At the edge of the rink, near the entrance to the locker rooms, a flash of blond hair. Most of it's hidden by the hood of its owner's white-blue-and-red jacket, but it catches the daylight that slants in through the rink's tall windows.

The heavy thump of a backpack, as it's tossed onto one of the benches against the wall.

It's not his scheduled rink time yet, so Yuri isn't dressed for practice. But now that he's divested of his bag, he pauses and rolls his shoulders back, then casually grabs one foot and pulls it up and back behind him so that the sole of his leopard-print sneaker is scarcely inches from the back of his head. Not the cleanest of lines, but he isn't trying for a full Biellmann here. The stretch still feels good.

He's not looking at Yakov or Viktor. And considering the faintly tinny echo of a bass line reverberating from the headphones that are snaking up beneath the hood of his jacket, he probably wouldn't hear them unless they were right on top of him.




But you can bet that he wouldn't be here right now unless he knew exactly who was slated to be on the ice at this hour of the day.