He makes the boy go through his entire free skate twice before seeing where the chip in it is beginning to spindle into a full-blown fracture. “You don’t bend your knee enough before your triple combination, and because you’re not getting enough height you’re not getting enough rotations. It’s sloppy! I don’t know how you managed to get this far with such mediocrity. Get out there and do it again, and if you don’t bend your knee at least 40 degrees, I will get up and leave.”
Crossing his arms, Yakov sits back and waits.
For the shouting. The high-pitched whining. The crocodile tears and the rending of spandex. Or, as a bonus, threats to destroy his reputation by going to the press to expose his fascist ways and then have unruly fans burn his house down. Coaching Yuri Plisetsky for the last two years has primed him to expect just about anything.
Except Katsuki gives him a serious nod, bows low, and says with a gratefulness that borders on uncomfortable, “Hai! Thank you, Coach Feltsman!”