APRIL

I tap my bracelet against the gate sensor and step inside.

My heart is somewhere in my throat. I round the Academy building and head directly toward the courts, skipping the locker room, because if I go in there, I don't think I'll come back out. Halfway across the grounds, my feet begin to drag.

"Two steps left, then right, Areg. Like that."

The voice reaches me from across the grounds. Almost immediately, the tight knot inside my chest begins to loosen.

I'd recognize that raspy voice anywhere.

For four years, that same raspy voice had shouted at me, scolded me, encouraged me, corrected me, praised me and told me exactly what to do next.

Just two days ago, Seda was working with me at this exact hour instead of Areg. But with Nationals approaching, the Academy brought in two new coaches, Aksel and Aram, split the sixteen-to-eighteen-year-olds into two groups, and reassigned the coaching staff. Seda ended up with the twelve-to-sixteen-year-olds.

Aram had arrived at the beginning of the year. Aksel showed up later because of some court case or another.

People say he loved tennis too much to walk away from it completely. Coaching was the compromise.

There are ten of us in the sixteen-to-eighteen group: six girls and four boys. Every six months, the Academy opens a new intake. Four age divisions. Six to ten places per group. Those places are reserved for the strongest junior players in the country. The ones everyone is already betting on.

A week ago, the Academy emailed me my updated training schedule:

7:00 AM–9:00 AM — Individual Court Session (Court 1)
9:00 AM–10:00 AM — Breakfast
10:00 AM–12:00 PM — Fitness / Gym / Sports Psychology
12:00 PM — Lunch
6:00 PM–7:00 PM — Individual or Group Court Session (Court 1 / Court 5)
7:00 PM–7:30 PM — Recovery

In four years at the Academy, I'd never practiced on Court 1.

In these four years, I had never once practiced on Court 1. And while, in my admittedly unpopular opinion, a court number doesn't change the game, the change wasn't lost on me. It seemed to say something, silently, about starting fresh with a new coach.

I continue toward Court 1.

The moment I clear the building, my view opens up.

And I stop.

A tall, broad-shouldered man is standing near the court entrance with his back to me. Below the hem of his shorts, the muscles in his legs stand out with the kind of definition that only comes from years on a tennis court.

He's dressed entirely in white, from the cap down to the shoes. What a contrast to the photographs that had been circulating all morning.

Perhaps he senses me approaching. Perhaps he hears my footsteps.

He turns.

My heart drops straight from my chest into my stomach. For a second, my feet seem glued to the pavement. Then I gather what little courage I have left and force myself forward.

I stop a couple of meters away.

Sapphire. His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes it difficult to think. The only coherent thought my brain manages to produce is that the dark blue of his eyes hadn't been visible behind the sunglasses in the photographs.

One eyebrow is slightly raised. His jaw is set.

Only then do I realize I haven't introduced myself. Unfortunately, my mouth chooses that exact moment to stop cooperating.

"Aksel."

The name escapes before I can stop it.

Heat rushes into my face.

"Aksel Batrikean," I correct myself immediately. "It's nice to meet you. I'm April."

The tremor in my own voice is impossible to miss. At this point, I'd happily disappear beneath the red clay.

"Nice to meet you, April."

There isn't the slightest trace of pleasure in his voice.

"Let's begin."

Aksel gestures toward the court, and I step through the gate, still feeling the chill of his gaze between my shoulder blades.

Only then do I notice that Aram and Eveline are warming up on the court beside us.

A cold shiver runs down my neck.

I probably see Eveline twenty times a year at most. She only comes to Armenia for Nationals and spends no more than three weeks training at the Academy. Most of our encounters happen in the locker room, along the walkways, or across the net during tournaments. And most of them end the same way: with Eveline pretending I don't exist.

If she's in Armenia three months before Nationals, then Aram must be every bit as good as the foreign coaches she usually trains with.

Aksel carries over two cones and places them along the sideline, about ten meters apart.

I swallow.

Standing between Aksel on one side and Eveline on the other, I feel strangely trapped.

"Let's warm up." He points toward the cones. "Start with light runs from one side to the other."

He spends the next minute explaining the first part of the session in surprising detail.

"We're just waking up your legs for now. I'll give you a few footwork drills as we go. Stay light on your feet and keep your balance underneath you."

I nod.

Before we're even two minutes in, I start wondering whether I've accidentally shown up to a fitness session instead of a tennis practice.

Aksel wants everything higher, lower, faster.

Move faster.

Lift your knees higher.

Sit deeper.

I throw myself at every drill as though my place at the Academy depends on it, burning through most of my energy before we've even touched a tennis ball and trying very hard not to think about what's coming next.

By the time we finish what was supposed to be "just waking up your legs," my thighs are already on fire.

Aksel, meanwhile, looks perfectly satisfied.

"Good, April." His tone is almost cheerful. "Let's see your forehand. Focus on the follow-through. Smooth and controlled. Don't rush it. Ready?”

“Ready."

I clear the cones from the court and pick up my racket.

Aksel takes his position in the service box, a few steps to the left of the ball basket, and gestures toward the baseline.

I walk back to the line and immediately realize my breathing still hasn't fully recovered from the warm-up.

Aksel watches closely and tosses the first ball.

I swing.

The ball clears the net with decent pace.

Three seconds of silence.

Usually, after a shot like that, Seda would've already been shouting, "Very good!"

Instead, Aksel reaches into his pocket for another ball.

"You're opening your shoulders too early. Move your feet and get yourself into a better position before the shot. And stop squeezing the grip so hard. Relax your wrist. We're not thinking about power right now."

I press my lips together and nod.

The second ball comes flying toward me.

I hit it.

This one sails long.

Aksel's expression sharpens.

"April, control the shot. Right now you're just hitting the ball."

"Okay. Sorry."

I reset.

The third ball clips the net and, beneath my breath, I find myself silently pleading with it.

No-no-no-no-no—

The ball drops onto my side of the court.

"I told you not to open up so early.” His voice remains calm. For about two seconds.

"You're not even setting your feet properly. You need to be balanced before contact. This is basic stuff, April.” A trace of irritation slips into his voice.

"I didn't mean to. Sorry—"

"Don't apologize. Fix it."

The corrections keep coming.

I adjust my footwork. My wrist is too stiff.

I loosen my wrist. Now it's too loose.

The racket angle is wrong.

The contact point is late.

By the ninth ball, I can feel Aksel's patience beginning to evaporate.

He stares at me as though he's trying to determine whether this is some elaborate joke. Every now and then he glances around, as if waiting for someone to explain that there has been a mix-up and I'm not the player he's supposed to be coaching.

Meanwhile, every muscle in my body has locked up, from my jaw all the way down to my toes.

"Not with your muscles, April. With your brain. Your contact is late because you're tense. Your wrist is tense. You're pulling the racket across your body too early instead of extending through the ball."

"Sorry."

"Sorry won't fix it." Aksel's voice cracks across the court. "Concentrate."

Another ball rockets toward me.

Every instruction immediately leaves my head. I swing in pure self-defense. At contact, something snaps.

The sound is sharp enough to make me flinch.

The ball barely clears the net and drops harmlessly onto the other side of the court.

Frowning, I slowly lift the racket and inspect the strings.

They've snapped. The middle mains, right around the sweet spot. For a second, I just stare. This can't be happening. No way... did I—?

"Of course you did.” A grim voice reaches me from the other side of the court. "This is what happens when you can't control your shots."

I look up.

Aksel is standing with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, watching me. And I'm watching him, trying to freeze time before this already terrible moment finds a way to get worse.

He jerks his chin toward my tennis bag.

"Well? Go get the other racket."

I don't want to tell him.

My silence only seems to irritate him further. Unfortunately, I'm fairly certain the truth will irritate him even more.

Time refuses to stop.

"I don't have another racket.” The words come out barely above a whisper.

Aksel blinks.

For a moment, he simply stares at me. Then his upper lip curls slightly. The expression lasts only a second, but it feels dangerously close to disgust.

His mouth opens as though he's about to deliver another criticism, but instead a long breath escapes him. He closes his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers and lowers his head with a heavy shake of disappointment.

"What can I say.” His voice returns colder than before. "I suppose we'll consider today's session finished."

He turns away and begins collecting the balls.

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