An Exile

AKSEL

The first text is from Mum.

“Welcome home, sweetheart. 
I know how much you've missed Armenia. Soak it all in. 
Don't forget dinner at 7”

The second is from Anahit.

“Welcome back little brother. 
Can't wait to see you tonight. 
Hope training goes well. xx”

That should cover it.

My father called before I boarded the plane. He doesn't text. Never has. Five to twenty seconds on the phone is more his style.

As for everyone else, there isn't anyone waiting for me in Armenia.

Hovhannes's driver, Tigran, drops the keys into my hand. His assignment was simple: bring the RS5 to the airport, pick me up, then head straight back to get Hovhannes to school.

"Tigran. Thanks."

I give him a nod to let him know he's free to go.

The moment I settle into the driver's seat, a shiver runs through me at the thought of tonight's dinner. But that's a problem for later. Right now, I have somewhere else to be.

***

The drive from the airport was forgettable.

Then, somewhere near the Academy, the scenery began to change.

One side of the road looked as though it belonged to a country determined to reinvent itself. Glass balconies. Fresh facades. Apartment buildings still carrying the clean, unfinished confidence of new construction.

The other side looked like it had missed the memo: low stone houses, rusted gates, crooked fences patched together over decades. Some looked lived in. Others looked one winter away from collapse

I'd forgotten how often Armenia placed those two worlds side by side.

A few minutes later, I reached the edge of the suburb. Rows of poplars appeared to my left. To my right, the land opened up into green hills, with mountains rising in the distance behind them.

A small sign bearing the Academy's logo pointed left.

Two minutes later, the gates came into view.

6:25 a.m.

Six cars were already parked outside, filling nearly half of the narrow lot.

My meeting with Director Gantalyan was scheduled for 6:30. First training session starts at 7:00.

I press the intercom.

A brief burst of static.

Then a young woman's voice.

"Aksel Batrikean?"

"Yes."

"Come in."

A second later, the gate clicks open.

Ahead of me stands Armenia's first and only tennis academy. Small in size, enormous in reputation.

The grounds are immaculate. A pale limestone path cuts through the greenery toward the main building, passing flower beds and carefully maintained shrubs along the way.

The Academy itself is a two-story white building defined by long horizontal lines and wide bands of glass. The facade is almost entirely free of ornament, broken only by the rhythm of its windows. Everything about it feels deliberate, from the clean geometry to the absence of anything unnecessary. Beyond the building's right wing, I spot the Academy's outdoor fitness area.

I head for the entrance.

A short set of steps leads up to the front door. Waiting there is Rafael Gantalyan.

The moment he sees me, his face lights up.

"Aksel!" he booms. "Finally. Welcome back to Armenia. Welcome to the Academy."

By the time I reach the top step, he's already pulled me into a handshake.

"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad to be back."

Before I can let go, his free hand lands three solid pats on my back.

Gantalyan is somewhere past forty. White sideburns frame his face, and two deep lines run across his forehead. They make him look experienced rather than tired. He's in good shape and seems determined to make sure everyone knows it. The fitted polo helps.

Gantalyan launches straight into the tour.

He takes me through the locker rooms, staff offices, equipment storage, gym, and pool. His comments are brief, but even the shortest explanation comes with expansive hand movements and the occasional hand on my shoulder steering me in a different direction.

Upstairs, the building splits into two wings. The cafeteria occupies one side, a bright space lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and simple wooden tables. The other contains the classrooms, meeting rooms, recovery facilities, and a small library.

The more I see, the more I understand why the Academy has the reputation it does.

Everything has a purpose. Nothing feels excessive. Money has clearly been spent here, but not on the wrong things. The place is built around a single idea: helping young players improve.

Somewhere during the tour, I realize I've stopped looking for flaws.

We exit through the rear of the building and step into the outdoor training area. Four clay courts spread out before us. Two in front. Two more behind them, shifted slightly to the left.

"One, two, three, four." Gantalyan points at the red clay courts one by one, like a shepherd counting sheep. 

Beside the entrance of each court sit two covered green benches painted the same shade of green as the surrounding fencing.

"The domes came down a few weeks ago," he says. "We like to keep the clay courts outdoors whenever the weather allows. The indoor courts are over there. Courts five and six.”

I follow his finger toward a green-and-white structure at the far end of the property. The indoor facility sits beyond the outdoor courts, tucked into a far corner of the grounds, diagonally across from us. We head in that direction.

The route takes us past the Academy's outdoor fitness area. A gray rubberized surface stretches across most of it. One section is fitted with the usual equipment: pull-up bars, parallel bars, weight machines, and a handful of cardio stations. The rest is left open for conditioning drills and movement work.

As we walk past, I spot a mesh bag half-filled with tennis balls sitting among a scatter of cones, resistance bands, and agility ladders. The mess catches my eye. Up to this point, everything about the Academy has felt deliberate. Ordered. This untidiness looks strangely out of place.

"How many fitness coaches do you have?" I ask.

"One. Gurgen."

Gantalyan explains that Gurgen will be assisting both Aram and me. He adds that Anahit, the gym coach, occasionally helps with conditioning sessions as well.

We continue walking until we reach a pavilion tucked between the clay courts and the indoor facility. A striped canopy stretches overhead, shading a handful of tables and chairs and looking as though it has wandered in from a Mediterranean resort. It's the sort of place where you expect to look up from lunch and find the sea spread out before you.

Beyond the pavilion, two fountains sit against the Academy wall, one large and one small. Gantalyan slows as we pass them. For a moment, he stands there with his hands on his hips, taking in the view with obvious satisfaction. Then he's moving again, heading for the indoor facility. I follow him inside.

The building opens onto two blue hard courts. The white lines are immaculate, the lighting perfectly even. Three rows of benches run along either side. The high ceiling and even lighting give the space the same placeless, professional feel as every indoor court I've known—London, Paris, Spain, the States. You could fly around the world and still end up in a room like this.

"We used the same surface they use at the US Open," Gantalyan says. "The bounce is clean and consistent.” His eyes shine with unmistakable satisfaction.

When we step back outside, Gantalyan waves over a young man warming up in the fitness area.

He straightens immediately and heads toward us at an easy pace. I recognize him long before he reaches us.

Aram.

The same broad smile. The same expression of a man untouched by life's daily frustrations. His stride is energetic, but unhurried at the same time. Aram is far too cool to rush anywhere.

Before he even reaches us, he extends a hand and catches mine in motion.

"Aksel, my friend. So you did come back. I was starting to think the stories were made up."

He's genuinely happy to see me.

"It's been a while," I say with a smile. "About time."

Aram is one of the most successful coaches in Armenia. His players win a disproportionate number of tournaments, both here and across the region.

But I knew him as an official long before I knew him as a coach.

At twenty-four, he moved to Spain to complete the certification program that earned him an officiating qualification from the International Tennis Federation. After that, I'd occasionally see him in the chair at tournaments across Europe.

We first met in Montpellier, where I was competing at Open Sud de France. I saw him again a few times after that, in Spain and Cyprus. We exchanged the occasional greeting, nothing more.

According to Gantalyan, people in Armenia call him the Hunter. The nickname fits. Aram has a talent for spotting promising players before anyone else does. Then he keeps them. Year after year, they bring home titles.

Gantalyan and I eventually head back toward the main building. He returns to his office. I make for the coaches' locker room to change before practice.

The entire tour, he'd been waiting to hear a single phrase: I'm impressed. When I finally say it, some of the pride leaves his posture.

***

I pull my training clothes from my bag. The fabric feels pleasantly cool against my fingers.

Gantalyan mentioned that I'd find a folder waiting in my office, containing profiles on the players assigned to me and summaries of everything they'd accomplished so far. I can't say I'm particularly eager to look through it. Still, I make a mental note to stop by after the first session.

I bend down to tie my trainers, a movement I've repeated more than a thousand times. Then the realization lands with the weight of a stone: I'm here to refine someone else's game, not my own. The shift in roles catches me off guard. Not once in my life had I considered becoming a coach. Then, last November—the same month I officially announced my retirement from tennis—a green-trimmed envelope arrived. The Armenian Tennis Academy. I didn't think much of it. I opened it, read it, and accepted. The opportunity to become a guest coach despite having no coaching qualifications was an easy exit from England—away from a past I didn't want to revisit and a future my father kept trying to script for me.

Now, sitting in this small locker room, my life feels like a puzzle tossed carelessly on the floor, the pieces refusing to fit together.