his face softened, but his eyes were still heavy.
"Yeah, just thinking," Ejaria replied, his voice quieter than usual. There was something uncertain in it, a kind of resignation that Rafael didn't like.
"You've made your decision, then?" Rafael asked, already knowing the answer. He'd seen it in the way Ejaria's shoulders had slumped after the transfer offer had been made official. The hesitations in his voice, the restless energy he'd carried all week — it all pointed to one thing: Ovie was torn.
Ejaria met his gaze now, his eyes briefly searching Rafael's face for something. Approval, maybe. Understanding. But there was none to be found. Only that quiet knowing. He gave a small shake of his head, exhaling deeply.
"My dad thinks it's the right move. He says… it's time to take the chance. Go to the Premier League." Ejaria's words stumbled out like a confession. He looked down at the ball again, seemingly lost in its motion as if the spinning sphere could help him make sense of his feelings.
"You want to leave, don't you?" Rafael's voice was gentle, but it cut through the confusion in Ejaria's face. There was no judgment in it, just an acceptance of reality.
A long silence passed between them. Ejaria shifted on his feet, unwilling to look Rafael in the eye. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves around them, making the moment feel more intense. His breath came in short bursts, like he was preparing to let out something important.
"I want to stay," Ejaria said quietly, as if he had only just admitted it to himself. "I do. This system, this project… it feels like something special. But…" His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, the words seeming to struggle to break free. "I've dreamed of playing in the Premier League. For years. This is my chance. I don't know if I'll get another one."
Rafael nodded slowly. He had seen it before. The promise of something bigger, something brighter, always called louder than the work they had already put in. The Premier League was a siren song, and it would always pull at a player's heart, no matter how bright their current future might be. But there was more than that here, wasn't there?
"You're afraid," Rafael said, almost more to himself than to Ejaria. The words felt heavier than they should, almost as though Rafael was speaking from his own experience. "Afraid you'll never get another shot, right? I get it. I do."
Ejaria finally looked up, his gaze sharp. "It's not just that. It's the whole idea of… what's next. What if I stay here, and I don't get the chance again? What if I'm just another player stuck in the Championship, trying to fight my way up?"
Rafael stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His gaze softened as he studied Ejaria's face. "You know this isn't about the Premier League, Ovie. This is about growth. The best thing you can do is keep improving. Keep pushing. You want to be remembered? Then let your game speak for itself. No matter where you are."
Ejaria swallowed, his throat tight. It was clear that this conversation wasn't just about football. It was about trust. About believing in something bigger than the next transfer window. The next move. He had spent so much time weighing options, asking himself whether this was the right moment to step up — but Rafael's words, simple and direct, were giving him something he hadn't realized he needed: faith.
"Look," Rafael continued, "if you want to leave, I can't stop you. I won't hold you back. You've earned the right to make your own choices. But just know one thing." He placed a firm hand on Ejaria's shoulder. "You've been a part of something here. Something that could mean more than just another season in the Premier League. You've helped build this. You've been a key player in it. That's what I'm proud of. And I won't forget that."
Ejaria nodded, his eyes glistening with something more than just uncertainty. It was a quiet understanding — a nod that didn't feel like a goodbye yet, but like something still unfinished. "I'll think about it, boss," he said, a slight quiver in his voice.
Rafael gave him a final nod. "Take all the time you need. But know that whatever decision you make, you'll always have a place here."
The rain had picked up now, turning the training ground into a slick, grey world. As they walked back to the changing rooms, neither of them spoke. Ejaria's mind was clearly elsewhere, lost in the weight of the decision ahead. And Rafael, despite his quiet composure, was wrestling with his own thoughts.
Later that evening, just after dinner, the announcement came. Crystal Palace FC had confirmed the deal. Ovie Ejaria was officially a new Palace player.
Rafael sat back in his chair, staring at the news on his phone. He knew this day would come. He'd known it for weeks, but it didn't make the news any easier to swallow. The project had lost a vital player, one who had the potential to change games. But in football, nothing is permanent. The next step, the next challenge, was always around the corner.
…
Rafael and Dempsey sit side by side in the office, their eyes focused on the large screen in front of them. The Burnley game had been a mix of frustration and pride, but there was something they had to address. They'd spent the last hour dissecting clips, analyzing every touch, pass, and movement from the game. The two men sat in the stillness of their focus, scanning for patterns, weaknesses, and ideas for the future.
As they replay a Burnley counter-attack, a familiar figure appears on the screen: Ian Maatsen, the left-back for Burnley. The young full-back surged down the left-hand side of the pitch with incredible speed, cutting inside with a burst of acceleration, playing an inch-perfect ball into the box. The move was fluid, a direct contrast to Burnley's more rigid, structured style of play. Where Burnley focused on stability and solidity, Maatsen's movement was dynamic, unpredictable—a quality that stood out in the otherwise structured Burnley setup.
Dempsey, who had been leaning back in his chair, mutters under his breath, "What a player."
Rafael, watching intently, exhales slowly before responding, his voice tinged with both admiration and a hint of longing, "Imagine if we had him."
Dempsey doesn't miss a beat. "Why imagine? We've got 19 million in the bank now."
Rafael looks up, his brow furrowed slightly, considering the prospect. "Chelsea would never give away such a talent. Not at that price."
Dempsey nods, but his expression remains determined. "Why not try? We've got the resources. And he's the perfect profile for what we're trying to build here. Fluid, dynamic, a player who can push forward but still work in harmony with the system. Rahman's done well, no doubt, but we need more. Someone who can complement Savio on that left side, make things more unpredictable."
Rafael ponders for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the screen where Maatsen sprints down the wing. The speed, the decision-making, the ability to link up with attackers— it's all there. He knows that type of talent could elevate Reading's attacking play, especially in the fluid, positionless system he's been building. He knows he has the money now, but there's still the weight of reality—the prospect of Chelsea letting go of a player like Maatsen, one who could be a future star, seemed far-fetched.
Rafael lets out a soft chuckle. "Stealing him from Burnley after they stole our points would be funny."
Dempsey smirks, his eyes never leaving the screen. "I'd call it poetic justice."
Rafael smiles, leaning back in his chair. "You're not wrong. Alright, we'll start making some calls, see what we can do. But don't get your hopes up. Chelsea's going to hold out for a premium price."
Dempsey shrugs, but there's a fire in his eyes. "Doesn't hurt to try. We've got a good project here. Who knows, maybe the kid's looking for a chance to prove himself outside of Chelsea's system. You never know with these players."
Rafael nods again, considering the possibility. "You're right. Let's see if we can pull this off. A full-back like Maatsen could give us a different dimension. Fluidity, dynamism—he fits what we're doing."
As the two of them continue to scan through clips of Burnley's defense, Rafael can't help but feel a renewed sense of ambition. The club has money now, and with the right players, this project could go further than even he imagined. If they could land someone like Maatsen, it could be the perfect next step in Reading's evolution.
"Alright, let's get the ball rolling," Rafael says, turning to Dempsey. "We'll see what happens."
…
The next morning, Rafael sat in the Bearwood Park meeting room, a half-drunk coffee cooling by his side. He barely noticed it. His focus was glued to the clock ticking toward 9:00 AM — the time of his call with Chelsea.
This wasn't a transfer that could be bullied through with money. Chelsea were giants. Ian Maatsen was a valued talent. If Reading wanted him, they would have to be smart, convincing — relentless.
At 9:01, the Zoom window popped open. Chelsea's loan manager, sharp suit and sharper smile, greeted him briskly.
"Good morning, Rafael."
"Morning," Rafael replied, voice even.
They wasted no time. Chelsea outlined the situation: Maatsen was highly rated internally. Burnley were pressing to extend his loan. Premier League clubs had shown interest. If Reading wanted to pull this off, it wouldn't be cheap — and it wouldn't be easy.
Rafael leaned forward, voice calm and measured.
"We're not here to waste anyone's time. We're ready to put real faith — and real money — behind Ian."
The Chelsea man listened, impassive.
Rafael pushed the offer across the table: an initial £7.5 million, rising to £10 million with add-ons for appearances and a promotion bonus.
But he didn't just sell the numbers.
He sold the dream: Maatsen wouldn't be buried in a squad rotation. He would be the player on the left flank. A club being built around fluidity, dynamism — a team tailored for a player like him.
"He won't just play," Rafael said. "He'll lead."
The Chelsea official barely flinched.
"It's still less than what we could get in the summer."
Dempsey, sitting quietly just off-camera, scribbled something on a sticky note and nudged it toward Rafael:
"Push Maatsen himself. If he wants it, they'll bend."
Rafael gave the slightest nod and leaned back in his chair.
"Then maybe we should ask Ian what he wants," he said smoothly. "Because no deal happens without his heart in it."
That cracked the door open.
Within the hour, Rafael was speaking to Maatsen's agent.
They pitched the vision again — faster, freer football. Playing under a coach who wouldn't chain him to a rigid system. A front line where his chemistry with a player like Savio could tear teams apart.
Not a cog. A centerpiece.
By mid-afternoon, the agent sent back the text Rafael had been hoping for:
"Ian is very interested. He's ready to push for it."
The second call with Chelsea was different. There was tension — but this time, Rafael held the leverage.
"We'll raise it slightly," Rafael said. "Eight and a half up front. Two and a half in bonuses. A sell-on clause if you need it."
He leaned back, calm, almost casual.
"But this gets done now. Or we walk."
A long silence hung over the call.
Rafael stayed still, unblinking.
He knew the pressure had flipped.
Finally, the Chelsea rep sighed.
"We'll send you the paperwork."
The moment Rafael muted the call, he and Dempsey exchanged a grin.
Against all odds — they had done it.
A real upgrade. A player who could transform their entire left side.
And just in time.
Rafael allowed himself a small smile as he stood up.
First Savio.
Then Wharton.
Now Maatsen.
Piece by piece, the vision was coming alive.
And he wasn't done yet.
Three pieces of the puzzle. Three building blocks of the future.
Dempsey wandered back into the office, a couple of takeaway coffees in hand, dropping one onto Rafael's desk with a soft thud.
"You look like a man who just robbed a bank and got away with it," he chuckled.
Rafael gave a slow, satisfied nod.
"Feels like it," he muttered. "Feels exactly like it."
He swiveled in his chair, gazing at the board across the wall. Names pinned neatly across the depth chart. A plan, finally taking shape.
"We've got Savio, Wharton, Maatsen," Rafael said aloud, almost testing the words as he spoke them. "Three players who don't just play positions. They move. They adapt. They think."
Dempsey raised an eyebrow.
"And?"
Rafael leaned forward, elbows on the desk, the glint of something fierce flashing behind his tired eyes.
"And we're ready to push," he said. His voice was low, certain.
"Top six."
For a moment, the room was silent, save for the hum of the heating vents and the soft tap of rain on the glass.
Dempsey didn't laugh.
He didn't scoff.
He simply smiled, the same way he had that night after Huddersfield, when Savio's magic had first set everything in motion.
"Then let's do it," Dempsey said, raising his coffee in a mock toast. "Top six. Why not?"
Rafael clinked his cup against Dempsey's.
No more hesitation.
No more small dreams.
Reading were coming.
————-
So that's three signings done. Getting into top six would mean they qualify for the playoffs by the way and fight for the last promotion place. As you can see im going for a fluid playstyle. Can anyone guess what team im basing this off?
Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Im in a good mood because liverpool just won the league!! Might release another chapter in a bit.