Got Yourself a Brazilian.

The team group chat had been mostly memes and match highlights since the Millwall win—but that morning, something different pinged in.

[Andy Yiadom]:

"Oi look at this!!"

Attached was a screenshot of a tweet from none other than Fabrizio Romano.

"Reading FC are showing strong interest in Brazilian winger Sávio Moreira de Oliveira, currently on loan at PSV from Troyes. Talks are ongoing. The Championship side, under new manager Rafael Moretti, are pushing for ambitious moves. One to watch."

Immediately, the chat lit up.

[Hoilett]:

"Fabrizio?? Nah we're big time now."

[Ince]:

"We're getting tweeted by the transfer king himself."

[Carroll]:

"Hope he's not taking my spot…"

[Meite]:

"Relax big man he's like 5'7""

[Bouzanis]:

"Someone tell him about the weather here before he signs."

The messages kept rolling in—half banter, half disbelief. But underneath it all was a sense of something shifting. Reading weren't just fighting relegation anymore—they were building something. And people were starting to notice.

In his office, Rafael saw the same tweet—only this time, on his laptop screen. He didn't need the group chat to tell him this was big. Not just because of who posted it, but because it confirmed what he already knew: word was spreading.

Sávio was more than a name. He was part of the blueprint.

At that exact moment, just as Rafael closed the tab with Fabrizio's tweet, his phone buzzed on the desk. The name on the screen read: Marcos Silva.

He picked it up.

"Rafael, good afternoon," the voice on the other end said—speaking in smooth, confident Portuguese.

"Boa tarde, Marcos. You've seen the tweet then?"

Marcos chuckled. "Of course. My phone's been blowing up. But that's not why I'm calling. I spoke to Sávio. He's interested. Really interested."

Rafael leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's good to hear."

"He wants to meet you," Marcos continued. "Face-to-face. He wants to hear your vision directly. Can you do London tomorrow?"

Rafael didn't hesitate. "I'm free. Tell me the time and place."

"Midday. He'll be in the city. I'll send you the details."

"Perfect," Rafael said, already reaching for his calendar.

They ended the call with a few more words exchanged in Portuguese—professional but familiar. As Rafael hung up, a slight smile tugged at his lips. Things were starting to move. And tomorrow, he'd have the chance to bring his vision one step closer to life.

Scrolling through his emails, Rafael's eyes caught a subject line that made him pause.

Subject: Budget Update – January Window

It was from David Holloway.

He clicked it open, and for a second, just stared at the number on the screen.

Transfer Budget: Increased from £7,000,000 to £20,000,000

He blinked. Then blinked again.

Twenty million. In January. In the Championship.

That kind of money wasn't just rare—it was almost unheard of. Most teams scrapped together loan deals or free agents to survive the winter window. But this? This was a statement.

Clearly, the owner had been more than impressed. That 5–1 demolition of Millwall hadn't just shaken the league—it had opened a door. Now it was on Rafael to walk through it wisely.

He sat back in his chair, heart beating a little faster, mind already racing through scenarios.

With £20 million… he could build.

…

It was the next day, around 2 p.m., and Rafael had already packed plenty into the early hours.

The morning had kicked off with a sharp, high-intensity training session. The players, still riding the momentum from the Millwall win, were buzzing with energy, and Rafael made sure every drill had purpose—structured pressing, short passing under pressure, transition play.

After the session, he gathered his new coaching staff in the meeting room. They stood around the tactics board, coffees in hand, going over the next ten days—individual training loads, recovery cycles, upcoming opponents, and integrating some of the U21s for shadow drills.

Then came the one-on-ones.

Rafael had a list, already prepared the night before. One by one, players knocked on his door. He sat across from them, calm but focused, outlining tailored development plans—where they were now, where they could be, and what needed to happen to get there.

To Loum, it was about improving his scanning under pressure.

To Ejaria, sharper decision-making in the final third.

To McIntyre, vertical passing from the back.

Each conversation ended with clarity and intent. There were no vague promises. Just goals, and a path to reach them.

By the time 2 p.m. rolled around, Rafael had already earned another layer of respect—not just as a manager, but as someone who was deeply invested in each player's growth.

And now… it was nearly time to head to London.

Rafael made his way home just after wrapping up his final meeting of the day. The winter sun was already dipping low, casting a muted glow over the quiet Reading streets. He walked into his flat, dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, and headed straight for his room.

He changed out of his club tracksuit and into something a little more polished—a dark quarter-zip sweater, fitted but casual, paired with clean trousers and smart leather boots. Not flashy, but composed. Comfortable. The kind of look that said I'm serious, but I'm not here to beg.

He glanced at his watch—still enough time to make the drive with room to spare. He grabbed his coat, phone, and wallet, then headed out to his car.

The meet-up was set for a restaurant in Mayfair—nothing too high-end, but classy enough to feel important. Private enough for a real conversation. The kind of place where agents made calls and quiet deals were made between bites of grilled sea bass.

As he merged onto the motorway, Rafael allowed his mind to wander—not to tactics or press conferences, but to Sávio. This meeting wasn't just about securing a signing. It was about showing a young player he could believe in something again.

…

Rafael stepped into the softly lit restaurant, the quiet clink of cutlery and gentle hum of conversation creating an elegant, intimate atmosphere. A server gestured toward the back, where two figures sat in a booth by the window—Sávio, his posture slightly slouched, and his agent, Marcos, composed as always. Both looked up as Rafael approached.

He offered a warm smile as he reached them.

"Boa tarde," he said, slipping seamlessly into Portuguese as he shook their hands. "Sorry if I kept you waiting."

Marcos waved it off. "Not at all. We've just sat down."

Rafael slid into the seat across from them. After a bit of light small talk—London traffic, the weather, a joke about how English food still hadn't found redemption—Rafael leaned in slightly, his tone shifting as he looked directly at Sávio.

"I heard you've been dropped to the reserves," he said gently. "I know that feeling."

Sávio glanced up, a flicker of interest passing through his eyes.

"When I was in the academy," Rafael continued, "I went through a patch where I wasn't even getting picked for training matches. I used to sit on the sidelines, thinking I was invisible. And the worst part? Not knowing why. You start to question your value."

Sávio nodded, quiet but attentive.

"That feeling… it doesn't go away easy," Rafael said. "But what helped me was someone taking a chance on me—showing me they believed in what I could become, not just what I was."

He leaned forward a little, his voice steady.

"Sávio, I've watched your footage. I've seen your movement, your vision, your instinct in tight spaces. You've got something rare. You're not just a flair player—you're intelligent. You make things happen."

He let the words sit for a moment before continuing.

"I'm building something at Reading. We're not PSG. Not yet. But I can promise you minutes. Responsibility. Growth. A chance to be the face of something rising. You won't just be another loanee—you'll be key."

Sávio shifted, his expression softening. The hurt hadn't vanished, but it was now mixed with curiosity. Hope.

"You're Brazilian," Rafael added with a small smile. "You know how we are—we don't run from pressure. We dance with it."

That got a faint grin from Sávio, and even Marcos raised an eyebrow, impressed.

Rafael sat back. "I'm not asking for a decision tonight. I just wanted to look you in the eye and say—I believe in you. And if you join us, I'll make sure others do too."

Sávio listened carefully as Rafael spoke, his fingers tracing the rim of his water glass. When Rafael finished, there was a beat of silence—then the young Brazilian leaned back in his chair with a slow grin.

"You know," Sávio said, still in Portuguese, "when Marcos told me about Reading, I thought he was joking. I asked him if we were going to sign for the wrong club on Football Manager."

Rafael laughed, easing further into his seat. "And yet here you are—Mayfair table, serious face. Either you're curious, or you just really like English fish and chips."

"God, no," Sávio grimaced. "You people fry everything."

Now even Marcos cracked a smile.

"But," Sávio continued, more sincerely now, "what you said… it hit. I've been in Europe for a year now, and I swear the most Portuguese I've spoken has been tonight. Everyone's always barking instructions in Dutch or French. It's nice to actually feel understood."

Rafael nodded. "That's exactly why I wanted to talk to you in person. I didn't want this to feel like another cold, robotic pitch. I know what it means to feel lost in the noise."

Sávio leaned forward again, his tone more relaxed. "So, you're saying I'd be important?"

"Very," Rafael said without hesitation. "You'd play. Start. Be trusted to create. I want you to be fearless again."

Sávio smirked. "You realise I'll try a rainbow flick first training session, right?"

"I expect nothing less," Rafael grinned. "Just make sure it works, or you'll be running laps around Berkshire."

They both laughed. The tension that had been in Sávio's shoulders slowly began to ease, and Marcos watched the two with an approving nod. Something was clicking.

"You know," Sávio said, finishing his water, "I thought this would just be another agent meeting. But…" He paused, then extended a hand across the table. "You're different, Mister Moretti."

Rafael raised an eyebrow and grinned as he shook the hand. "Don't call me Mister—I'm only a year older than you."

Sávio chuckled. "Fine. Gaffer, then?"

"Only if you score goals," Rafael shot back.

"Deal." Sávio leaned back in his chair, his expression lighter now. "You've got yourself a Brazilian."

Rafael smiled, not just because the meeting had gone well—but because this didn't feel like a transfer negotiation. It felt like the beginning of something.

Marcos, ever the professional, cleared his throat and cut straight to the business. "Alright, the release clause from Troyes for Sávio is 6.5 million. We'll need to discuss the details of the contract, of course."

At the mention of the figure, both Sávio and Rafael exchanged a look before letting out a synchronized sigh, both clearly amused by Marcos' usual uptightness.

Rafael couldn't help but chuckle. "You know, Marcos, you really do have the charm of a tax consultant."

Sávio grinned and added, "Yeah, give it a rest, Marcos. We're still figuring out if the food here's any good."

Rafael raised his hand in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. We'll pay the release clause, but let's leave the contract talk for another time. For now, let's just eat, yeah?"

Sávio nodded, a smile returning to his face as he leaned back in his chair. "Finally, a conversation without numbers."

Marcos, slightly taken aback by the moment of humor, let out a resigned sigh but relented. "Fine. Let's eat, then. But we'll get back to that in an hour."

The three of them leaned back, and the atmosphere shifted from business to casual as the waiter brought over their meals, letting the conversation flow freely from football to more relaxed topics.

…

After the dinner with Savio and Marcos, Rafael felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. The conversations had been productive, but more importantly, the bond he was starting to form with Savio felt genuine. The young Brazilian had laughed, joked, and seemed more at ease as the night went on. It reminded Rafael of his own journey—how he'd been once sidelined and frustrated, but found his place, his purpose, in the game.

Later that night, as he made his way back to his car, Rafael decided to make a stop. He hadn't planned on it earlier, but now felt like the perfect time. He drove through the familiar streets of West London, heading towards his mother's house. He hadn't told her he was coming—this was meant to be a surprise.

He pulled up outside her home, a modest townhouse with a little front garden that his mother always kept tidy. He smiled as he grabbed the flowers from the passenger seat, knowing she'd appreciate the gesture.

Rafael knocked on the door, waiting for the familiar sound of her footsteps before it opened. His mother greeted him with a warm smile and a knowing look in her eyes.

"You didn't call ahead," she teased, but opened her arms for a hug as she always did. "What's this? Flowers?"

Rafael grinned as he handed them to her. "Just thought I'd surprise you, Mum."

She looked at the flowers, a proud smile on her face. "You know how much I love them. Come in, come in." She stepped aside, letting him in.

As she arranged the flowers in a vase, Rafael sat down at the kitchen table. "How's everything?" he asked, feeling that sense of comfort only a mother could provide.

"I'm good, just watching the match four days ago," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "You know, the one you won. What a game. You're playing well."

Rafael nodded. "It was a great team performance, but we've got a long way to go."

"I saw Roy Keane on the pundit panel," she said, a sly grin forming on her face. "He was doubting you. Honestly, some of these people have no idea."

Rafael chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, that's Keane for you. But it's all part of the job."

She shook her head, a lighthearted look in her eyes. "If he played with you, he'd learn a thing or two. He wouldn't know a good system if it hit him in the face."

Rafael laughed. "You're always making me laugh, Mum."

"Because it's the truth," she said, now sitting across from him at the table. "You've got more tactical intelligence in your little finger than some of those pundits."

Rafael smiled, grateful for her unwavering support. "I don't take anything they say personally. But it's nice to hear it from you."

"I'm proud of you, always. And don't you forget it." She winked at him before getting up to make them both tea. "Now, go on. I know you've got to get back to work."

Rafael stood, giving her a tight hug. "I'll visit again soon, Mum. You take care."

"You too. And don't let anyone shake your confidence. You've got this."

As Rafael left and got back into his car, he felt a sense of calm settle over him. He had a long road ahead, with challenges to face, but with his mother's belief in him, he felt like he could take on anything.