Change of Heart - Yuri Plisetsky x Reader

Prologue

The first time I skated for a short program, my performance was absolutely abysmal.

To be fair, I hadn't been skating for very long when I'd been taught the choreography; In fact, if my memory serves me right, it had only been two or three months after my first lesson. Needless to say, the movements weren't very complicated, but that didn't help my case all that much. No amount of "natural talent" can assist a beginner to the point of becoming an expert in a matter of days.

So, as one would expect, I fell down pretty often. I could get the basic movement across the ice down, and after the initial apprehensive shock, I would glide along quite gracefully. Each twist, turn, spin, and swivel of my skates were moves that I came to grow comfortable with, and for the first thirty seconds or so, I would start to show some real promise.

Then came the jump.

Something about jumping always scared me, and to this day, I'm not quite sure why. I could do it in practice, but when it came to the performance, suddenly those familiar moves would become foreign and mysterious to me. I would lift my leg up to kick, and my whole body would freeze just long enough for my reaction to be too late. By the time I got off the ground, I would have already lost my balance, and I'd be tumbling to the ground in a matter of seconds.

I struggled with jumping for weeks. Again and again, I would attempt to perform the moves correctly, but it was always in vain. In the last second, the one crucial moment that mattered most, I would hesitate and come crashing to the ice no better off than before I'd started. That hesitation, I learned, was my greatest enemy.

It was my second instructor that taught me how to leave that hesitation behind. I didn't learn through practice or experience, and he didn't instruct me step by step. He taught me in a different way, one that I find difficult to explain.

After learning from him, my second attempt at the program he'd choreographed for me went much more smoothly. Like before, I built speed as my feet guided me back and forth, and gradually my confidence grew as well. The nervous tension evaporated as my body became completely enveloped by the routine, and for those short minutes, I felt lighter than air. Once again, the jump inched nearer.

But... I wasn't scared this time. When the time came for me to initiate my newly-learned axel, my right leg swung up swiftly and lifted me straight into the air. I turned sharply and landed, spreading my arms like wings to hold my balance. And when I had completed the jump, I heard my instructor clapping for me. It was a nice feeling.

Letting go of that hesitation was the most important skill I ever learned. It was essential in a way that an axel, swizzle, or turn never could be. The only reason I couldn't land my jumps was one that I'm ashamed to admit: I was afraid to fall. The fear of slipping, of landing hard or breaking a bone, was so deeply ingrained in my weak heart that I couldn't even make the maneuver correctly. Once I'd gained the courage to put my all into every technique I attempted, skating became much easier for me, and much more fun, as well.

The one thing I'll always remember is this: No matter what the consequences of a difficult jump may be, it's crucial to attempt it with all of the confidence one can muster. Because the bottom line is that if a skater never jumps, they'll never be able to fly.