Miller stepped onto the pitch.
The grass under his boots felt different from the corridor.
A few Orange Team players glanced over as he came on. Short nods. Nobody said a word.
Miller went straight to his position.
Left striker. Next to Amdouni.
Amdouni was already there. He looked at Miller briefly.
"Hope we can work well together."
Miller nodded.
Bellamy blew his whistle.
The match resumed.
First few minutes Miller just moved — finding space, reading the tempo, adjusting to the pace. He didn't ask for the ball. Not yet.
The game was faster than he'd expected.
High press. Short communication. Everything sharp and direct.
Miller read the situation.
From the other side of the pitch, he could see the striker. Not coming in yet. Not aggressive yet.
Just watching Miller from a distance.
Same as Miller had been watching him earlier.
Then the ball came to his feet from Ramsey — flat, quick.
Miller controlled it in one touch.
Clean.
His head came straight up.
Two options.
Amdouni on the right — tightly marked.
Obafemi just behind on the left — more space.
A fraction of a second.
Miller didn't look. He played it flat straight to Obafemi, then immediately ran at Cullen — backing into him with his body, blocking him off, opening the lane for Obafemi to drive through.
Obafemi went through cleanly.
Miller didn't wait. He released Cullen and ran to the right — his habit from his Toronto days, the way his coach there had him play.
He moved without thinking, even though it meant cutting across Amdouni's running lane.
By logic they should've collided.
But Amdouni wasn't an amateur. He read Miller's movement in an instant. No protest, no slowing down — Amdouni just cut hard left, filling the space Miller had just vacated.
Same instinct. Different bodies.
Obafemi looked around.
Options opened up.
On the right — Guðmundsson was already making his run up the flank.
Obafemi didn't think long.
He played a high looping ball to the right.
It dropped perfectly in front of Guðmundsson — one touch control with his right foot, and he immediately looked around. Charlie Taylor was closing. Not too tight, but enough to limit the space.
Guðmundsson turned his body, shielded the ball, then played a quick pass to Ramsey.
Ramsey received it without ceremony and crossed immediately.
Into space.
Between Dara O'Shea and Ameen Al-Dakhil. Inside the box.
Miller was already moving.
From the right side.
His run wasn't straight — slightly curved, coming in from O'Shea's blind side.
O'Shea was late to pick it up.
Half a step.
Enough.
Miller jumped.
Al-Dakhil came rushing across to cover.
No time.
Miller headed the ball.
Not at goal.
Into the empty space in the middle.
The lane Al-Dakhil had just abandoned.
Amdouni was already in there.
Full sprint.
Unmarked.
He met the ball with a hard right-foot volley aimed at the top left corner.
Trafford reacted fast.
Flew to his right.
Fingertips—
Got to it.
Just.
Enough to change the direction of a ball that should have been in the corner.
CLANG!
The sound of leather hitting iron rang out across the quiet pitch. The ball struck the inside of the crossbar and bounced hard back down to the ground.
Rebound.
Trafford on the ground. Al-Dakhil caught flat-footed. O'Shea late to react.
Only one person had already landed with his weight perfectly set.
Miller.
He didn't wait for the ball to drop. He went to meet it.
Two explosive steps.
No control. No setup.
Miller swung his left foot and struck the loose ball with his laces before it could touch the grass a second time.
BANGG!
The ball flew like a bullet, heading straight for the empty bottom left corner. Trafford had nothing left.
Then suddenly —
a shadow came flying in from the right.
Fast.
Reckless.
Not with a foot. Not with a hand.
Thud.
The striker — threw himself to the ground, driving his head straight into the path of Miller's shot. The ball smashed into his face and deflected out of play.
The striker went down hard. His head caught the post.
CLUNK!
He lay sprawled at the foot of his own post, face down on the grass.
Miller still in his follow-through, breathing hard. His eyes didn't leave the body lying still on the ground.
Then the striker moved. His hand grabbed the net, pulling himself up to sit. Fresh blood began running from his nose and from his head, dripping onto the grass.
He didn't wince. But his body couldn't lie.
Tears ran quietly from the corners of his eyes.
Through the blood and the tears smeared across his face, he turned and looked at Miller.
And through all of it — he smiled.
Thin.
Very thin.