Lev watches youth hockey with the same intensity he had given professional players. However, this often means that he watches very vocally and interactively, much to the irritation of the boys' actual coaches. Formerly, in Norilsk, his son's under-eight team had been happy to have him help out. Then again, there he had been someone worth respecting, worth wanting, not a KHL coach, but he had played KHL and he could have done worse than coaching at the VHL level. "Lebedev, get back to your seat, I will not ask you again," was common to hear at the practices. After arguing with the assistant coach last time over stick handling and passes he had nearly been kicked out entirely. Still, he has been on his best behavior today.
During a break in drills, his attention shifts toward a familiar woman seated a few rows down. Rozanova. He has met her in passing a few times, but he is more familiar with her son. Ilya shows real promise on the ice, enough that within a decade, Lev has no doubt that he could be the face of the KHL. Though, as his wife often points out, he is something of a dreamer, it's what took them to Norilsk, it's what brought them to Moscow where over a year in he still has had no luck securing a steady job and certainly no luck breaking back into hockey.
"Your son has patience," he remarks, focusing back on the ice as he joins her in her row. "I think he may be the only child in this building capable of tolerating mine. That one is mine," he points, "Aleksander, seventeen." The boy is sprawled out, pretending to make snow angels on the ice while they're on break. "Lev, by the way, Lebedev. It's good to meet you properly."
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