I have a request! Can you do one where Calafiori has been seeing reader for a week but reader didnât know what team he played for because he has a rule where he only tells after 6 months. Reader gets a job as Arsenal Performance Analyst and she has to explain to the team the analysis from last weeks game and then they both see each other and Calafiori starts acting suspiciously.
Riccardo Calafiori x Reader
Finally getting round to the requests! Sorry it took so long for this one anon but here you go𼚠Hope this is what you wanted x
FLUFF- After a whirlwind week of secret dates with a charming, mysterious footballer who refuses to reveal his team until the six-month mark, you land your dream job as Arsenalâs new Performance Analyst. During your first team presentation, the truth collides in the most awkward way possible, right in front of the entire squad.
The low hum of the coffee machine was the only sound in your small London flat as you scrolled through match footage late into the night. Your fingers flew across the trackpad, pausing, rewinding, annotating every misplaced pass, every clever overlap, every defensive lapse.
Tomorrow was your first official day presenting to the Arsenal first team, and the nerves were electric under your skin.
You had only been in the role for three days, hired after a rigorous interview process that included breaking down clips from three different Premier League sides but the club had fast-tracked you into contributing to the post-match review. âShow us what you see,â the head of performance had said with a kind but expectant smile.
A soft buzz pulled you from the screen. A new message.
Riccardo: Still awake, bellissima? (Beautiful?) You work too hard.
You smiled despite the late hour, warmth blooming in your chest. Youâd met Riccardo Calafiori exactly eight days ago in a quiet bookshop in Islington. He had been reaching for the same obscure football biography you wanted, and the spark had been instant.
Tall, dark-haired, with warm green eyes that crinkled when he laughed and an Italian accent that made every word feel like velvet. He was funny, attentive, and strangely private about his job.
When youâd asked what he did, heâd simply shrugged with a playful smirk. âI kick a ball around. But I have a rule, no team talk until six months. Protects the vibe.â Youâd laughed it off as a quirky rich-guy thing, figuring he played Sunday league or maybe lower divisions. He dressed well, sure, but plenty of finance guys did too. He never corrected you.
You: Final prep for my big presentation tomorrow. Wish me luck?
Riccardo: You donât need luck. Youâre brilliant. Canât wait to hear how it goes. Dinner after?
Your heart did a little flip. Youâd been seeing each other almost every evening since that bookshop meeting, stolen kisses in hidden pubs, long walks along the canal, late-night talks that made the rest of the world disappear. He was becoming dangerously addictive.
You: Yes, please. Miss your face already.
The next morning you stood in the Arsenal training centreâs main meeting room, heart hammering against your ribs. The squad was filing in, some chatting, some still half-asleep with protein shakes in hand. You smoothed down your smart blazer and clicked through your slides one last time.
The analysis focused on last weekendâs match: defensive transitions, set-piece opportunities missed, and a few tactical tweaks you believed could exploit upcoming opponents.
Manager Mikel Arteta gave you an encouraging nod from the back. âWhenever youâre ready.â
You took a deep breath and began.
âMorning, everyone. Iâm the new performance analyst, and today I want to highlight some key moments from Saturday.â The first few clips played smoothly. You pointed out pressing triggers, player positioning heatmaps, and one particularly clever run down the left flank by the left-back that had created a dangerous overlap.
A low whistle came from somewhere in the middle rows. âSheâs good,â someone muttered.
You smiled, gaining confidence, and moved to the next sequence. âHere, around the 67th minute, we saw a really strong recovery runââ
The door at the side of the room opened quietly. A late arrival. You glanced up automatically to acknowledge him.
Your voice died in your throat.
Richy walked in wearing full training gear, Arsenal crest prominent on his chest. His hair was still damp from the shower, and those familiar warm eyes widened the exact moment they locked onto yours.
For a second the entire room seemed to freeze, at least for the two of you.
He stopped mid-step. You felt heat rush to your face so fast you were sure the entire squad could see it. Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
âUh⌠recovery run byâŚâ You desperately tried to find your place on the slide, but the words blurred. Riccardoâs expression shifted from shock to something almost comically guilty. He rubbed the back of his neck and quickly took a seat near the back, but not before shooting you a wide-eyed look that screamed I can explain.
Arteta raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A few players exchanged glances.
You forced yourself to continue, voice slightly higher than before. âRight. So the recovery run here by Calafiori was excellent, great pace and positioning that prevented a counter. Itâs a model of how we want to defend transitions.â
Someone clapped Riccardo on the shoulder. âTeacherâs pet already, eh?â
He gave a weak laugh, but his eyes never left you. Every time you advanced to a new slide, you felt his gaze like a physical touch. When you highlighted another of his actions, this time an intelligent pass into the half-space, he sank a little lower in his chair, cheeks faintly pink.
By the time you finished, your palms were sweaty and your pulse was racing for entirely different reasons than pre-presentation nerves. The team applauded politely.
Arteta thanked you and began adding his own notes. As players started to file out toward the training pitches, Riccardo lingered.
He waited until the room was nearly empty before approaching, hands in his pockets, looking every bit like a schoolboy caught skipping class.
âCiao,â (Hello) he said softly, that charming smile now sheepish. âSurprise?â
You crossed your arms, trying to look stern even as butterflies exploded in your stomach. âSix months, huh?â
He winced. âItâs a stupid rule. I made it after⌠past experiences. People get weird when they know you play for a big club. I wanted you to like me, not the name on the back of the shirt.â His voice dropped, sincere. âAnd you did. That first night, you argued with me about tactical setups without knowing I was living them. It was⌠refreshing.â
You let out a breathless laugh, the absurdity hitting you. âI spent all last night studying your teamâs footage. I praised your overlap. Richy, I called you âthe left-backâ like I didnât spend the last week kissing you.â
He stepped closer, glancing quickly toward the door to make sure no one was watching, then brushed a thumb gently along your wrist. âYou were incredible up there. Smart, confident⌠ridiculously hot explaining my positioning.â His grin turned mischievous. âThough I did want the ground to swallow me when you froze.â
âI thought you played for, like, Brentford or something,â you whispered, half-laughing, half-mortified.
âBrentford?â He clutched his chest in mock offense. âAston Villa, maybe. But Brentford?â
You swatted his arm. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd youâre stuck with me now.â His expression softened. âUnless the âdating a player you analyseâ thing is against the rules here. I can⌠I donât know, pretend we donât know each other in meetings?â
You shook your head, stepping just a fraction closer. âNo pretending. But weâre going to have a very long conversation tonight about honesty and ridiculous six-month rules.â
His eyes lit up. âDinner still on?â
âObviously. Youâre buying, Mr. Premier League.â
Riccardo leaned in, voice low and warm against your ear. âWhatever you want, analyst. Just donât go too hard on my defensive lapses in the next review. I have a reputation to maintain.â
You bit back a smile as he finally headed toward the door, throwing one last glance over his shoulder, the same playful, smitten look heâd given you in the bookshop.
As the room emptied completely, you exhaled slowly and looked back at your presentation slides. There, paused on the screen, was a freeze-frame of Richy sprinting back to cover, shirt damp with effort, number 33 bright on his back.
You laughed quietly to yourself.
Six months? Looked like the secret had lasted barely eight days.
And somehow, you couldnât be happier about it.
Seeing the boys play tomorrow for the final time at home this season! I canât lie I am pretty nervous but two more dances to go for the prem & then we go for the UCL final!đ
Iâm super super excited as I didnât think I would get tickets at all but was super lucky on the Arsenal TXđâ¤ď¸
I also have a Martin request which will be finished soon so do keep sending stuff in as even tho Iâve been super busy lately, I will still get round to writing them up x
