Gloss.
Sometimes a faint peach blush that catches when the light hits her cheekbones.
She smells like vanilla and sunscreen and something floral I can’t name.
She knows she’s beautiful.
But she wears it lightly.
Like armor she’s comfortable in.
We don’t flirt.
Not really.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But people the whispers become louder:
“Power couple.”
“Basketball and soccer royalty.”
We’re not even touching.
Just walking together.
Studying together.
She slides her tray across the table in the athlete dining hall and plops down beside me like she belongs there.
Maybe she does.
At night, when the basketball house finally goes quiet, I scroll.
Highlights.
Game clips.
Sports media accounts.
And there she is.
Stella.
Spike after spike.
The Stanford athletics page posts slow-motion clips of her jumping — hair flying, muscles in her legs flexing like coiled steel as she detonates above the net.
Commentators talking about her vertical.
Her kill percentage.
Her dominance on the court.
She looks unstoppable.
Focused.
