"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."