Kompany gave a quick thumbs up, then gestured back toward the building.
Miller got it straight away. He turned without a word and headed back inside.
Kompany cleared his throat. Bellamy heard it and blew his whistle — 11 v 11 was starting.
Out on the pitch, the striker just smiled to himself. His eyes followed Miller as he walked away. He knew Miller would be out there soon enough.
Kompany split the squad into two groups.
Yellow Team (4-3-3)
Player Name* = Captain
Goalkeeper — James Trafford
Centre Back — Ameen Al-Dakhil (RCB), Dara O'Shea (LCB)
Left Back — Charlie Taylor
Right Back — Connor Roberts
Central Midfielder — Josh Cullen* (RCM), Josh Brownhill (LCM)
Central Attacking Midfielder — Sander Berge
Winger — Wilson Odobert (RW), Jacob Bruun Larsen (LW)
Striker — ???
Orange Team (4-4-2)
Goalkeeper — Arijanet Murić*
Centre Back — Hjalmar Ekdal (RCB), Jordan Beyer (LCB)
Left Back — Hannes Delcroix
Right Back — Vitinho
Central Midfielder — Aaron Ramsey (RCM), Michael Obafemi (LCM)
Wide Midfielder — Jóhann Guðmundsson (RM), Luca Koleosho (LM)
Strikers — Lyle Foster, Zeki Amdouni
Miller was already inside.
The corridor was quieter now — the noise from the pitch muffled, far behind him.
He went straight to the changing room.
Door open.
Empty.
He walked to his stall. Pulled his jacket off, folded it once, set it down. His shirt came off next — same thing, folded, stacked on top.
Tracksuit bottoms off.
He grabbed his training kit from the stall — claret top, same cut he'd seen on everyone else out there — and pulled it on.
Fitted right.
Training shorts next. Then socks.
He bent down and pulled out his shin pads. Left one first. Pulled the sock up over it, tight.
Then the right.
His hands moved quick — not rushing, just muscle memory doing its thing.
Then the boots.
Puma King Tops. Black and white. Same pair since Toronto. He laced them up — firm, one pull each side.
Miller sat on the edge of the bench for a second.
Hands resting on his knees.
From out there, sound still came through faint — Bellamy's whistle, ball being struck, someone calling out.
One slow breath.
Then he stood and walked.
He pulled the changing room door — opened it, stepped out, pulled it shut behind him.
Click.
He turned and started moving.
Different now. Training kit on, shin pads in, boots hitting the floor differently.
He pushed the exit door open.
Out on the pitch, the game had been going a few minutes. Ball moving fast, a few players already starting to sweat. Bellamy standing on the side, calling it out here and there.
Miller walked over to Kompany.
Kompany didn't look over. Eyes still on the ball.
Miller stopped beside him.
Few seconds, neither of them said anything.
Then Kompany spoke, still not turning.
"You'll be going on."
A beat.
"But not yet. Watch first."
Out on the pitch, the ball rolled to the right side.
The striker didn't follow it.
His eyes had already gone somewhere else.
To the touchline.
To Miller.
Training kit. Shin pads on. Boots on.
Ready.
He looked for a few seconds. Then smiled — not the thin one from before. Wider. Like someone who'd just got news they'd been waiting for.
He turned back to the pitch.
His stride a bit lighter than before.
Miller clocked it.
The lighter stride. A smile he didn't care to hide.
He looked at Kompany.
"Who is he?"
Kompany didn't answer straight away. Still watching the ball.
Few seconds.
Then he smiled.
"More fun if I don't tell you."
He paused.
"He's... a madman."
Miller frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Kompany didn't answer.
Just smiled.
Then, without looking away from the pitch —
"You know why I told you to watch first?"
He let it sit for a second.
"Because I want to see if the lion can be afraid of the hunter."
Miller didn't say anything.
His eyes went back to the pitch.
He started watching properly.
From the side he could see everything more clearly — movement, shape, who was walking and who was running.
And that striker.
He moved differently from everyone else.
Not always in the centre-forward position — sometimes he'd drop, sometimes drift right, sometimes just stand dead still in the box like he wasn't doing anything.
But Miller watched his eyes.
Always moving. Always counting.
A few minutes passed.
Ball at Berge's feet in midfield. He looked up, checked his options.
The striker was standing still at the edge of the box — back to goal, Ekdal tight on him from behind.
Berge played it short to Charlie Taylor on the left.
The striker didn't move.
Taylor took it, looked inside.
One second.
Then — the striker moved.
Not forward.
Back.
One short step back — enough to knock Ekdal off balance for half a second.
Half a second was enough.
Taylor rolled it low and quick, straight into the space that had just opened up.
The striker turned.
One touch to control.
Shot with the right — not hard, just placed — low to the right corner.
Murić went the right way.
Didn't matter.
...
Goal.
The striker didn't stop.
He ran.
Not to his teammates. Not to the touchline.
He ran to the middle of the pitch — then backflipped.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Laughing the whole way — not a quiet laugh, a proper loud one that filled the training pitch.
A few Yellow Team players clapped once or twice then got straight back into position. Faces flat — the look of lads who'd seen this too many times.
O'Shea shook his head slowly. Small smile at the corner of his mouth though.
Bellamy blew a short whistle from the line — not stopping the celebration, just pulling everyone back to focus. His expression didn't change. But his eyes followed the third backflip for just a second.
Kompany said nothing.
Just gave one small nod — like he was filing something away.
Then the striker stopped.
Eyes straight to the touchline.
To Miller.
He pointed.
One finger, direct, right at him.
Then his hand moved. Short gesture.
Get on.
Miller looked at him for a few seconds.
Didn't react straight away.
Then his eyes moved to Kompany.
Kompany didn't say anything.
Just moved his hand — slow signal toward the side of the pitch.
Warm up first.
Miller understood.
He moved to the side and started jogging. Easy pace, no rush. Letting his body find its rhythm.
Two laps. Then picked it up slightly. A bit of stretching in between — hamstrings, quads, ankles.
Out on the pitch, the game kept going.
Ball moving, Bellamy calling, short whistle blasts here and there.
Miller kept moving.
Body starting to feel more like itself.
Few minutes later, Bellamy blew his whistle — ball went dead.
Kompany walked to the edge of the pitch.
His eyes found one player.
Lyle Foster.
"Foster."
Foster jogged over.
Kompany nodded toward the outside — telling him to come off for now.
Foster nodded. No argument, no questions. He walked off and gave Miller a quiet tap on the shoulder as he went past.
Kompany turned to Miller.
One short signal.
Your turn.