The elevator went down in silence.
Miller's reflection stared back at him from the polished doors — expression flat, unreadable, the face of a man who had already decided everything and was simply waiting for the world to catch up. Beside him, Connor was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief like someone who had just survived something,
Miller glanced at him. "Black. No sugar?"
Connor lowered the handkerchief. "Yeah, bitter as your life." A beat. "Why?"
Miller said nothing. Just smiled — small, private, the kind that never felt the need to explain itself.
The doors opened. Lancashire cold hit them the moment they stepped through the lobby's automatic doors — immediate, sharp, completely indifferent to who they were or what they'd just signed.
"Bro, your name is literally everywhere," Connor muttered, speed-walking toward the black SUV at the curb. "Spotted two guys in Burnley scarves down the road. I'm ninety percent sure they think this car belongs to the world's greatest agent." He paused. "Which, to be fair—"
Miller looked at him. Really looked
Connor stopped talking.
Miller got in, wrapped both hands around his coffee, and went back to watching the city through the window.
08:50 AM — Turf Moor, Burnley
The stadium appeared the way old things do — gradually, between rows of terraced houses and narrow roads, like it had simply always been there and had never felt the need to announce itself. No glass facade. No architectural statement trying to justify a budget. Just red brick, stands that sat close enough to the pitch that you could hear a player breathe, and the particular stillness of a ground that had absorbed a century of noise and learned to hold it quietly.
A handful of photographers and fans had already gathered outside the players' entrance. The moment Connor eased off the accelerator, cameras started firing against the tinted windows.
"Head down," Connor said. "Unless you want to spend the rest of the week seeing spots."
Miller didn't move. He sat up straighter, looked directly at the gate — at the crest, the Stork, the words underneath. Pretiumque Et Causa Laboris. The worth and the reason for the work. Then at the fans pressed against the barriers, scarves and all, in the cold.
He didn't look away.
The car stopped. Matt Williams was already outside — arms folded, Burnley training kit, carrying the same carefully measured skepticism he'd worn like a second uniform since day one.
"Early," he said, checking his watch as Miller stepped out. "Good. Vincent's already on the pitch. Photographer's set up, and the media team want a teaser reel before the two o'clock session."
Miller nodded once.
"Where's my jersey?"
Matt smiled — not warmly. The smile of a man holding a card he hasn't played yet. "Changing room. Kit manager will walk you through — his name's Derek." A pause, the deliberate kind. "Choose your number carefully. Nine's available, but the weight that comes with it isn't light." He stepped aside. "Don't keep Kompany waiting." His voice dropped just slightly. "And don't make me regret this."
Miller walked past him without breaking stride. His footsteps echoed down the corridor — steady, unhurried, the walk of someone who had already settled the question of whether he belonged here.
"All I need," he said — quiet, almost to himself — "is a net to put the ball in." A beat. "Doesn't matter what number's on my back. It's going in either way."
Connor, two steps behind, closed his eyes for approximately one second. "Unbelievable," he muttered. Then, louder "Hey. You're thirty-three. Not twenty-three. Can you maybe try to remember that before the press conference?"
Miller kept walking.
The tunnel to the home changing room looked nothing like Toronto or City. No embedded screens running highlight reels, no trophy cases catching designer lighting, no walls that had been focus-grouped by someone who'd never laced a boot. What it had instead was concrete, fluorescent light, and photographs — black and white, men in old kits, expressions that weren't performing for anyone.
No glamour. Just history.
Miller slowed without meaning to. He looked at the faces as he passed — didn't recognise a single one, but understood the thing underneath all of them. That particular weight of having meant something to a place. Of having left something behind that the walls still held.
Connor followed two steps back. Said nothing. Even he could read a moment.
The changing room door opened before Miller reached it.
The man on the other side was mid-fifties, silver-haired, posture straight in the effortless way of someone who had never needed to think about it. Grey polo — Burnley FC, Kit Department — and a clipboard that had clearly been through more seasons than most of the current squad.
"Mr. O'Brian." Firm handshake, brief. A working handshake — not a boardroom one. "Derek. Kit manager, twelve years. Welcome to Turf Moor."
"Miller." He matched it. "Good to meet you, Derek."
"Come in. I'll walk you through."
The changing room was exactly what it needed to be and nothing more. Wooden benches along the walls, metal lockers worn smooth at the corners, white tile floors that were clean but made no attempt to look expensive. Block capital names above every locker. The kind of room that had seen enough to stop trying to impress anyone.
Quiet. Just the low hum of the ventilation and Derek's footsteps, certain and unhurried.
"Your locker's in the far corner," Derek said, nodding toward the left end of the room. "Close to the tunnel exit, away from the noise. Senior players usually end up there."
Miller walked over.
His name was already up.
O'BRIAN
He stood in front of it for a moment. Didn't speak, didn't move. Behind him, Connor — a man who was, under normal circumstances, constitutionally incapable of silence — also said nothing.
Derek opened the locker: training kit, shin guards, towels, standard issue. Then nodded toward a door on the opposite wall. "Match jerseys are handled separately. This way."
The kit room was small and very deliberately organised — the kind of order that comes from caring about the work, not impressing visitors. Metal shelving floor to ceiling, each jersey sealed in transparent plastic and hanging by number. A printing machine hummed quietly in the corner, patient and ready.
Derek stopped in the centre of the room and turned.
"Taken numbers are marked." He gestured to a board on the wall — one to ninety-nine, names beside the claimed ones, clean gaps where the rest sat open. "Anything without a name is yours. Once you decide, we print the nameset right here, today, before photos."
He stepped back.
"Take your time, Mr. O'Brian. It's not a small decision."
Miller studied the board. Slowly. Not like a man choosing — more like a man arriving somewhere he'd already been heading for a long time.
Connor stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, mouth shut. He knew. This one wasn't his moment.
"Matt mentioned nine was open," Miller said. "That's unusual. That number doesn't usually sit empty."
"Jay Rodriguez. Move to Sampdoria is confirmed, just waiting on the official announcement. We cleared it early."
"How long?"
"Three, four days. Week at most."
Miller nodded slowly. His eyes stayed on the board.
Then his hand came up.
One finger. One number.
"This one. Nameset reads M.J. O'Brian."
Silence.
Derek looked at the board. Then at Miller. Then back at the board. Twelve years in this room — hundreds of players, every kind of choice. Sentimental, calculated, indifferent. He'd seen all of it.
This was different. He couldn't have said why. Didn't try to.
He didn't ask. A good kit manager never asks why.
He wrote it down — a little slower than usual — and nodded.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. O'Brian."
Connor waited until Derek's footsteps had faded around the corner.
"You're serious."
Miller had already pulled off his jacket and hung it by the door. He turned, held Connor's eyes for exactly one second — no explanation, no defence — and walked out.
Connor stayed where he was. His gaze moved back to the board. To the number. To whatever it said about the man who had just chosen it without hesitating.
He exhaled slowly.
"This guy…" Connor shook his head. "Half the time he acts like a kid. Then he turns around and does something like this... and suddenly you're the one who doesn't understand anything."
Sixteen years as his agent — from the day City threw him out to now, standing here in Burnley — and I still don't understand him.
Not frustration. Not admiration. Somewhere between the two, in the place those feelings go when they haven't decided what they are yet.
He pushed off the doorframe and followed.