The glass door caught his reflection for a second.
He pushed through.
Warm inside. Bit stuffy. Same smell as before.
Stanley at the front desk looked up — clocked him straight away.
"Mr. Miller." Quick smile. "Good to see you."
Miller gave a nod and slipped his sunglasses off. Walked over.
"Where is everyone?"
Stanley raised an eyebrow, smiled.
"Out on the pitch mostly. Might still be a few in the changing room."
He pointed down the right corridor.
"Session's starting soon."
Miller nodded.
"Good luck," Stanley said easily.
Miller didn't reply. Already turning. Already walking.
Right corridor.
Opposite end from the medical room he'd visited before.
Quieter down here. His footsteps came back flat off the floor.
Sound from outside — boots on grass, ball being knocked around, someone calling a name — drifted through faint. Nothing serious yet.
Miller walked without hurrying.
Walls light grey with wood panels, strips of dark yellow running through. Clean floor. Doors on both sides, most shut.
Boot Room on one.
Laundry Room a few steps further.
Then one marked 3G Pitch Indoor.
He kept going until he found a wooden door sitting slightly open — small glass panel above it. He could see a few people moving around inside.
He slowed.
Caught some faces through the glass.
One he knew.
Dara O'Shea. The same lad from Turf Moor earlier.
And a couple of steps from him — Craig Bellamy.
Miller didn't go straight in. Hand stopped on the handle.
One second.
Two.
Short breath.
Then he pushed.
Noise came through properly — boots shifting on the floor, a short burst of laughter, someone half-shouting across the room.
Few heads turned.
Not all of them.
Not yet.
Miller stepped in.
The room dipped quiet for about half a second — players mid-sentence, mid-movement — then went back to it like nothing.
Warmer in here. That changing room smell. Clean enough, bit damp, rubber from the boots.
A few lads already at their stalls.
One was pulling a training top out his bag, gave it a quick fold before throwing it on. Another sat with one sock half pulled up, head down, focused on nothing except getting it right.
Miller moved further in, had a proper look around.
Room was bigger than he'd expected.
High ceiling. Rows of downlights throwing clean white light down onto thick grey carpet. Each stall built from dark wood panels — nothing budget about it, all open, no locker doors. Small warm spotlight above each one, shining down onto black padded seating.
A player came through at speed.
Already in full kit, hair still damp at the edges.
Didn't stop.
Went straight past Miller, tapped his shoulder once as he went — that sort of tap, the one that means alright, I see you — and kept moving toward the door.
Miller watched him go a second, then looked back around the room.
Players were starting to move. Some up, some sorting kit, a few already halfway out.
Small sounds — bag zip, footsteps on carpet, short bits of chat about nothing.
Miller kept walking slowly.
Far side, Bellamy was still standing, talking quietly with O'Shea. O'Shea clocked Miller and gave him a nod. Miller nodded back.
Bellamy glanced over — quick look, took him in — then turned back to O'Shea.
Big room. Lot of open space in the middle.
Miller kept moving.
He closed his eyes for a second, taking in where he was.
Then —
BANG.
A shoulder caught him from the side.
Not enough to put him down, but enough that he had to catch his step on the thick carpet.
Player kept going. Didn't even slow. Training kit on, head slightly down, moving toward the door like it never happened.
Miller stopped for a beat.
Looked back.
The lad was already a few steps ahead, not looking back.
A couple of others who'd seen it glanced over — then went back to their own stuff. Not worth making anything of it.
"Oi."
O'Shea from the side of the room, bit louder than before. Eyes on the player who'd walked through Miller.
The player didn't stop. Just raised one hand behind him — yeah, heard — and kept going out the door.
Miller didn't kick off.
Straightened his jacket and kept walking toward his stall.
Few minutes passed.
The room started winding down. Players heading for the door without much chat. Grabbing bottles, adjusting kit, moving out.
Bellamy was one of the last.
Had a look round the room — making sure everything was moving right — then wrapped up whatever he was saying to O'Shea.
"Right. Pitch."
He walked out.
O'Shea gave a small nod.
"Yeah."
Then he spotted Miller still standing near his stall.
Walked over.
Stopped in front of him.
"Ready?"
Easy tone. But something underneath it — not treating Miller like just another new face.
Miller nodded.
"Always."
O'Shea smiled slightly.
"Good. Let's go."
He turned and walked out. Miller followed a few steps behind.
02:05 PM — Barnfield Training Centre
They stepped out of the facility corridor into the open.
Cold hit straight away.
Proper cold.
Bright grey sky. The sound of boots that had been faint before came through loud now from the direction of the pitch.
Burnley's training pitch stretched out in front of them — tight green grass, clean white lines, cones already set along the right side.
Squad was already lined up in the centre, facing two figures at the front.
Kompany stood with his hands behind his back. Easy but set. Bellamy beside him, arms loosely crossed, eyes working across the line.
O'Shea walked ahead and slotted in without a word.
Before he did, he glanced back at Miller.
Quick look. Just — follow.
Miller stopped one step behind the line.
Few players looked his way. Nobody made anything of it.
Kompany's eyes came up.
Found Miller.
Half a second.
Then he raised one hand — short, easy.
Not a shout.
Just — come on then.
Miller walked to Kompany's side.
Kompany didn't go straight into the session.
Let it sit for a few seconds. Let the line settle.
A bit of wind across the pitch — barely anything, just enough to move the edges of a few jerseys.
Then he stepped half forward.
Eyes moved across the whole squad.
Stopped.
Miller.
"From today," Kompany said, flat, "we've got a new player."
Few heads shifted.
Not surprised.
Just — reflex. Eyes going to find whoever he meant.
Kompany raised his hand slightly toward Miller.
"Miller."
That was it.
No build-up. Nothing added to it.
Just the name, dropped into the quiet.
Moment of silence.
In the line, a few lads exchanged looks. Some gave a small nod — like they'd already heard. Others just kept their eyes on Miller a bit longer, taking him in.
The player who'd walked through him in the changing room closed his eyes like he couldn't be bothered looking.
Lad on the right side narrowed his eyes for a second, then went still.
Not aggressive. Just — clocking him.
Bellamy beside Kompany said nothing. Just kept watching the line, making sure it held.
Kompany went on, same tone.
"He's part of the squad now."
"Training as normal."
"No special treatment."
He paused.
Then added one last line.
"Just standards."
Quiet again. Heavier this time.
O'Shea glanced at Miller from the line.
Not checking him out. More like — making sure he was alright.
A player on the other side breathed out quietly and looked forward again.
Someone shifted their feet — ready to go.
Kompany dropped his hand.
"Warm up. Go."
Line broke.
Players spread out across the pitch. Cones already in place along the edges. Ball boys setting up. Sound of boots filling everything.
Kompany caught Miller's eye and nodded toward the sideline — watch today, train tomorrow.
03:05 PM — Barnfield Training Centre
Over an hour.
Miller had been standing on the side since warm-up started.
He'd watched all of it.
Warm-up was standard — light jog, some dynamic work, short passing in pairs. Good pace. Nobody wasting time.
Then rondo.
Circle. Five against two in the middle. Two touches max. Bellamy on the outside, calling it out — not angry, just blunt. Direct. Fixed it and moved on.
Set pieces after that.
Corners. Rehearsed moves. A couple got run twice because the timing was off.
And now —
11 v 11.
Two teams. Yellow bibs on one side, orange on the other.
Ball in the centre.
Bellamy on the line, whistle in hand.
Miller still on the side.
Standing. Watching.
Then from inside the pitch — a voice.
"Oi."
The striker from the yellow side. Same lad who'd walked through him in the changing room.
Looking over at Miller from the middle of the pitch. Few metres between them, but loud enough.
"You just gonna stand there all day, yeah?"
Few lads nearby turned.
He kept going.
"Saw you were well chatty at the press conference earlier."
"Only brave in front of cameras, are ya?"
Not loud. But it carried.
Several heads turned toward Miller.
Bellamy on the line narrowed his eyes.
O'Shea's expression tightened.
Nobody said anything.
Just waited.
Miller didn't answer straight away.
Looked at the lad for a few seconds — flat, no rush.
Then his eyes moved to Kompany, standing not far off.
Kompany didn't say anything.
Just smiled — thin, barely there.
But this time... you couldn't quite read it.