Her

"She was like the moon - part of her was always hidden, yet she still lit up everything around her."
- Unknown

Katlego Moeketsi

The evening glow hit just right through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment.
The skyline of Pretoria stretched far in the distance, golden light casting sharp shadows on the walls—but my mind wasn't on the view.
It wasn't even on our win, not really.

It was on her.

I sat back into the couch, half-listening to Tlotli argue with himself over whether to order ribs or just go with his usual chicken schnitzel.
He always did this—complained that the ribs were too greasy, then ordered them anyway.

"Ribs," he said finally, confirming what I already knew he'd choose.

"Mm-hm," I muttered.

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"You've been in your head since we got here. You good, boy?"

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I leaned forward, grabbing the TV remote and turning it down.
The highlights from the game were playing on SuperSport—that goal Siphiwe scored from outside the box was something else.
But I wasn't thinking about the game.

"There's this girl," I said finally.

Tlotli's head whipped around so fast, I thought his neck might snap.

"Haibo, of course there's a girl. There's always a girl when it comes to you. You met her on the field?"

I gave a slow nod.

"You see? That's your problem. Always spotting girls every match like it's a fashion show. How many stadium girls is this now? Seven? Eight? I'm even surprised you didn't bring one home."

I didn't laugh. For once, I wasn't entertained.

"She's different, Tlo."

"Eish," he groaned, tossing his head back. "Here we go again. You never say that about any girl who doesn't wear a full face of makeup."

I ignored that.

"No, I mean it," I said quietly, eyes fixed on the condensation forming on the water bottle in my hands.
"She's not… that girl. Not the slay queen vibe. No lashes. No fake accents. No trying too hard. Just… raw beauty."

Tlotli blinked.

I went on.

"She was just standing there. Holding the phone for her friend who wanted a picture with me. And I don't know, bro. Something about her felt real. Like… unbothered. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She didn't even want a picture. When I offered, she said, 'No thanks, I'm not a camera person.' Just like that. Straight. No shyness. No starstruck reaction. Just… chilled."

"Yoh," said Tlotli, biting into a chip he stole from the takeaway packet on the table. "That doesn't even sound like your type. You? The guy who once dated a girl because her walk reminded you of Beyoncé's? Haibo."

I cracked a small smile.

"That's exactly why it caught me off guard."

He leaned forward now, sensing the tone shift.

"What's the plan, Kat? You get her number or what?"

"That's the thing…" I sighed, running a hand through my curls. "I didn't."

He stared.

"Wait—you're Katlego Moeketsi. You didn't get her number?"

"I was surrounded by fans, and her friend—the one who wanted the picture—ran off to go take more pics with the other players. I thought she'd come back with the girl. But when I looked again, they were gone."

"Damn."

"Exactly."

"So," he said, slapping his thighs, "mission impossible, huh?"

"Almost. I don't even know her name. All I know is she was wearing this black mini dress, with pantyhose and white Air Forces. Hair in a simple bun. No fancy jewelry. No face full of makeup. Just simple. Clean. Beautiful. You know when someone doesn't even try, but they leave a mark? That's what it felt like."

Tlotli raised an eyebrow, finally understanding that I wasn't joking.

"Yoh, Kat," he said. "You're deep in this one. You caught feelings for someone you barely spoke to."

"Maybe," I shrugged. "But it's rare that someone makes me feel unseen and seen at the same time. Like—I'm used to being the guy people scream for. She was there, but she wasn't there for me. It humbled me."

"Yeyi," Tlotli whistled. "Now that's a first. Kat Moeketsi? Humbled by a girl in pantyhose."

I chuckled.

There was a silence between us for a second. Comfortable—the kind of silence friends didn't need to fill.
I think he finally saw the seriousness in my face.

"So you're not going to try to find her?" he asked eventually.

I hesitated.

"If I'm being honest, I don't know where to start. She didn't tag me, didn't ask for a picture. I doubt she even knows my jersey number."

"What about the friend?"

"Maybe the one who wanted the picture. She seemed like the loud type, so she probably posted."

"Well, there's your answer," he said, pulling out his phone. "Let's go Instagram hunting. We're going to find this mysterious pantyhose princess. Or die trying."

I rolled my eyes—but something in me felt lighter.

Maybe it wasn't so impossible after all.

It started with her eyes. Calm, uninterested eyes.
Not in a standoffish way—she was just present. Grounded. It was rare.

I remember standing on the pitch, exhausted from the match even though I didn't play. Coach said I needed rest—fatigue, he called it.
But I knew the real reason I was there: I needed to reset. Reconnect with why I loved the game in the first place.

Then I saw her.

She wasn't jumping around or fighting for pictures like the others. No screaming. No "Katlego, I love you!" Just watching. Quietly.
Her friend, on the other hand, was bouncing with excitement, dragging her into the moment. That's how I ended up standing in front of them.

"Do you want one too?" I asked, already turning slightly to make space beside me.

She blinked once, twice, then shook her head.

"No thanks. I'm not a camera person."

That was it. One sentence. Seven words. Then she moved back like the whole moment meant nothing to her.
But it meant something to me.

It was the first time in a long time that I felt small.
Normal.
I liked it.

Three days later, I'm sitting on my couch like an obsessed teenager—hoodie over my head, scrolling through every single tagged post from the game.

1,276 photos. I'm on number 894.

"Bro, you're still at it?" Tlotli says, walking in with Spha and Thabiso. They're carrying Nando's and their usual banter.

"You're worse than a high school girl, dawg," Spha laughs, cracking open his Coke.

"Guys," I say, holding up my phone like it's sacred, "I need help. I'm looking for a girl."

"Of course you are," Thabiso grins. "Isn't that what you always do? Fall in love with a fan and forget her name by Monday?"

"Nah. This one's different."

They all pause—the tone in my voice must've said enough.

"What's the story?" Tlotli asks.

"She came with her friend. Dark skin. No makeup. Mini black dress, white Air Forces. Her friend wore a Stars FC T-shirt. She didn't ask for a picture, didn't scream my name. Just said, 'I'm not a camera person' and dipped."

"Damn," Thabiso says. "You got hit with humility."

"Facts."

"Okay, so what's the plan? Just scroll until your fingers fall off?" Spha asks.

"That was the plan," I admit. "But y'all have faster eyes than me. Let's split the search. Divide and conquer."

We start digging through hashtags—#StarsFC, #LoftusLegends, #KatMoeketsi, even #MatchDayBaddies—because, well, you never know.

Four professional soccer players sitting in a luxury apartment, phones in hand, looking for a girl who probably didn't even care who I was.

Then finally, just when I'm about to quit, Thabiso says—

"Yo. Isn't this the outfit you described? The friend?"

I snatch his phone.

There it is. The picture. Two girls in a mirror selfie. One loud, grinning, doing a peace sign. The other—standing quietly beside her.
Effortlessly good. That rooted beauty. The kind that doesn't need validation to shine.

The caption reads:

"Match day things with bestie 🤍🔥 #StarsFC #LoftusVibes"

"Found her," I whisper.

Tlotli leans over.

"Wait, that's the one you're stuck on? She's not your type, Kat."

"What's my type?"

"You know," he shrugs. "The kind that follows you before the whistle even blows. Lashes, nails, pose-ready. Slay queens."

I stare at the screen.

"Then maybe I'm done with types."

They fall silent.

"So… any plans to find her?"

I breathe out slowly.

"Here's the problem. I don't even know her name. She's not tagged. Didn't want a photo. Didn't say a word about who she was."

"Mission impossible," Spha says.

"Exactly."

But still, I screenshot the post. Bookmark it.
Even follow the friend's account—scrolling through every picture, hoping she tagged her somewhere, somehow.

And for the first time in a long time…
it's not about being chased.

It's about chasing.