09:10 AM — Turf Moor Kit Room
The smell hit first—hot steam and that distinct, synthetic tang of scorched polyester. It was a scent Derek could identify in his sleep. Almost comforting, usually.
But not today.
The heat press hissed in the corner, a steady, industrial rhythm that filled the small space.
Derek didn't waste movements. He didn't have to. His hands moved on autopilot, a decade of muscle memory at work. He'd prepped shirts for club icons, for expensive flops, and for local kids whose hands shook when they saw their own name on the claret fabric for the first time.
He stopped.
M.J. O'BRIAN was aligned perfectly across the shoulders. Beneath it sat the number. This one felt off.
Derek narrowed his eyes. Two identical digits, staring back at him like a dare. Bold. Obnoxious, even.
"Arrogant bastard," he muttered, his voice gravelly from too many years of Lancashire winters.
It wasn't quite a smile. But it wasn't nothing, either.
He pulled the lever.
Hiss. The sound was sharp, final. Heat and pressure fused the white plastic into the fabric, locking the choice in place.
Five seconds...four...three
He jerked the press back up and peeled the film away with one sharp, practiced flick.
The number was set. It looked loud against the claret shirt. Hard to look away from. Derek held the jersey up for a second, feeling the heat still radiating from the letters through his calloused fingers.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That'll start a fire."
He folded it—not with any particular care, just enough to fit—and tucked it under his arm.
Outside, the stadium was already alive. Muffled shouts from the groundsmen, the heavy clang of metal gates, and that persistent, biting wind whistling through the gaps in the old stands.
Derek grabbed his clipboard. His eyes drifted back to the name one last time.
M.J. O'BRIAN.
He let out a short, sharp exhale.
"Hope you know what you're doing kid."
He turned and pushed the door open and stepped out into the corridor.
Miller and Connor were already there, leaning against the concrete wall, talking low. They stopped when they heard his boots.
"Mr. O'Brian." Derek held out the jersey. "Your kit."
Miller took it. Didn't unfold it, didn't check. Just let his fingers run over the letters once — feeling the warmth still in them — then tucked it under his own arm.
Derek nodded down the tunnel toward the bright archway at the far end. "Vincent's on the pitch. Jersey signing first, then photos with Matt and the Boss. Media team takes over after that for the reveal."
A pause.
"Good luck, son."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back in.
The silence broke first.
"You serious about that number?" Connor said.
"You know no one's worn it in the league. Not even sure the FA lets it through."
"Then I'll be the first," Miller said, and started walking.
Connor stared at his back for a second. Then followed.
The air changed before they reached the pitch — damp earth, cut grass, cold that had more weight to it than the corridor cold. Miller's boots hit the tunnel floor differently here. Less echo. More ground.
Then the tunnel ended and Turf Moor opened up all at once.
Claret and blue stands on three sides, the away end open to a sky the colour of old concrete. No glamour. No architectural statement. Just a ground that had been here long enough to stop caring what anyone thought of it.
In the center circle, a small group was waiting. Vincent Kompany stood there, hands in his coat pockets. Beside him was Matt Williams checking his watch. And a third man stood slightly back from the other two. Shorter. Sharp jaw. He was looking at Miller the way people look at something they haven't quite figured out yet.
Miller placed the face before the name came.
Craig Bellamy.
Fifteen years, give or take. Miller had been seventeen—maybe eighteen—at Wigan. Just another match. Or at least, that's what it was supposed to be.
Bellamy had been the opposition. Fast. Aggressive. The kind of player who made you feel like you were already a step behind. He wasn't sure Bellamy even remembered it.
The look said otherwise.
Miller didn't break eye contact. Not yet.
Around them, the quiet didn't last.
A few photographers were already setting up near the touchline, lenses clicking softly as they adjusted focus. Two members of the media team hovered nearby, speaking in low voices, one of them glancing between Miller and a tablet screen like they were trying to line reality up with whatever plan they'd prepared.
Matt clapped his hands once, sharp, trying to pull everything into motion.
"Alright, let's get this done, yeah? Quick signing first."
Kompany gave a small nod, eyes already on Miller. Measuring. Not unkind, but not warm either.
"Welcome," he said simply.
Miller stepped forward.
Someone handed him a marker. The shirt—his shirt—was unfolded in front of him now, stretched just enough for the fabric to sit flat.
For a second, he didn't move.
Then he signed.
Quick. Clean. No flourish.
The cameras started firing properly now. Louder. Faster. The empty stadium caught the sound and threw it back at them in dull echoes.
"Turn it slightly—yeah, like that."
"Hold it up—perfect."
Miller did.
Not for the cameras.
For the moment.
He lifted the shirt by the shoulders and let it hang.
For a second, nothing moved.
Kompany just smiled.
Matt's eyes widened a fraction too much—like he'd just realised something he couldn't fix.
Bellamy frowned, not sharply, just enough to show he didn't like what he was seeing.
Further back, Connor let out a quiet breath, a thin smile pulling at his lips as he tapped his forehead once.
Shutters snapping from every angle—quick, relentless—filling the empty stadium with sharp bursts of sound.
"Hold it there—yeah, don't move."
Miller stretched the shirt out wider.
Kompany stepped in beside him. Just stood there while the media team did their work.
The name sat across the back.
Nobody commented on it.
Nobody needed to.
M.J. O'BRIAN.
And beneath it—
A beat.
Just long enough.
99
The shot was taken.