Moretti Ball.

[20 MINUTES – FIRST HALF]

Rafael stood just outside the technical area, arms folded, eyes scanning the pitch with laser focus. The rain had stopped, but the grass still glistened under the stadium floodlights. From the first whistle, it had gone exactly how he wanted it—Reading were dictating the tempo, moving the ball crisply, pinning Millwall back with confidence and structure.

They'd completed nearly double the passes. Pressed with discipline. Created the better chances. But he knew twenty minutes of control meant nothing without a breakthrough.

Then came the moment.

Loum collected the ball just inside the Millwall half, calm as ever under pressure. A short pass to Hendrick, who didn't hesitate—took a touch and drove forward, carving space through the middle.

Rafael's eyes flicked to the right flank—Hoilett hugging the touchline, squaring up the shaky left-back just like they'd planned.

1v1. But it wasn't just that.

Yiadom was on the move. Overlapping fast. Millwall's fullback bit too early, shifting toward Hoilett, expecting the take-on.

Hoilett slipped the ball into the empty space behind—and Yiadom was there.

Rafael stepped forward instinctively as Yiadom took one touch and whipped a perfect cross into the box.

Andy Carroll rose like it was scripted. Clean, towering, decisive.

Thump.

The net rippled. Millwall's keeper frozen. The away end erupted.

Rafael allowed himself a fist pump, nothing more. No wild celebration. Not yet.

They were only 20 minutes in.

But the plan? It was working.

[44 MINUTES – FIRST HALF]

Millwall had been pressing harder now, desperate to claw something back before the whistle. The home crowd roared as they won a corner, trying to will their side into momentum.

Rafael stayed composed on the touchline, hands in his pockets, eyes on the box.

The ball came swinging in—dangerous pace, bodies crashing in mid-air.

But Sam McIntyre rose above them all. Thud.

A strong header, cleared with intent. The ball didn't just drift out—it dropped ahead of Tom Ince, perfectly placed in the pocket of space.

"Ince—go," Rafael muttered, almost under his breath.

And he did.

Ince was off like a shot, chesting the ball down, boots slicing through the wet turf as he surged forward into open ground. Millwall's midfield scrambled to recover, but he was already past them, a blur of speed and control.

As he neared the final defender, Rafael's breath caught for a moment. One-on-one, Ince had the quality to go himself—but his head was up.

On the left, Ejaria was tearing forward, matching his pace.

Ince timed it perfectly—a weighted pass, split-second precision, right into Ejaria's stride.

One touch. Two.

And then, calm as you like, Ejaria slotted the ball low into the far corner.

2–0.

The away bench erupted, but Rafael only clenched his jaw and nodded once.

Clinical. Ruthless. Exactly what he wanted.

Just before half-time.

A hammer blow.

The away end exploded.

Limbs everywhere. Scarves in the air. Chants rising above the stunned hush of The Den as Ejaria wheeled away in celebration, arms stretched wide, grinning as his teammates swarmed him.

Rafael didn't move much—just a slight smirk, eyes still on the pitch. Let the fans celebrate. Let Millwall feel that one.

Millwall quickly retrieved the ball, frustration written across their faces. The restart was rushed—more symbolic than strategic.

A short pass, a hopeful long ball forward—

Then the whistle blew.

Half-time. 2–0.

Rafael turned calmly toward the tunnel, already thinking three steps ahead.

Still forty-five minutes to play. But they were halfway to making a statement.

[HALF-TIME – THE DEN, AWAY CHANGING ROOM]

The players filed into the changing room still riding the buzz of Ejaria's goal. Shirts clung to their backs, boots caked with mud, lungs still drawing in the cold night air. The energy was high—but Rafael didn't want energy.

He wanted control.

He waited a moment, let them catch their breath, before stepping forward.

"Good half," he said, voice clear, measured. "But not a finished job."

The room quieted.

"We've dominated the ball, dictated the tempo—exactly what we trained for. But don't think for a second they're going to come out second half and roll over."

He moved across the room, pointing as he spoke.

"They're going to press harder. They'll throw numbers forward. Fullbacks bombing on. Midfield crunching into tackles. They want a scrap now, because they can't play through us."

He turned to Loum and Hendrick. "I want you two disciplined. We don't need heroes—we need structure. Cut the passing lanes. Force them wide."

Then to Ince, Carroll, and Hoilett. "They're going to open up. That means space on the break. Don't force it. Wait for the right moment—then kill them off."

Finally, his eyes swept over the whole squad.

"We're not here for a highlight reel. We're here for three points. We don't ease off. We finish what we started."

A pause.

"Clear?"

A chorus of nods and firm "Yes, gaffer" followed.

The whistle blew out in the tunnel, calling them back.

Rafael turned, straightened the cuff of his suit, and followed them out.

Second half. Time to close it out.

…

[SECOND HALF – THE DEN]

The players were lining back up on the pitch, boots pressing into damp turf, breaths misting in the cold London air. Floodlights hummed overhead, casting long shadows as the crowd murmured restlessly, waiting—hoping—for a Millwall response.

Up in the gantry, the commentators spoke in low, thoughtful tones, their voices weaving over the images on the broadcast like narration to a chess match.

"Reading lead two-nil," Martin said, his voice calm, almost admiring. "And deservedly so. It's been a first half of structure, intent, and clinical execution. You'd think they were the home side."

His co-commentator, Jamie, leaned in slightly. "And here's something interesting—Millwall have made a change. Wallace, the young left-back, has been hooked. Scott Malone comes on in his place."

Martin let out a soft chuckle. "Can't say that's a shock. Hoilett and Yiadom were having a field day down that side. It was almost cruel to watch—one drawing defenders in, the other flying past on the overlap. You could tell Wallace wasn't ready for that kind of punishment."

Jamie nodded. "It was smart football. Targeted, intentional. You can see Rafael's fingerprints all over it. They knew where the weakness was and didn't just exploit it—they ripped it open."

Down on the pitch, Hoilett jogged back into position, glancing once at the fresh defender facing him now. Yiadom was stretching near the touchline, grinning like a man who'd just been handed a new toy.

"Still," Jamie continued, "Malone brings more experience. He won't dive in the same way. Might tighten things up a bit, but it's a gamble."

"It'll leave gaps elsewhere," Martin added. "And Reading look like they're already thinking two or three moves ahead."

Both teams settled into formation again. The referee raised his whistle.

"And here we go," Martin said, as the sound cut sharp through the air. "Second half underway at The Den. Millwall chasing it now. Reading? Looking to finish what they started."

The whistle had barely finished echoing through The Den before Reading sprang into life again.

From the centre circle, Hendrick nudged it to Ince, who immediately darted forward. Hoilett peeled wide, and the two exchanged a sharp one-two, slicing through Millwall's press like it wasn't even there.

The home side hadn't even touched the ball.

Hoilett drove down the right, skipped past Malone—so much for the experienced fix—and cut back inside, threading a pass into the box. Andy Carroll had his back to goal, but his touch was delicate—more graceful than expected from a man of his size.

He laid it off, perfectly into the stride of Ince, who didn't hesitate.

Bang.

A thunderous right-footed strike.

The ball screamed past the keeper and buried itself into the top corner. The net rippled violently.

3–0.

Rafael didn't even flinch on the touchline—just exhaled slowly, arms folded.

That was the killer instinct he'd asked for.

From kick-off to goal in under thirty seconds.

Millwall looked stunned. The away end? Chaos. Pure, unfiltered joy.

This was no fluke.

This was Reading dominating.

The game had stilled.

Reading held a commanding lead, and as the clock ticked past the seventieth minute, Rafael knew it was time to inject fresh legs—and fresh ideas.

He turned calmly toward the bench and called out. "Casadei. Joao. You're on."

Ejaria made his way off, exchanging a quick nod with the gaffer. Ince, ever the versatile threat, was instructed to shift out wide to the left. Casadei would slot into the ten, just behind the striker. Andy Carroll followed soon after, his shift done, replaced by Joao—sharper, quicker, perfect for the final stretch of a broken game.

It didn't take long.

Five minutes later, Hendrick turned smoothly in midfield and zipped a pass into Casadei's feet. The young Italian took a sharp touch, pivoted, and sliced a perfect through ball straight down the middle of Millwall's stretched defence.

Joao was already on his bike.

He burst between the centre-backs, timed his run to perfection, and met the ball in stride. The Millwall keeper came flying off his line, desperate to cut down the angle—but Joao was cool. Cold-blooded.

With barely a glance, he chipped it.

The ball sailed over the keeper's outstretched arms and dropped neatly into the back of the net.

4–0.

Clinical. Composed. Ruthless.

Just as Rafael had planned.

It was the 87th minute, and the game had settled into a quiet rhythm. Reading,four goals to the good, were stroking the ball around with ease—calm, measured, almost casual. The away fans were still singing, the bench relaxed, Rafael standing with his arms crossed, watching.

But not everyone on the pitch had switched off.

Tom Bradshaw hadn't stopped running.

The Millwall striker had spent most of the night starved of service, shadowed and shut down, but now, sensing even the faintest hint of complacency, he pounced.

Sarr received a simple back pass near the edge of the box. He hesitated—just a second too long.

Bradshaw closed in like a predator smelling blood. One touch, one tackle, and suddenly the ball was his.

He didn't even need to look up.

One touch forward, and then a cool finish—low and hard—slipping past Lumley and into the bottom corner.

4–1.

A soft goal. Sloppy. Avoidable.

Rafael's jaw clenched on the sideline. He didn't say a word—but his stare said everything.

Back on the pitch, the game was still ticking.

Millwall's goal had given the home fans a flicker of something to cheer—but it hadn't shaken Reading. If anything, it reminded them not to switch off again.

Just a minute later, Casadei picked up the ball in the left channel, dancing past one challenge before cutting inside. He burst into the box, shifting the ball onto his right foot—when the Millwall defender stuck a leg out and caught him.

Down he went.

The referee didn't hesitate. Whistle. Arm pointed straight to the spot.

Penalty.

The home crowd roared in protest, but Rafael knew it was stonewall. Casadei had been sharp since coming on, and now he'd earned them a chance to close it out in style.

Ince stepped up to take it, calm and assured. The Millwall keeper tried the usual theatrics—arms waving, pacing along the line—but Ince never looked up.

The whistle blew. Ince struck it low and hard to the left.

The keeper went the wrong way.

5–1.

The away end erupted one last time, the chant kicking back in like clockwork.

…

The final whistle blew, echoing through The Den like a stamp of authority.

5-1. Statement made.

Rafael allowed himself a breath—calm and controlled—then strode over to shake hands with Millwall's manager. It was brief but respectful, the kind of handshake shared between two professionals who knew exactly how long nights like this could feel.

As he turned toward the away end, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The Reading fans were in full voice, absolutely bouncing in the stands. Among the chants, one song rose above the rest—loud, proud, and surprisingly catchy.

"His name is Rafael Moretti, the handsome bloke from Chelsea, oh we're in love already… Rafael Moretti!"

It echoed across the stadium, sung with a mix of humour and adoration. Even a few of the players smirked as they heard it from the pitch.

Rafael gave a wry smile and raised his hands, applauding the fans back. He didn't indulge it—but he heard it. He felt it. The bond forming.

He was winning them over.

Dempsey appeared at his side as he turned back toward the tunnel.

"You've got a post-match interview, gaffer," he said, trying not to laugh at the chant still ringing out behind them.

Rafael rolled his eyes with a smirk, pulling his jacket over the expensive suit his mum had insisted he wear.

"Let's get it over with."

And with that, he made his way toward the flashboards—composed, collected, and just maybe… a little bit of a cult hero already.

…

The bright lights of the flash interview area lit up as Rafael stepped in, straightening his jacket. The Reading crest gleamed subtly under the overhead glare. A mic was clipped onto his lapel, and the interviewer gave a polite nod before the camera's red light blinked to life.

"Rafael Moretti, a 5–1 win away at Millwall—an emphatic performance. First things first, the new system. People are already talking about it. What did you make of it tonight?"

Rafael gave a short, measured nod. "It's a step in the right direction. The lads adapted well to what we've been working on in training—structure in possession, intent in transition. We controlled large spells, and when we attacked, we attacked with purpose."

"And what about the team overall? You seemed to dominate for most of the game."

"I'm happy with the performance," he said, folding his arms. "But I'm not completely satisfied. We let one in late, and that bothers me. I told the boys—no matter the scoreline, you don't switch off. Clean sheets matter. Standards matter."

The interviewer nodded, then smiled. "Two players in particular stood out—Tom Ince and Cesare Casadei. Ince, of course, two goals and an assist, man of the match performance. Your thoughts on him?"

"Ince was excellent," Rafael said. "He's a clever player—versatile, sharp in tight spaces, and ruthless when he smells blood. We gave him a bit more freedom tonight, and he made it count."

"And Casadei?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Rafael's mouth. "The kid's fearless. Came on, made things happen. That assist, the way he won the penalty—he didn't just play the game, he changed it. That's what I want to see from young players coming off the bench."

"Final question—what does a result like this say about where Reading are heading?"

Rafael glanced toward the stadium behind him, the lights still glowing, the chants of the travelling fans echoing faintly in the distance.

"It says we're not here to roll over," he said plainly. "We're here to climb. One step at a time."

The interviewer gave a final nod. "Rafael Moretti, congratulations. And thank you."

Rafael shook his hand briefly, turned, and walked off into the tunnel.

His work tonight was done. But the message was only just beginning.

…

As the night wore on and the stadium lights dimmed, the real noise shifted online.

Social media lit up with reactions to Reading's stunning 5–1 away win. It wasn't just the scoreline—it was the manner of the performance. Slick passing, clever movement, and a ruthlessness that had been missing for far too long.

@TheChampionshipZone:

"Reading under Rafael Moretti look like a completely different side. Structured, hungry, confident. Could this be the start of something serious?"

@EFLStatWatch:

"STAT: Reading created 21 chances against Millwall tonight—more than they managed in their last four games combined under the previous manager. System change. Coaching impact. It's real."

@SouthStandSteve:

"I don't know who needs to hear this but Reading might've pulled off a masterstroke hiring Moretti. That was surgical. Special shoutout to Ince—man possessed."

@FootyLad94:

"Moretti Ball >>> but let's not get carried away, yeah? These things happen in a honeymoon period. Let's see where they are in 10 games."

@RoyaLoyalTillIDie:

"Casadei is going to be a star. I said it. Ince unreal. Carroll still bullying people. And Moretti… you handsome genius."

@ChampAnalytics:

"That Yiadom/Hoilett partnership down the right cooked Millwall's fullback for 60 straight minutes. Incredible tactical setup."

Debate buzzed between believers and sceptics, but one thing was clear: Rafael Moretti had put Reading back on the map—if only for the night.

And everyone was watching.