The camera flashes hadn't stopped.
The photographers kept chasing the moment, like they were afraid it would slip away before they had enough of it.
Above them, the Lancashire sun had climbed high. Its light fell straight down onto the pitch — bright enough to catch every detail.
When Miller lifted the jersey, the number on the back came through clear.
99
The flashes finally stopped.
Bellamy reacted first.
"What the hell — are you out of your mind?"
His voice dropped, but it was sharp.
"We've already wasted enough money on someone like you, and now you pick 99?"
He shook his head slowly.
"The FA will never approve this. You'd better start thinking of another number right now."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked away.
Matt held his gaze a few seconds longer.
"You're actually insane," he said quietly, then followed.
Kompany just smiled — thin, careful — and turned to Miller.
"I'm not going to ask why you chose that number. But remember — no one in the history of the Premier League has ever worn it."
He paused.
"So... be careful."
"Ten minutes," he added. "Get changed into your full kit and come back out. The media team needs you for the clip."
Then he left too.
From across the pitch, Connor caught Miller's eye and gave one short signal.
Inside. Now.
Miller turned without a word.
Connor stayed. Waiting.
The corridor felt different on the way back. Quieter. Stiller. Or maybe that was just him.
Inside the dressing room, Derek was gone. No sign of where.
Miller changed without rushing. The jersey — number 99, claret with sky blue across the collar and shoulders — fit like it was made for him. He pulled on the home kit shorts, the socks, then laced up his Puma King Tops. Black and white. The same pair he'd worn since Toronto.
He stopped.
Took a long breath.
For a moment — his father's face. His mother's. Connor's.
He exhaled slowly.
"Time to go," he murmured.
Miller walked out.
Face flat.
Eyes sharp.
Like something that had finally woken up after a long sleep.
09:30 AM — Turf Moor Pitch
The media team was already set up when Miller came back out. Cameras positioned, crew moving, scripts in hand.
Connor appeared at his shoulder.
"Do the right thing here. I've got something to sort — won't be long." He gripped Miller's shoulder briefly, then started walking.
"And don't cause any trouble," he called back, not turning around, one hand raised. "You know how much of a mess I'll be cleaning up if you pull something on your first day."
The tone was dry. Pointed. A reference Miller didn't need spelled out — Torino, first day, the kind of story neither of them needed repeating.
Miller exhaled and kept walking.
Then — footsteps. Fast ones. Coming straight for him.
"Heyyyyy!"
Miller turned.
The voice belonged to a kid who looked barely old enough to be there — glasses, messy brown hair, and standing at a height that put him level with Miller's chest.
"You must be Mr. Miller! I'm Andrew Hunter — media studies, journalism, and filmmaking student, new Burnley social media admin, and director for today's shoot."
Miller looked at him for a second.
"You're... Burnley's social media admin?"
"How is someone your age running social media for a Premier League club? Do they even know how old you are?"
The kid grinned and tapped his own chest like he'd been waiting for exactly this question.
"Age isn't everything, mate. They hired me because everyone else here is ancient and needs replacing — and I was the top student at my school, by the way. Besides —" he smiled, something a little cutting in it — "it's not that different from Burnley buying a fossil to improve dressing room mentality."
Miller looked at him.
Brow furrowed. Something close to a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Little bastard," he muttered.
Andrew was already moving on.
"Anyway, we should probably start — it's almost ten."
He went to position the camera operators, then came back and handed Miller a script.
"Here you go. Please follow what's written. Some of the older players tend to think they know better and go off-script." The smile was insufferable.
"Start. Before I put you through that wall," Miller said.
He didn't wait for a reaction. He turned and walked toward the center of the pitch, reading as he went.
SCRIPT FOR
MR. MILLERRRR
- Juggle the ball 10x
- Strike the ball into the air
- Sprint into the penalty box
- Control the crossed ball with your chest
- Shoot into the goal
- Celebrate — one arm raised, hold it — camera will push in on your face
- Keep your expression flat and sharp. Do not smile.
Your smile is unsettling.
Miller read to the end. His jaw tightened slightly at the last line.
He tore the script in half and dropped it.
From across the pitch, Andrew burst out laughing.
"Mr. Miller! What if you forget?! At your age, memory's the first thing to go!"
Miller said nothing.
But his lips moved.
Something that might have been a smile.
***
Andrew raised one hand.
"Action."
Miller juggled. Ten touches, clean and unhurried, like the ball had never left him.
It hadn't, really. Not in any way that mattered. But standing here — on a professional pitch again, after months of nothing after Toronto let his contract run out — it felt like stepping back into something he hadn't admitted he missed.
He struck the ball hard. It disappeared into the grey Lancashire sky.
He ran.
By the time he reached the box, Andrew had already sent in the cross.
It was too good for a film student.
Miller hadn't expected it. The ball arrived exactly where it needed to be, and he took it on his chest, let it drop, and hit it clean — top right corner. In.
One finger raised. Camera in close.
"Cut."
Andrew jogged over, grinning.
"That was brilliant, Mr. Miller. Genuinely."
Miller gave him a thumbs up. Then nodded at the far side of the pitch.
"Where'd you learn to cross like that?"
Andrew looked up at him — properly up, given the height difference — and smiled.
"Hard to say."
"Maybe I'm just talented."
He looked away toward the sky.
Around them, the crew kept moving, voices overlapping, equipment being packed down. But between the two of them, something had gone quiet.
Andrew broke it.
"Right — I need to go edit this before the upload window closes. Good work today, Mr. Miller."
He turned and headed for the tunnel. Almost there, he stopped. Looked back.
Smiled.
"See you on the pitch, old man."
Miller frowned.
He didn't know what that meant.
Not yet.