Hunter

APRIL

"More spin, April!” Aksel shouts from across the court, and my ears ring from having heard nothing but criticism since morning. “And use your legs.” 

I position myself for another serve.

As always, Aram and Eveline are training on the court beside us. I try not to think about how clearly Aksel's voice carries across the Academy. Instead, I focus on relaxing my body and resisting the urge to muscle the ball.

Aksel is rebuilding my serve from the ground up. Which means fighting against movements that have already become instinct.

The power should come from my legs, not my arm, I remind myself as I bend my knees a little more.

I toss the ball.

Swing.

“Again.” 

Aksel spots the mistake, corrects it, and moves on with the efficiency of a clock mechanism.

But there is something else beneath the precision. Something he doesn't bother to hide. Impatience.

As though this entire exercise is an unfortunate detour from whatever he believes he should really be doing. As though every correction carries the quiet humiliation of having to start over alongside me.

We're starting from zero.

That was his greeting this morning.

"Again."

The command follows me through the next serve.

And the next.

And the next.

By the sixtieth attempt, Aksel no longer bothers explaining what went wrong because I already know. 

"Higher toss. Use your legs. Stop squeezing the racket." The words loop through my head like a record stuck in the same groove.

We've now entered the one-word stage of communication.

“Again!”

His white cap is pulled so low that the brim leaves most of his face in shadow. I can barely see him. He sees every mistake I make. But the harder I try to satisfy my coach, the further my mind drifts from the court. Eventually, Aksel calls for a break, and I collapse onto the bench.

Sweat runs down my face, and the wind turns it cold against my skin. As I struggle to catch my breath, I realize the balls scattered across the clay are already back in the basket.

Aksel is ready for the next drill.

"Now we'll work on your backhand."

I suppress a groan. My legs are burning, but I get to my feet anyway.

As soon as I approach the baseline, my mind floods with images of all the serves I failed to land.

***

Training ends the same way it began: with Aksel and me irritating each other. 

Before leaving, Aksel schedules an individual session for the evening. 

Normally, I'd be training with everyone else. Evening individual sessions are usually reserved for players who still have work left over from the morning. Technical flaws. Bad habits. Movements that haven't settled properly yet. 

Most evenings, Aram runs the group practice while the coaches handle individual sessions only when necessary. 

In other words, Aksel isn't satisfied. We're going to spend tonight repeating the same exercises until he is. Which means none of this morning's work is finished. And judging by his face, that's a long list.

Hot water runs down my back, slowly loosening muscles that have been clenched since sunrise. When I open my eyes, the water around my feet has turned pink. The plasters have peeled off, and the cuts on my toes have reopened, bleeding freely into the drain. I don't feel a thing. My feet stopped complaining years ago.

The real pain is in my hand.

The calluses on my middle and ring fingers have torn open again, exposing raw flesh underneath. Every time I remove the athletic tape, the sting is enough to make me grit my teeth. Under the hot water, my fingers burn so fiercely that the rest of my body seems to disappear.

After my shower, I pull on my school uniform.

Both morning training blocks are behind me now: individual practice from seven to nine, sports psychology from ten to twelve.

The hour between them is technically reserved for breakfast and recovery. More often than not, I spend it finishing homework I was too tired to complete the night before. By ten o'clock, I was sitting in Nune's classroom.

Today's psychology session was a disaster.

Nune looked concerned enough to keep me behind afterward. She told me she'd never seen me so distracted.

My thoughts refused to cooperate.

Every exercise began with an attempt to drag my attention back to the present and ended exactly the same way: with Aksel's voice cutting through my concentration or one of his skeptical looks resurfacing in my memory.

Visualization: failure.

Positive Self-Talk: failure.

Focus and Attention Control: failure.

Goal Setting and Mental Resilience: failure.

Reflection: failure.

I can't remember the last time another person occupied this much space in my head.

Growing up, I taught myself to let insults pass straight through me. On the courts, people were always eager to remind me that my parents worked service jobs, that my clothes were worn, and that I'd seen very little of the world.

The comments hurt. Then they stopped hurting. Eventually they became background noise.

I'd thought I'd left that part of myself behind. But Aksel's words linger. Maybe it's because every criticism comes with evidence. Every time he points out a flaw, I see it too a second later. Maybe it's because every flaw he finds in my game feels like evidence for a larger case.

I leave the locker room.

At one end of the Academy hallway are the players' locker rooms. Closer to the exit are the coaches'. A separate door on the left leads to a quieter wing containing the coaches' offices and the director's office. To the right of the exit is the lounge, where Academy members usually spend their breaks either stretched out on couches recovering from practice or glued to their phones.

The walls are covered with posters of tennis legends and motivational quotes. No matter how often cleaners mop the floors and air out the building, a faint smell of sweat and athletic tape always lingers in the hallway.

At lunchtime, the cafeteria and outdoor pavilion fill with noise, conversation, and the smell of hot food. I use the lunch break for a lightning-fast shower and getting to school. While the rest of the Academy sits down to eat and recover from the morning's sessions, I'm sprinting through the hallway trying not to miss my bus.

Unlike most of the other players, I don't have the option of homeschooling or private tutors. My school day starts at 12:30 sharp.

The sudden slam of a locker door stops me in my tracks.

The lockers belong to the coaches and line the wall beside their locker room. Since there are no windows on that side of the hallway, it usually remains in shadow. Someone is approaching from the darkness.

I hear the footsteps before I see the person.

A moment later, he steps into the light.

Aram.

He's moving so quickly that before I can blink twice, he's standing less than half a meter away. Instinctively, I take two steps back. He takes two steps forward.

He offers to help me fix my serve during a private session this evening.

The offer embarrasses me immediately, partly because Aksel delivers every correction at a volume the neighboring courts can enjoy. Unsure what to say, I find myself staring instead at his short hair, turned golden in the direct sunlight.

"April, what happened?" Aram laughs. "Lost your voice?"

"Thank you, Aram, but there's no need," I mumble.

His eyes drop to my hands.

"If they're this tense when you serve, it's no wonder Aksel isn't happy."

Aksel isn't happy.

The phrase stings more than it should. Before I can stop myself, I wrinkle my nose.

Aram reaches for my wrist. Holding it lightly, he starts explaining something in a low voice while looking directly into my eyes.

My body goes rigid. I can see his lips moving, but the words never reach me. If he takes even half a step closer, his mouth will brush mine.

I pull my wrist free and take another step back.

"I'll figure it out myself. Thank you."

The words come out so awkwardly that I sound like someone speaking for the first time.

Aram steps forward again.

"Are you sure you'll figure it out?"

For the first time, I notice something familiar in his expression. The same trace of mockery I see in Aksel.

I swallow. Slowly, the reality of the situation settles over me.

Aram has blocked my path. Suddenly, I can't breathe. The plan forms in an instant: one pivot, one sharp upward drive of my knee, and I'll hit him in the groin. He'll go down. I'll be out the door before he even gets back to his feet.