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This was Yuri Plisetsky’s second Grand Prix Final, and he was determined to take gold again for a second year in a row, but first, he needed to help out his best friend. He and Otabek Altin were crammed into a tiny bathroom stall, desperately trying to hurry before they needed to be dressed, warmed up, and out on the ice for their performances. If this took any longer, Coach Yakov was going to actually kill them both this time. Otabek had been training hard back in Almaty for the last year, and while they had kept in constant contact over text and Skype, the friends had only had the occasion to meet up one other time since the previous year’s final in Barcelona. This wasn’t exactly the reunion Yuri had been picturing.
Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland had just finished his short program and had received his score—lower than he hoped for, but he was honestly a bit surprised to be back at the Grand Prix Final again this year after the rough season he’d had. He had been the first competitor out on the ice, which was always nerve-wracking, but at least it was over for today. He had taken a walk through the back corridors of the venue to clear his head and to shake off the two jumps he had failed to land, and he was just planning on stopping in at the restroom before returning to the arena to watch the other skaters’ performances.
The tall, blond man was distractedly flipping through his phone with his right hand, his left hand partially pushing open the heavy, metal door, when he paused, surprised at what he heard inside.
“YurrraAAHHHHH!” the Kazakh skater groaned.
“Shit, this isn’t going to work, Otabek!” Yuri panted. “It’s just too tight.”
“I really need this, Yuri. Just give it one more try—please!”
“If you insist,” the younger skater said. “Just one more…Uhnngh!”
“Ah! Ah! Wait—Time out!” Otabek cried.
Chris’s eyes opened wide, then his dark lashes blinked in astonishment, his full lips curving up into an amused smile. "Sacré bleu,” the Swiss man muttered to himself under his breath, backing out of the room and quietly letting the door swing shut under his fingers. He could still hear muffled groans and whimpering from Otabek, and a string of curse words from the feisty, young Russian skater. Chris leaned back against the brick wall in the corridor protectively, folding his arms across his chest over his red and white warm up jacket.
Emil Nekola had been at the end of the hallway chatting to Sara and Michele Crispino, and the Czech skater had just started in Chris’s direction. As Chris had thought, Emil was walking directly toward the restroom where Chris was stationed. When he got within earshot, Chris held a finger up to his lips, and then gestured with his thumb over his shoulder at the door. Emil stopped, listening, and then broke into a wide grin.
“Those two, huh? About time!” The man shook his head, his light brown fringe swooping over his blue eyes. Still smiling, Emil continued down the corridor, making his way to the second restroom around the corner.
Chris moved a little further down the hallway to give the boys some privacy, while still keeping a watchful eye out for anyone who might interrupt them.
“Ok, we’re done,” Yuri said emphatically. “You’re going to get hurt. For God’s sake, who comes to a competition without their dance belt?”
“I packed in a hurry and just forgot it,” the other man said flatly, leaning back against the door of the stall, sweat running down from his dark hair and over his temples.
“Well why didn’t you ask one of the other skaters? Someone bigger than me?” Yuri was also bracing himself against the stall and wiping the sleeve of his white, blue, and red jacket across his damp brow.
“I can’t,” the Kazakh skater protested. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“Not even Victor…?” Yuri asked.
“No! Now I’m going to have one more go of this,” Otabek said, tugging the beige-colored material up as high as he could. “I think this can work,” he said breathlessly.
“Otabek! Give it up—you’re going to have permanent damage if you try to skate like that. You’ll just have to perform without it. If you don’t get out there soon, you’re going to be disqualified,” the blond skater tried to reason.
Despite the crushing pain he was feeling, Otabek still tried to smirk at his friend, saying, “If I know you’re watching me out in the stands, I definitely need to have a dance belt on.”
“Ugh,” Yuri groaned, “Now is SO not the time…”
Just as Chris was starting to marvel at how long the two younger skaters had been locked away in the bathroom stall, the door swung open and Yuri Plisetsky stalked out, followed by Otabek Altin. Chris smiled warmly at the two skaters. Otabek averted his eyes, but Yuri met Chris’s glance with a harsh glare.
“What’s with you, asshole?” Yuri hissed, staring up at Chris as the pair passed him.
Chris noticed that Otabek was limping slightly. “Wow,” he breathed out, looking on in admiration at the confident stride of little Yuri Plisetsky.