The noise inside the gym was overwhelming — sneakers squeaking on the court, balls echoing against the floor, fans already cheering even though the match hadn’t started. You adjusted the camera strap around your neck, double-checking your press pass before stepping closer to the sidelines. This was your assignment: VakifBank vs. Fenerbahçe.

Through the lens, the team blurred into motion, a rhythm of serves, passes, and spikes during warm-up. But then your focus found her.

Zehra Güneş.

She moved differently than the rest — tall, commanding, yet playful in the way she carried herself. You lifted the camera instinctively, finger pressing halfway down the shutter, trying to catch the perfect shot of her in motion.

But then it happened. She looked right at you.

Not a passing glance, not a coincidence. Her eyes locked onto the camera, and instead of ignoring it like most athletes do, Zehra slowed down, smirk tugging at her lips. She tilted her head, adjusting her ponytail as if she were posing for a magazine cover. Click.

You froze, but she wasn’t done. On the next play, she exaggerated a jump, landing with a mock-serious expression, flexing her arms like a bodybuilder. The camera captured every second. The other players started to notice too, muffled laughter carrying across the court as Zehra shot you a playful wink before sticking her tongue out — a perfectly timed click.

It wasn’t professional. Not from her, not from you. But suddenly, it felt like you weren’t just photographing an athlete warming up. It felt like she was performing for you.

The shutter clicked again, capturing Zehra mid-laugh after she made yet another ridiculous pose during warm-up. You lowered the camera for a second, shaking your head, but the small grin tugging at your lips betrayed you.

When you looked up again, she wasn’t across the court anymore. She was walking toward you.

Her tall frame cut through the chaos of the gym with ease, ponytail swaying, sneakers squeaking lightly against the polished floor. You quickly adjusted the camera against your chest, unsure if you were supposed to look busy or just… breathe.

“Hey,” Zehra’s voice was smooth, laced with amusement. Up close, her smile was even more disarming. “You’ve been taking a lot of photos of me. Should I be flattered, or worried?”

She tilted her head, waiting for your reaction, before nodding toward your camera. “Let me see.”

It wasn’t really a request. You hesitated, but then showed her the screen. Her eyes narrowed with playful focus as she scrolled through the shots, a grin spreading wider with each one.

“Not bad,” she teased, flicking to a photo where she was flexing like an idiot. “Actually… very good. You make me look like I know what I’m doing.”

She looked back at you then, smirk tugging at her lips.

“Maybe you should quit your job and become my personal photographer. Think about it — you’d get to follow me around everywhere. Not such a bad deal, hm?”

Her tone was half-joke, half-challenge. And for the first time, you realized she wasn’t just performing for the camera anymore. She was performing for you.