AKSEL

Ball basket in hand, I make my way toward Court One, where my first session starts in five minutes.

Aram is waiting by the entrance, his racket propped against the net post that separates the two courts, looking more than ready to resume where we'd left off.

I learn that he's been at the Academy since January.

"I heard you were tied up in court for a while," he says with the same untroubled expression. "Did it all work out?”

"What matters is that it's over."

A prematurely ended career had led to a string of legal proceedings that required my presence. As a result, my move to Armenia was delayed until April. But the legal details stayed on the other side of the clouds when the plane landed in Yerevan. I have no desire to bring those memories back to life, and I doubt Aram would know what to do with them even if he knew the full story.

"I've heard there's a promising girl at the Academy," I say, changing the subject. "Eveline."

Aram's grin somehow grows even wider.

"Oh, Eveline's our generation's Sharapova. Huge serve, terrifying competitor, and always five steps ahead of everyone else."

"Really?"

"She's Pavel Zakari's granddaughter."

This time he lowers his voice slightly, as though the name alone ought to mean something to me.

"Pavel Zakari?" I repeat slowly, tugging at a thread somewhere deep in my memory.

Aram seizes it immediately.

"Yeah. RusGaz Pavel. Filthy rich." After a brief pause, Aram adds, "I've heard half of Kotayk belongs to them."

I nod.

Of course half of Kotayk doesn't belong to them, but I see no reason to disappoint Aram.

I've heard plenty about Pavel Zakari and his fortune from my father. Before I can say anything, though, Aram glances toward the Academy building. His eyebrows shoot up.

I turn around.

A blonde girl is making her way toward the court, head held high, a tennis bag slung over one shoulder. A visor shades her eyes, while a long braid slips through the opening at the back and falls neatly over her left shoulder.

Aram leans closer.

"Speak of the devil."

The girl approaches without hesitation and offers me her hand. Her voice is confident, almost regal, yet unmistakably sweet.

"Eveline."

The top-ranked junior girl in Armenia.

According to Gantalyan, she spends most of the year training in Barcelona. Every coach who's worked with her seems convinced she has a future at the highest level of the sport.

According to my father, her own future was mapped out long before she picked up a tennis racket.

Narek Zakari, Eveline's father, was born and educated in Moscow. Today he serves as CEO of RusEnergy, one of the largest energy conglomerates operating across Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Under his leadership, the company expanded aggressively into renewables, transforming itself from a traditional oil-and-gas business into one of the region's most influential energy groups.

But the family's fortune began with Eveline's grandfather.

Pavel Zakari, former Director of International Operations at RusGaz and a close associate of Yuri Zhukov, the former mayor of Moscow Oblast, is best known for the central role he played in negotiating major gas agreements with Western Europe during the 1990s.

There were other stories, too.

Whispers that his influence extended beyond boardrooms and government offices. Rumours of involvement in far less public deals connected to gas extraction projects in Siberia. Some claimed those ventures had been protected by the Severny Brotherhood, a powerful criminal network with deep roots in Moscow. The allegations were substantial enough to find their way into a biography about Zakari's life—a book he later ensured would disappear from bookstore shelves.

Today, Pavel Zakari is seventy-four years old and, by all accounts, immensely proud of his granddaughter.

The same granddaughter who has just stepped onto the court and is looking at me with a bright spark in her dark brown eyes.

"Pleasure to meet you, Eveline." I shake her hand. "I'm Aksel."

"Of course you are."

The words slip out so quickly it feels as though we're old acquaintances rather than strangers meeting for the first time.

For a brief moment, the admiration she's trying to conceal gets the better of her. A faint blush reaches her cheeks. Then, just as quickly, she recovers and glances past me.

"Morning, Aram."

The composed expression returns to her face as though it had never left. She heads toward the second court.

Aram retrieves his racket. Before following her, he raises an eyebrow at me one last time.

The message is clear enough. Eveline isn't my player. Perhaps he notices my confusion, because he turns back and says,

"I've heard you've got an interesting scholarship case in your group.”

Before I can ask what that means, Aram flashes a grin and steps onto the court, evidently pleased with himself for leaving me with a riddle.

A moment later, I feel someone watching me.

I turn toward the Academy building.

A lean, chestnut-haired girl is standing in the distance, studying me with the same concentration most players reserve for an unfamiliar opponent.

The moment our eyes meet, she seems to snap out of whatever world she'd been lost in and starts walking toward me.

As she approaches, more details come into focus.

The shirt is from a collection at least three years old. What was once a vibrant electric blue has faded unevenly in the sun, and the fabric has gone soft from countless washes. Her white cap has yellowed slightly with age. Even from a distance, her trainers look exhausted. Blue and grey, or perhaps they used to be before the clay courts stained them red. The soles appear one hard sprint away from coming apart entirely.

Only the pale pink skirt falling to her knees looks relatively new.

"Aksel..." she says, then immediately corrects herself. "Aksel Batrikean. It's nice to meet you. I'm April."

And with that arrived my first disappointment of the day.

Comments