Two days had passed in the blink of an eye.
Rafael woke up to the morning sun seeping through the blinds, its warmth cutting through the cold air hanging in his modest flat. He'd barely gotten any sleep, but there was no room for rest—not now. Not when his managerial debut was just around the corner. The match against Millwall loomed large, and today was the day he would present the squad that would be travelling down to The Den.
The training sessions over the last 48 hours had been fruitful. The team was slowly adapting to his 4-2-3-1 system, and certain players were beginning to shine under the new structure. Even those who weren't guaranteed starters were training like they had something to prove. That was the energy he needed.
Rafael sat at his desk in the training ground office, fingers steepled under his chin as his laptop screen lit up with notes, diagrams, and video footage. For hours yesterday, he'd dissected Millwall's game—rewatching full 90s, set-piece patterns, off-ball movement, everything. They were sitting 13th, a gritty mid-table side with a reputation for shithousery—tight tackles, time wasting, mind games.
But he wasn't rattled. In fact, he'd found a weakness.
Their left-back—number 3. The guy couldn't defend to save his life. Always late to track runs, poor body positioning, lazy recovery pace. Rafael was planning to exploit him—hard. Junior Hoilett would start on the right instead of the left to go at him directly, inverted winger or not. And if that didn't work, he'd overload the flank with overlapping fullbacks to stretch him thin.
There was more. Millwall's centre-backs—hard-working, sure, but not dominant in the air. For a team that prided itself on physicality, that was their Achilles' heel. Rafael had seen enough flicked headers and missed aerial duels to know: Andy Carroll was going to feast.
Just as he was sketching out the passing triangles on his whiteboard, the blue screen blinked in front of him again—quiet, smooth, like always.
Congratulations. You have unlocked: Tactical Destroyer [Level 3]
Your in-depth analysis and weakness exploitation has activated this skill.
Level 3 grants advanced tactical insight and opponent-based adaptability.
Rafael blinked. He chuckled under his breath.
"Figures," he muttered. "Here I am, tactically destroying them in my mind… and the system wants to make it official."
Just as the system faded away and Rafael finalized the last touches on his tactical blueprint, he grabbed his phone and opened up the squad's group chat.
His thumbs hovered for a second before typing:
"Meeting before training. Assembly room. Be there on time."
Short. Sharp. To the point.
He hit send and locked the screen. The message was clear—this wasn't going to be just another light session or team bonding drill. This was war prep.
Rafael walked into the staff room, the early morning chill still clinging to him as he made his way straight to the coffee machine. The soft hum of the machine filled the quiet space as he prepared his usual—strong, with just a touch of milk. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he noticed Lara, the blonde receptionist from earlier. She was sitting at her desk, typing away, but looked up when he approached.
"Morning," Rafael greeted her, offering a warm smile. "Fancy a coffee?"
Lara glanced up, surprised but smiling. "Oh, sure, that'd be nice."
He quickly finished making the coffee and handed it to her. "Here you go."
"Thanks," she said, taking the cup. "I've heard good things about you."
Rafael raised an eyebrow, curious. "From who?"
"From my father—David Holloway," she replied, her tone light but sincere. "He speaks highly of you."
Rafael blinked, processing for a moment. "David Holloway, right. " he asked, still a bit surprised. "Well, the media tends to think differently."
She smiled, the confidence clear in her expression. "I think you'll prove them wrong. You've got it in you."
Rafael gave a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks. I'll try to live up to that."
They shared a few more casual words—football, the weather, and the usual small talk—but as the conversation wound down, Rafael glanced at the clock. He'd spent more time than he realized. He finished his coffee in a few sips, nodded to Lara, and made his way toward the assembly room.
As he entered, he noticed the players were already gathered, their attention focused on the front. The air was thick with anticipation, and he could feel the weight of his role pressing in on him. Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and stepped into the room, ready to face the challenge ahead.
The projector screen lit up as Rafael stepped forward, the remote in one hand, his notes in the other. The players, scattered across the chairs in the assembly room, quieted. This was the moment they'd been waiting for.
"Alright," he began, the first slide clicking into view. "This is the eleven."
A formation graphic faded onto the screen:
GK – Lumley
RB – Yiadom
CB – McIntyre
CB – Sarr
LB – Rahman
CDM – Loum
CDM – Hendrick
CAM – Ince
RW – Hoilett
LW – Ejaria
ST – Carroll
"Lumley starts between the posts—talks well, reads the game. I want constant communication from the back today."
"Back four: Yiadom, you tuck in when we're under pressure but I want you pushing high when we break. Rahman, same for you. Their wingers like to cut inside and leave space—exploit that when we get the chance."
The screen shifted, showing match clips of Millwall's last fixture. Rafael froze the image mid-transition.
"Now, this is key—Millwall press in waves, especially down their right. But look here—" he circled their left-back. "He's their weak spot. Caught out of position, slow to recover. We target him."
He looked to Hoilett. "Junior, you're going to find joy here. Keep wide, beat him off the dribble, and get your crosses in. Early, low, or hanging—doesn't matter. Just get them in. Ejaria, you've got the license to cut in and combine with Ince—drag players out, open the flank for Rahman."
He flicked to a wide-angle image of the pitch, showing the central zone.
"Midfield's where they want to fight. It's a physical three—no finesse, just pressure. They'll try to overwhelm us with duels. But we're not giving them that game."
He pointed toward Loum and Hendrick.
"Mamadou, you sit and protect. Don't get baited forward. Keep things simple. Hendrick—" he looked him in the eye "—you've got more freedom. Roam, find pockets, and make yourself available between the lines. You're our connector. I want you pulling strings and drawing their midfield out of shape."
The screen now showed Bradshaw's highlight reel—sharp movements, well-timed runs in behind.
"Now this man—Tom Bradshaw. Top scorer. Dangerous. He lives off these—" Rafael tapped the remote, showing a freeze-frame of Bradshaw bending his run behind the defence. "Their midfield feeds him early, especially when we're stretched. He's not going to beat you in the air, but he'll beat you with timing."
He turned to the two centre-backs.
"Sarr, McIntyre—no ball-watching. He'll be on your blind side, waiting for a lapse. Stay tight, talk to each other. Step up when you can, but don't break the line without cover. Hendrick, Loum—I need those passing lanes cut off. Track their midfielders. Don't give them space to turn."
He returned to the full shape again, then pointed to the top.
"Andy. You're our focal point. Carroll, you're going to bully their centre-backs. They're aggressive, but they're small. I want crosses in—both early and late in the move. Force the mistake. You win the first ball, we crash the second."
A new slide appeared: the substitutes.
Bench:
João
Meite
Holmes
Fornah
Hutchinson
Casadei
Bouzanis
"These are our reinforcements. João and Meite—options to stretch or change the dynamic up top. Holmes gives us cover at the back. Fornah brings legs, Hutchinson gives us control. Casadei can drive us forward if we need to open things up. Bouzanis is ready if called."
Rafael looked out at the room—focused, silent, dialed in.
"This is how we beat them. Not by matching their fight—but by controlling the tempo, exploiting their flaws, and playing our football. We move the ball, we move them. No mistakes. No fear. Let's go take this."
The projector snapped off, the screen fading to black as the lights hummed back to full brightness. For a brief second, the room was still, the weight of Rafael's final words hanging in the air.
Then came the sound of chairs sliding, boots tapping against the floor, players rising with a quiet energy—focused but hungry.
"Kit up," Rafael said, his voice calm but decisive. "We hit the pitch in fifteen."
Outside, the morning chill still lingered, the grass slick with dew under a pale sky. The session was already laid out—cones, mannequins, passing grids, and mini goals marked out with military precision by the coaching staff. Rafael stepped onto the grass, zipped up his jacket, and scanned the layout as the players jogged out in twos and threes.
He gathered them into a tight huddle before the warm-up began.
"This isn't just prep for Millwall," he said. "It's rehearsal. Every movement, every pass—do it like it's matchday."
The group split off. The warm-up was sharp and dynamic, focused on activation and ball work—everything designed to mimic the pace they'd face on Saturday.
Then came the tactical drills.
They walked through the build-up shape: Lumley playing short into the double pivot, full-backs pushing high, Hendrick floating between the lines. Rafael paused the drill more than once, stepping in to reposition a player by the shoulder.
"Jeff—receive it on the half-turn, always scanning. Don't wait for the pressure to come. Find the next pass before the ball hits your foot."
Ince and Ejaria rotated between lines, practicing quick combinations in tight space. On the flanks, Hoilett and Rahman drilled crossing patterns, one overlapping while the other pulled defenders inside. Carroll waited in the middle, attacking every ball whipped into the box like it was the winner in stoppage time.
At the other end, McIntyre and Sarr were put through scenario drills—Bradshaw-style runs simulated by the younger squad players. Long passes played in behind, timing tests, communication drills.
"Talk to each other!" Rafael barked. "One goes, one covers. You don't get beat by a run you're expecting."
The final phase was transitional play—defending deep, winning the ball, and springing quickly to exploit the flanks. The tempo was high, mistakes punished, praise delivered sparingly but purposefully.
By the end of the session, the players were soaked in sweat, breath visible in the cold air, but sharper than when they started.
Rafael called them back in.
"Good work today. That's the standard. We're not preparing for a battle—we're preparing to control the fight. Same intensity tomorrow."
As they jogged off toward the tunnel, Rafael lingered on the pitch for a moment, arms folded, watching the cones and divots and drag marks on the turf.
This was the work no one saw. The moments that built belief.
….
Rafael sat at the long mahogany table across from David Holloway, the club chairman. Sunlight filtered through the blinds behind him, casting striped shadows across the boardroom wall. A cup of black coffee sat untouched by Rafael's hand—he wasn't in the mood for small talk today.
"I appreciate you taking the time," Rafael began, sitting a bit straighter in his seat. "I've gone through every department—physios, analysts, set-piece team, the lot. With all due respect… some of these guys aren't exactly Championship calibre."
David raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Go on."
"I need better coaches. Simple as that. The players can only go so far with what they're being given. We need coaches that push the level—raise standards, not just hold the line."
David rested his chin on his hand. "You're saying the staff we have are holding the team back?"
"I'm saying they're not enough if we want to climb out of 23rd and stay out," Rafael replied plainly.
Just then, the screen flickered faintly in the corner of his vision—his system.
[Coach Impact: New Concept Unlocked.]
The quality of your staff now directly influences individual player performance. Elite coaches can push players to perform 3-7 rating points above their current level, depending on compatibility and training focus.
Rafael blinked, absorbing the information. That changed everything.
"I've got something that tells me…" he hesitated, then smirked slightly, "…that the right coaches could get more out of these players than their stats might suggest."
David gave him a long look, the kind that tried to read through every word. "You're really all-in on this, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't be here otherwise."
A short silence hung in the air before David finally nodded. "Alright. You'll have a little wiggle room in the budget. Not much—but enough to bring in two, maybe three if you're smart about it."
"That's all I need," Rafael said, already thinking of names.
He didn't need the most expensive coaches—just the right ones. Ones that could help him squeeze every drop of potential out of a squad that most had already written off.
Rafael stood, collecting his notes with a quiet efficiency. "Thanks for the time, David. I'll get the names and proposals to you by tomorrow."
He turned to leave, but just as his hand touched the door handle, David's voice stopped him.
"One more thing."
Rafael glanced back over his shoulder.
"The owner's flying in for the Millwall game," David said casually, though his eyes were measuring. "Wants to see for himself what's going on down here."
Rafael paused, absorbing that. "Didn't realise it was that kind of visit."
"Call it… a check-in," David replied. "You put on a good show, maybe he sees what you're building. Might loosen the purse strings in January."
Rafael offered a small, crooked smile. "So it's not just three points on the line."
David gave a noncommittal shrug. "He's not expecting miracles. But impress him—and we might be talking about more than just coaches."
Rafael nodded once. "Noted."
And with that, he stepped out of the boardroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The stakes had just risen—but that was fine. He didn't come to Reading for comfort.
He came to turn things around.
….
[MATCHDAY]
The team coach rumbled to a halt outside The Den, Millwall's stadium looming above them in cold grey concrete. Rain pattered softly against the windows, and for a moment, the squad just sat in quiet anticipation, the weight of the fixture settling in the air like fog.
Rafael stood at the front of the coach, buttoning the jacket of a deep navy suit—tailored, expensive, sharp. It was a step above his usual look, but his mother's voice echoed in his head from the phone call the night before: "Dress like a man in control, not just one hoping to be."
As he turned to face the players, he caught Yiadom giving him a once-over from his seat, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Gaffer cleans up nice," Yiadom said, smirking.
A ripple of laughter moved through the coach.
Rafael smirked back. "Hopefully the cameras stay on me and not your stepovers today, Andy."
That drew a louder laugh, even a few mock cheers. But just as quickly, Rafael raised a hand—not stern, just focused.
"Alright—laughs over. Lock in."
The noise faded. Eyes turned forward. Game faces slid into place.
"This isn't just another away day. This is a test—of everything we've worked on this week. The press, the switches, the overloads out wide. I've watched them. I've studied them. We can beat them."
"I'm not going to repeat the gameplan again," he said. "It should be muscle memory by now. You know the patterns. You know the threats. You know what we're targeting."
He looked around, making eye contact with each cluster of players—attackers, midfielders, defenders.
"Trust your training. Trust each other."
The coach fell silent under Rafael's steady gaze, the laughter fading as focus returned. The door hadn't opened yet—just a few more seconds together in this steel cocoon before the noise of The Den swallowed them whole.
He glanced around once more, then asked, voice low but commanding:
"How many points are we leaving with today?"
Without hesitation, the squad erupted in unison.
"THREE!"
Rafael gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching into a satisfied half-smile.
"Damn right."
The door hissed open, cold air rushing in. One by one, they filed out—heads up, boots sharp, minds locked in.
Game time.