Chapter 23: I Resist Heavy Bulgarian Charm
"No," I mumble, fighting the urge to burrow deeper into Viktor's arms. "No, Viktor."
Viktor pulls away with that stupid look on his face, like he's so confused about everything I'm saying. I don't understand it. I don't understand why everyone is trying to treat me the same way that they did when nothing is the same. Nothing.
"I know that you don't listen to me," he says, "but I want you to know that I don't blame you for anything. No one does. And you cannot ask people to stop loving you. It does not work that way."
"This isn't what I came here for," I say and scoot away from him, crossing my arms over my chest to discourage both of us from making any more physical contact. "I just wanted to know if you could help me so I don't blow this tryout."
"What do you need me to do?" he asks with solemn eyes, pressing his hands together like he's supressing the same urges I am. I can't pretend I understand him. And I can't pretend I would do the same thing for me that he is.
We discuss my weaknesses, which are... plentiful, to the in the least. And like everyone else, he brings up confidence. The confidence I had, the confidence that I've lost, the confidence that he swears is right under the surface.
And then we make a game plan.
Practice, practice, practice.
He brings me to a pitch a few minutes from his house, which is empty.
"This is one of the smaller, lesser used pitches," he says to me when we arrive. "Most people use one a bit further away. Better hoops, closer to the national standard. I prefer this one so I can practice alone."
I'm not entirely sure I believe him when I see it because it's old and run-down. One of the hoops is leaning haphazardly to the side and the ground is uneven and muddy. But it's the only one within walking distance.
So we don't have to apparate to it.
He has two brooms, one in each hand. Both are nicer than any broom I have ever used, with footholds and nice, polished handles. I'm carrying his case of balls.
Once we're in the middle of the field, he hands me a broom and takes the case, opening it and taking out the quaffle. He leaves the other balls and the bats in the case.
"They might test you with bludgers during the tryout," he says, "but I don't think I would like to try to hit you with them. The quaffle alone should be fine, right?"
I nod and watch as he begins to stretch his muscles, starting with his arms and moving downward.
"Come on," he says, "stretch. This is just as important as anything else."
I put the broom down on the ground and begin to stretch my shoulders, keeping an eye on him as he does the same. I was never much into stretching when I played at Hogwarts and Professor Sprout always gave me shit about it, saying that I was going to seriously injure myself one day. I never listened to her but, watching Viktor, I feel like maybe I should do everything by the books. Some of my strategies have always been a little eccentric and they worked before, but I don't know how well they'll be taken when I'm trying out for a professional league.
"You know," Viktor says, "there are more muscles than just your shoulders. This is especially important for chasers."
"I've never really stretched before playing," I admit and shrug my shoulders.
"It is a wonder you have never pulled anything," he says.
Viktor shows me a couple of stretches and I try to ignore the way his muscles flex as he moves and the pale strips of skin that peek out whenever his shirt rises.
"Legs," he says shortly. "We can do them together. Sit down."
"In the mud?" I ask him and grimace.
"It is barely mud," he says. "It's just bumpy from the winter."
I raise my eyebrows skeptically and sit down, waiting for further instruction.
"On your back," he says. He drops onto one knee in front of me and asks, "Is it okay if I help you?"
"Yeah," I say.
He pushes my knees toward my chest, wedging his knee under one of my legs. "This foot on my chest," he says. I put it on his chest. "Cross your other foot, like this," he says and guides my other leg across my knee like I'm sitting with my legs crossed. "I'm going to move forward," he explains, "which is going to push the leg against my chest up, which will then stretch your other leg. Tell me when it's good enough."
I nod and try not to think about what's happening because my cheeks are already a little warm. He slowly leans forward, a hand on each of my knees. My hip and my knee stretch and I bite back a satisfied hiss at the feeling. When I tell him I'm good, he switches to the other leg.
Once that's done, he pushes both legs toward my chest to stretch my hamstrings, and then has me put my feet together in a diamond shape. He pushes down on the insides of my thighs to stretch them.
"You should be a masseuse," I tell him and hum approvingly when he stretches the inside of my left thigh.
"I don't know what that is," he responds, still focused on stretching my leg.
"They give massages and stuff."
Viktor smiles and sits back. "How do you feel?"
"Ready for world domination," I say and sit up. "Your turn?"
"You would have to do different ones. I am not flexible like you," he says. "I mostly stretch arms."
So, I stretch his arms as best as I can, but I don't really know what I'm doing. He lets me do it regardless, enduring my torture in silence. Once we're both stretched, he coaches me through stretching on my own on the day of the tryout.
And there's this fleeting thought that escapes me as soon as I think about it. I think about
matted grass on lumpy dirt, and—
"Ready to play?" he asks.
Because, really, dirt isn't all that important right now. Not when I'm so focused on stretching and anticipating playing.
In the moment, I don't realize what a milestone that is.
Viktor thinks of drills that make me feel ignorant for not considering them. He zips through the sky and has me make passes to him, and he has me catch the quaffle when I'm flying. He and I race laps around the pitch. He has me block passes to no one, encouraging me to send them back to where he waits. We even practice my kick-block—when I block a pass with my foot, which makes me so much more appreciative of his stretching routine.
And then he says it: "Do you want me to keep while you shoot?"
"Sure," I say, "but I have to warn you. I've been a poor sport recently."
"You do not scare me," he says. His face is serious, eyes solemn. "You never have, and you never could."
I blink his words away and hold my hands out for the quaffle. "Well, I think I've changed."
"My coach always tells me that I adapt well," he says, still holding the quaffle in his hands. He's close enough to touch, as if he's daring me to.
"The quaffle, Viktor."
"He says I adapt quickly. So quickly that one wonders if there was any change at all. Do you understand what I mean?"
"I—I don't know," I stammer. Because he's always known the right things to say to fluster me. Always. I guess it's not hard considering I thirst over the man like a touch-starved teenager. But his words and his facial expression are a dangerous combination, so I just repeat: "The quaffle."
"I can handle your worst," he says and hands me the quaffle, holding onto it for a few seconds longer than he needs to when I grab it.
As soon as he flies toward the hoop, I let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way my hands are trembling. I'm not really sure I can score any points like this, but I know I have to practice. And I have to keep my anger in check. I can't act like a temperamental toddler when I'm trying out. It just won't work.
And, truthfully, I do a pretty good job. About the anger, I mean. Viktor is deadly in the air, so he blocks about half of my shots while the other half only narrowly make it, but it's different one-on-one. His sole focus is on me and the ball, not on the rest of the game. So I don't sweat the ones I don't make.
He shouts encouragement and recommendations at me, and I can see that he's breathing hard when I get close, which is a major ego booster. My arm begins to get tired from lobbing shots at the hoops, so I ask Viktor for a break and he says, "Maybe we should stop here."
"I can keep going," I protest immediately. "Really, I can. I just need a minute."
"I know you can," he says, "but you shouldn't push yourself. One of the only things worse than not practicing enough is practicing too much. The monotony will get to you and you will begin making mistakes and getting frustrated. Even worse, you could injure yourself. It's best not to push yourself when you're just before a tryout."
I nod my head and wipe sweat from my forehead, cursing the summer sun. "It's hot here," I tell him.
"Yes," he says and smiles as we begin to fly down to the ground. "People know Bulgaria for the winters, but summer can be just as extreme here."
"It's really pretty though," I tell him through a smile. It really is. Although the muddy field isn't the most beautiful sight, the expanses of green hills visible from the sky were a whole different story.
"It is," he agrees as we land. I watch as he puts the quaffle away and latches the case together. I hand him the broom and grab the case as we begin the walk back to his house.
"How is it to live in a wizarding town?" I ask.
"It is nice," he says. "I cannot imagine having to hide my magic while I am at home. And it is nice to have the pitch so close."
"It seems it."
"Plus, the neighbors are very kind, you know?"
"My muggle neighbors think my dad is crazy," I say. "They all think he works at some top-secret government organization or something, and it doesn't help that he's super evasive about everything. I told him he could say that he works in finance, because he technically does, you know? But he doesn't, so none of them really talk to him or Nat anymore."
"Nat," Viktor says. "She was a very nice woman."
"Oh, yeah... I heard you two met."
Viktor nods his head. "When you were in the hospital wing, she saw me pacing and came to assure me that you were okay. We talked about you and about how much it hurts to see someone you love hurting. She told me that she saw the articles about us in the Daily Prophet and that she hid them from your dad so he wouldn't know and... I just lost control. It was like... no one understood what I was feeling in that moment except her. She obviously loved you so much, so I told her what I did in the maze. I don't think she understood what I was saying. Between the magic and my accent and how upset I was, I really think it was indecipherable to her, but she listened anyway. Would you thank her for that when you go home?"
"Of course," I say quietly.
"She told me that she didn't know the extent of what happened," Viktor says, "but she said that we would be okay. You and I. I guess I believed her until we both went our separate ways, but now... I don't think she meant that our relationship would be okay. She couldn't promise that. She meant that we would be okay as individuals. Separately. And, Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"That is the next best thing to our relationship being okay. For us both to be happy."
Heyy y'all, how is everyone?? Finals week is finally over and I'm prepping up to work all summer UGH. Hope you enjoyed!!
Also, consider this a tentative announcement for my next fanfic. 😙