Change of Heart - Yuri Plisetsky x Reader

Chapter One

"(Y/n), you're up!"

"Yes, sir."

With some mild difficulty, I hoisted myself up from my uncomfortable position on the floor and trotted over to the ring, where one of the newer students was waiting patiently. Our teacher, Master Sayer, always insisted that the new students practice their fighting skills with the more advanced students, so I was called up to spar quite often. I was a third degree black belt, so this was a typical part of my routine, but it did get a bit tedious at times. If only Master Sayer would call my parents up once in a while, I might get a break.

I tried my best to look serious about this matter, but it's pretty difficult to put on a convincing war face when your challenger is an eight-year-old boy. The kid was cheeky, with a perpetual smirk on his face, like he thought he was the coolest thing created since sliced bread. Inwardly, I felt a little bad for him. I, too, used to wear that energetic, full-of-life face, but after about a year the sport of Taekwondo had become more of a prison than a hobby. I placed a bet that within two years, he would be so worn down by the high expectations of his elders that the mere idea of dressing in his uniform would bring him sorrow.

"Sparring," started the instructor, "is one of the most important factors during the test. What they'll be looking for is the correct execution of your techniques."

At this, I stifled a smirk. As rambunctious as this kid was, he really wasn't very kinesthetically aware, and I doubted he would score very high with the kicks he'd been practicing.

"You're not trying to score points during the test," explained Master Sayer, "which is why we can use (Y/n) for this demonstration. If you're trying to score points for, say, a tournament, then you'd better hope you're not up against (Y/n)."

My parents, along with several other cordial, middle-aged folks in our group, let out a bit of a chuckle. I smiled silently, as expected, and gave the kid a playful, challenging look. Without a trace of arrogance, I can say confidently that I was, indeed, the most skilled person in the class. I'd been there since I was ten, and now, being fifteen, my skills had developed extraordinarily. Not that I'm particularly happy about it, but I suppose bragging rights are always nice to have.

Master Sayer finished giving the little boy his whole testing spiel, and then allowed us to fight. My mind was elsewhere most of the time, as it often had been in the past months, and before I knew it, the match was over. The poor kid looked exhausted, but he seemed happy for now, so there was nothing to complain about.

That demonstration was the last of the night. The bubbly little boy rushed outside as soon as he was excused, probably off to tell some expectant parent about his upcoming test, or how much fun he had in class, or whatever little kids in martial arts classes fantasize about. Meanwhile, I had to hang back in the dojang. Master Sayer had told me before class that he needed to talk to me, and given the fact that my parents had been informed before I was, it was probably something concerning my next competition.

Soon the room cleared out, leaving nobody remaining but my instructor, my parents, and me.

"So," said Master Sayer, looking at me with a gleam in his eye. "The big competition approaches, eh?"

I nodded, grinning reflexively from the attention. Master Sayer was smiling as well, and it was blatantly clear that he was more excited than I was. The man was in his sixties, and while he no longer competed in world-wide tournaments, I could tell he was reliving the glory of his younger days through me. The same could likely be said of my parents, though they, being famous martial artists and the former stars of several iconic martial arts movies, still got to live out their fantasy in the form of occasional cameos.