13 August 2023
08:14 AM — The Pinnacle Suites, Unit 12.01, Burnley
The alarm never stood a chance. Miller's eyes were already open at eight-fourteen — staring at a ceiling that didn't know him yet. Clean. Cream-white. Indifferent.
For a fraction of a second, he forgot where he was.
Not Toronto. Not Turin. Not Braga. Not Manchester
Burnley.
He sat up slowly at the edge of the bed, the soles of his feet meeting the hardwood floor that still felt like a stranger's house. The sensation pulled him back into full consciousness — sharp, real, and asking for no permission whatsoever. Miller rolled his neck to the right, then to the left. A small crack rang out, followed by a warm spread along his trapezius muscles, still coiled tight from last night's contract signing.
He stood and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Below, Burnley was beginning to stir beneath a thin Lancashire mist. In the distance, the silhouette of Turf Moor stood firm and ancient — like an old fortress that had seen too many seasons to be impressed by anything anymore.
He walked to the kitchen and pulled open the stainless steel fridge, which exhaled a quiet, expensive hiss.
Nothing. Just a battalion of glass water bottles standing at attention — perfectly symmetrical, perfectly useless.
"Damn. Should've grabbed food yesterday," Miller muttered, in the tone of a man making a mental note he would absolutely forget by noon.
As he pushed the fridge door shut, his eyes drifted to the Welcome Basket sitting on the bar counter — standard issue from apartment management. A few glossy green apples. A small box of chocolates. Miller stared at it with the expression of a man who had just discovered a conspiracy.
"Pretty sure this wasn't here yesterday," he murmured, scratching the back of his neck slowly. "...Or did I just walk past it like an idiot?"He stood there a moment, genuinely trying to reconstruct the foggy wreckage of his arrival yesterday afternoon."...Ah. Whatever."
Just as he reached for an apple, his phone detonated into a full vibration spiral on the counter.
"Bro, wake up! I'm on my way — 15 minutes out," Connor's first message announced. The second arrived before Miller's brain had fully processed the first. "Don't you DARE tell me you're still under the covers. We've got a 10 o'clock, and Matt Williams is NOT the type to sit around waiting for players who can't operate an alarm clock."
Miller stared at the screen for exactly one second. Then typed back with one thumb, completely unbothered.
"Fridge is empty. Bring black coffee. Double espresso, no sugar."
Three seconds.
"Your wish is my command, Your Highness. Zero sugar, zero love — on its way," Connor fired back, the sarcasm practically bleeding through the screen. "Now please go shower. You've got your first photoshoot today. Don't make the photographer think Burnley accidentally signed a model."
Miller snorted — one short exhale through his nose, which for him was basically a standing ovation. He typed one final reply, launched his phone onto the sofa like it had personally offended him, and walked away — completely forgetting about the apple he'd been reaching for thirty seconds ago.
"I'm a footballer, not a model 😜"
Miller turned and headed toward the bathroom.
The bathroom filled with steam the moment he turned the shower on. In a building like The Pinnacle, it took exactly eight seconds to hit the perfect temperature. Eight seconds. Miller had counted once, out of habit, because counting things was easier than thinking about them.
He caught his reflection in the mirror and held it.
Sharp jaw. But the lines carved at the corners of his eyes weren't from laughing — they were receipts. Sixteen years of getting kicked, fouled, elbowed, and getting back up anyway. His hand moved on instinct to his left knee — one slow, deliberate pass over the ACL surgery scar. An unplanned ritual. Always the same. Just to confirm the machine was still running.
It was.
He stepped back from the mirror. Good enough.
Seventeen minutes later, he emerged dressed with the efficiency of a soldier who had stopped caring about fashion somewhere around his third club: plain white tee, dark grey chinos, brown leather jacket.
The apple came back to him then — the one he'd abandoned during Connor's assault on his phone. He grabbed it, wiped it once against his jacket sleeve, and bit into it with a sharp, satisfying crunch. Tart. Sweet. First fuel of the day.
He settled onto the sofa and opened Instagram. A blue-verified account sat at the very top of his feed, as if the algorithm knew exactly how much chaos it was about to deliver.
@FabrizioRom ▶ 🚨 EXCLUSIVE: The Predator is BACK! Miller Jolene (MJ) O'Brian Joins Burnley On A Free Transfer, Here We Go! 🟣🏴
A full agreement was reached last night in Lancashire. Vincent Kompany personally stepped in to secure Miller's signature as The Clarets' main striker this season. 🤝
✍️ Contract until June 2024 (with a 1-year extension option)
The former Manchester City academy graduate returns to England after a lengthy adventure abroad. Miller's golden era came at Torino, where he formed a legendary and lethal partnership alongside Andrea Belotti. 🇮🇹🔥
Torino Stats:
🏟️ 98 Appearances | ⚽ 42 Goals | 🅰️ 15 Assists
While his numbers in Toronto remained sharp, many have raised doubts about his physical condition following his ACL injury and recurring shoulder dislocations. At 33 years old — does Miller still have the pace for Premier League football?
Burnley's management had reservations, but Kompany stood firm: "Miller is the missing piece of mentality in our dressing room."
A massive gamble for Burnley — or a stroke of genius from Kompany? Let's see. ⏳🦁
Miller swallowed a piece of apple. His eyes narrowed as he scrolled into the comments, which had now bulldozed past 200,000 likes.
@FootballExpert99 : "Leave football before football leaves you mate. 33 years old with a plastic knee? This is embarrassing for Burnley." (18k Likes)
@Claret_Fanss : "MJ WELCOME BACK TO THE EPL! We don't care what they say. Give us those spectacular goals again in England! 🦁🔥" (12k Likes)
@Mh0_hzard : "Burnley bought a fossil? Vincent is trying to build a museum, not a football club." (10k Likes)
Miller switched off his phone screen with a sharp, deliberate click. He didn't need validation from people who only knew how to read numbers on paper.
"A fossil, huh?" he murmured, almost to himself. "Let's see if a Premier League defender can stop this fossil inside the penalty box."
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
"Miller! Open up! I know you're not deaf!"
Miller opened the door to find his uncle looking like a man who had argued with three traffic lights and lost all of them — breathless, slightly wild-eyed, one cups of black coffee somehow still intact in his hands, and a phone vibrating so aggressively in his shirt pocket it had basically become a medical concern.
Miller accepted the coffee without a word. Its sharp aroma cut through the air like the opening gunshot of something that couldn't be taken back.
"Let's go," said Miller, flat and cold. "This fossil has an appointment to keep at Turf Moor."
Connor could only exhale — somewhere between a laugh and a prayer — watching his nephew's back as the man was already moving toward the lift with the calm, unhurried certainty of someone who had decided exactly how this day was going to go, and wasn't particularly interested in other opinions.
"Unbelievable," Connor muttered, falling into step behind him. "Not even a thank you for the coffee."
He pulled the door of Unit 12.01 shut behind him — the electronic lock clicking into place with clean, solid finality — as they descended to meet whatever Lancashire had waiting for them.