Lilia, with unerring instincts, had done an excellent job of finding a place for Yuri to sit and not move. It doesn't take long for Yakov to locate him in an empty corner of the men's locker room, sitting on a bench off to one side with a hand towel draped over his face and a half-empty water bottle tipped on its side at his feet.
'I hope you are satisfied with the outcome of your break with sanity out there?' There's no preamble or pleasantries, no congratulations, as he stumps over to Yuri's spot. 'In spite of your efforts to do yourself in, you're still on my hands, and I will expect to see that final combination from you a dozen times with no mistakes once we're back in St. Petersburg. The score totals are out, and -- '
'I know.' Yuri's voice is slightly muffled under the towel. 'Second place.'
'Save it for Barcelona.' Which is a direct echo of what he'd said at Skate Canada -- save it for Moscow -- but it holds true all the same. 'What's done is done, and if you're going to eat your heart out about it, do it somewhere other than the podium. The sports photographers don't need to see you scowling at Leroy for the entire ceremony; I'd like at least one picture of you that doesn't look like a hooligan's mug shot.' He pauses, and the silence lasts a little longer than his usual moment of consideration before his next attack. 'Anyway, in spite of his placement, that Japanese friend of yours is going to the Final as well.'
'He's not my friend.' Still muffled, though a little more forceful. 'He's just Katsudon.'
Yakov huffs. 'Regardless, you can't count on him to choke there like he did here. Remember that the next time Lilia has you in the studio. Now get that towel off your head and meet me outside in two minutes. You have half of Minisport thinking that you're a loaded gun with the safety off, and most of Rostelecom's senior management betting on whether your heart will actually explode in the Final' -- and for the first time, the old Russian's mouth twitches in thin amusement -- 'which is not bad for your first Rostelecom Cup.'
The fleeting moment passes, and his face returns to its usual flat lines. 'Two minutes, I said. Do whatever you have to do.'
Exactly one minute and ten seconds later, Yuri pulls the towel off his head. His eyes are dry, and his expression is set in stone.
The medal ceremony is a formality, as formalities go.
Jean-Jacques Leroy holds his gold medal up at just the right height to let his brilliant grin glint directly above it.
Michele Crispino has a soft, sad smile that looks very good on camera, no matter what his innermost thoughts might be.
no subject
'I hope you are satisfied with the outcome of your break with sanity out there?' There's no preamble or pleasantries, no congratulations, as he stumps over to Yuri's spot. 'In spite of your efforts to do yourself in, you're still on my hands, and I will expect to see that final combination from you a dozen times with no mistakes once we're back in St. Petersburg. The score totals are out, and -- '
'I know.' Yuri's voice is slightly muffled under the towel. 'Second place.'
'Save it for Barcelona.' Which is a direct echo of what he'd said at Skate Canada -- save it for Moscow -- but it holds true all the same. 'What's done is done, and if you're going to eat your heart out about it, do it somewhere other than the podium. The sports photographers don't need to see you scowling at Leroy for the entire ceremony; I'd like at least one picture of you that doesn't look like a hooligan's mug shot.' He pauses, and the silence lasts a little longer than his usual moment of consideration before his next attack. 'Anyway, in spite of his placement, that Japanese friend of yours is going to the Final as well.'
'He's not my friend.' Still muffled, though a little more forceful. 'He's just Katsudon.'
Yakov huffs. 'Regardless, you can't count on him to choke there like he did here. Remember that the next time Lilia has you in the studio. Now get that towel off your head and meet me outside in two minutes. You have half of Minisport thinking that you're a loaded gun with the safety off, and most of Rostelecom's senior management betting on whether your heart will actually explode in the Final' -- and for the first time, the old Russian's mouth twitches in thin amusement -- 'which is not bad for your first Rostelecom Cup.'
The fleeting moment passes, and his face returns to its usual flat lines. 'Two minutes, I said. Do whatever you have to do.'
Exactly one minute and ten seconds later, Yuri pulls the towel off his head. His eyes are dry, and his expression is set in stone.
The medal ceremony is a formality, as formalities go.
Jean-Jacques Leroy holds his gold medal up at just the right height to let his brilliant grin glint directly above it.
Michele Crispino has a soft, sad smile that looks very good on camera, no matter what his innermost thoughts might be.
Yuri Plisetsky is a model of self-restraint.
(Yakov doesn't get his photograph.)