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THORA

M y brother has been downplaying his baseball injuries his entire life. At age ten, after smashing his fingers in a batting cage door, his hand “barely hurt.” In high school, the concussion he got from diving headfirst into second base was “just a headache.” Last season with the Stallions, his torn rotator cuff “would be good as new with some stretching.” By now, I know his code: the less he says about an injury, the worse it actually is.

So when his text pops up on my phone— Going into surgery. No big deal but thought you should know —I’m on the next flight to San Francisco.

Seven hours later, I rush through the sliding glass doors of the hospital, my heart hammering against my ribs. The only update I’ve gotten since landing is his response to my text that I was on my way: All good, T. You don’t need to come out here. Even if I’d received it before takeoff, I would have boarded anyway. My big brother isn’t dealing with this alone, whether he wants to or not.

A receptionist directs me to the fourth floor surgical wing. My sneakers squeak against the polished linoleum as I follow the signs, worry knotting between my shoulder blades. Then I hear it—my brother’s deep laugh echoing down the corridor. The sound steadies my nerves. I quicken my pace, rounding the corner to room 412.

I knock once and step inside. Sterile hospital scents mingle with a spicy cologne I don’t recognize, and the air is punctuated by the steady beep of monitors. My brother lies propped up in the hospital bed, his athletic frame looking strangely vulnerable in a thin gown. But his eyes are bright, his grin wide as he turns toward me.

That’s when I notice his visitor.

The man sitting beside the bed straightens, and my mouth goes dry. His broad shoulders fill out a worn practice jersey in ways that should be illegal, and his beard makes his chiseled jaw even more devastating. I know exactly who he is—Luke Hendrix, baseball’s most photogenic player, whose action shots had fans spiraling last season.

But those viral photos didn’t do him justice. In person, he radiates the kind of raw magnetism that makes my skin go hot.

“You must be Thora.” His voice is deep, rich, sending heat straight down my spine. He stands and extends his hand. “I’m Luke.”

I reach out to shake his hand, willing my palm not to sweat. “Nice to meet you.” Somehow my words come out steady, even though my heart is racing a mile a minute. His hand engulfs mine, steady and strong, and my brain short-circuits at the contact. His eyes lock with mine, and for a second I forget how to breathe.

Luke’s beard is new, different from the clean-shaven photos that set social media on fire last season. The dark scruff emphasizes the sharp line of his jaw, and as I soak in the ridiculously gorgeous man standing in front of me, I wonder if he grew it out to dodge some of that attention.

Focus, Thora. Stop staring at your brother’s teammate like a starstruck teenager. I force my attention to Aiden, my pulse still racing. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” My brother gives me that half-smile I’ve seen too many times in emergency rooms and doctors’ offices. “Just a little meniscus tear, that’s all. Coach brought in a specialist for off-season training, and I might have pushed it a little too hard.”

“A little?” Luke snorts. “You were running full-sprint starts after three hours of practice.”

“The surgery went great though.” Aiden shoots Luke a look. “I’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“Six to eight weeks, give or take,” Luke says, earning a glare from my brother.

It takes me a moment to process that timeline. “Who’s your doctor? I want to talk to them about your recovery plan.”

“T, you don’t need to stay out here. I can handle this.”

“Right, like you handled that concussion in high school?” I raise my eyebrows. “Baseball is too important for you to mess up this recovery by being stubborn. I’m staying to help you get back on the field properly.”

“You can’t just?—”

“What’s your doctor’s name? I’m going to find them and get all the details.”

Aiden slumps back against his pillow. “Dr. Michaels. But seriously?—”

“Dr. Michaels. Got it.” I cross my arms. “And I’m staying. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

Luke watches me with something that looks an awful lot like admiration, as if impressed by my unwavering stance with my brother. The intensity in his dark eyes sends a current through my body, but I keep my focus on Aiden. This isn’t about impressing my brother’s insanely hot teammate—it’s about making sure my brother doesn’t rush his recovery and ruin his career.

I leave in search of Dr. Michaels. When I return after a very helpful conversation with the doctor, a nurse rolls a wheelchair into the room. My throat tightens at the sight. My brother normally fills doorways, commands attention on the field, takes up space everywhere he goes. But now he grips the bed rail, his knuckles white as the nurse helps him pivot.

“I got it,” he insists, but pain flashes across his face as he lowers himself into the chair.

I gather his things from around the room—his phone charger, the water bottle from the bedside table, his clothes from earlier neatly folded on a chair. “Ready?”

Luke steps behind the wheelchair. “I’ve got him.”

We file into the hallway, Luke’s steady footsteps behind me as I lead the way to the elevator. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and we step inside. In the brushed steel doors, our reflections blur together—Aiden seated between us, Luke’s broad frame towering beside me. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, and the height difference does things to my insides I really shouldn’t be feeling about my brother’s teammate. Luke’s cologne fills the small space, subtle but masculine, and I feel myself wanting to sway closer.

The elevator deposits us in the parking garage. I dig through my purse for the rental car keys, fumbling with the unfamiliar fob.

“Here.” Luke’s hand brushes mine as he takes the keys. The trunk pops open smoothly under his touch.

“Thanks.” I busy myself arranging Aiden’s bag while Luke helps my brother into the passenger seat.

“I’ll stop by later to check on you,” Luke tells him. Luke gives Aiden’s shoulder a brotherly squeeze, and it’s suddenly obvious to me that Luke isn’t just a concerned teammate; he and my brother are truly close. I hadn’t realized they were such good friends.

“You don’t have to,” Aiden starts to say, but Luke cuts him off with a look.

“Try to keep him from overdoing it,” Luke tells me, his voice carrying genuine concern. “He’s terrible at taking it easy.”

“Trust me, I know. I’ve had years of practice handling his stubbornness.” I meet Luke’s eyes and immediately regret it—they’re dark and intense and way too magnetic at this distance. My skin prickles as his gaze holds mine.

Luke’s eyes linger on mine for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back, letting me close the passenger door. As I slide behind the wheel, I catch one last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror—a solid presence in the dim garage, watching us as we drive away.

“You doing okay, sis?” Aiden’s voice is relentlessly teasing. “Not every day you meet baseball’s most eligible bachelor.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” I keep my eyes focused on navigating out of the parking garage. “Anyone would be a little startled meeting someone they’ve seen all over social media.”

“A little startled?” He laughs. “You looked like you were about to pass out.”

I scoff. “I did not.”

“You still read those celebrity magazines? Bet you’ve got a whole collection of articles about him stashed away somewhere.”

“No, I don’t.” I brake at a stop light, remembering how my eyes had lingered over a glossy cover at the grocery store last week. The headline had promised exclusive details about Luke’s dating life. “I outgrew that phase.”

“Right. Just like you outgrew boy bands and reality TV.”

“You know that stuff is all manufactured drama and clickbait.” I merge onto the highway, settling in for the drive across the city. “The articles are probably written by interns who’ve never even met him.”

“But you read them anyway.”

I press my lips together, refusing to give my brother the satisfaction of being right. It’s true that I’ve always been fascinated by celebrity culture, drawn to the glimpses of glamorous lives so different from my own. But I’m not like those obsessed fans who flooded Luke’s social media posts with marriage proposals and desperate pleas. Some of the comments under his photos had been unhinged—women offering thousands of dollars just for a single date, or describing in graphic detail exactly what they’d do if they got him alone.

“I’m just saying.” Aiden grins. “If you need me to get his autograph for you...”

“Focus on your recovery,” I shoot back. “Your knee is more important than playing matchmaker.”

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the circular drive of Aiden’s high-rise, the glass and steel building stretching toward the clouds. A doorman rushes out to help, but I smile and tell him that we’re okay.

Getting Aiden from the car to his thirty-second floor apartment is an adventure in stubborn siblings. He insists he can manage the wheelchair himself. I insist on pushing. We compromise by letting him navigate while I provide the momentum, which results in only minimal cursing when we bump into the elevator wall.

“Home sweet home.” Aiden fumbles with his keys, then pushes open the door to his apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a stunning view of the Bay, but my attention catches on the dishes in the sink, the gym clothes draped over a chair, the stack of mail covering half the kitchen counter.

I start cataloging everything that needs to be done. Stock the fridge with actual food instead of just protein shakes. Set up a recovery station near the couch. Rearrange the furniture to create better paths for the wheelchair. And the bathroom probably needs?—

“Thora.” Aiden’s voice breaks through my mental checklist. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you try to fix everything at once.” He wheels himself to the leather sectional. “Come on, sit down. When’s the last time we just hung out?”

He’s right. Between his baseball schedule and us living on opposite coasts, it’s been ages since we’ve spent real time together. I smile and start toward the couch.

“Wait, before you sit down,” he says. “Could you grab me a beer?”

“Nice try. You’re on pain meds.” I head to the kitchen. “I’ll make you some tea instead. That is, if you have any.”

His laughter follows me, warm and familiar. “Check the cabinet by the stove.”

A few hours later, I’m sitting cross-legged on Aiden’s couch, making a shopping list while he channel surfs. “I could make that chicken and rice thing you like. Or maybe pasta...” I tap my pen against the notepad, trying to focus on meal planning instead of replaying every moment with Luke in my head. “When’s the last time you ate an actual vegetable?”

“Hey, I had a chopped salad last week.” He grins. “That should cover me for the month, right?”

The buzzer interrupts our conversation. I unfold myself from the couch and cross to the intercom.

“Hello?” I ask.

“It’s Luke. I brought dinner.”

My pulse spikes at his voice through the speaker. I press the button to let him up, then catch myself smoothing my hair in the reflection of a framed photo. Ugh. What am I doing? Luke isn’t here to see me.

When I open the door, the rich aroma of garlic and basil hits me first, followed by the sight of Luke filling the doorframe. He’s traded his practice gear for jeans that mold to his muscular thighs and a gray hoodie that stretches across those ridiculous shoulders. The casual look rocks me hard—probably because this feels more real, more private, like I’m seeing a side of him most people don’t get to.

“Is that what I think it is?” Aiden cranes his neck from the couch. “Dude, tell me you brought pad krapow.”

“Got all your favorite dishes, man.” Luke sets the bag on the kitchen counter. I busy myself gathering plates and utensils, but I’m tracking his every movement around the kitchen. The space feels electric, charged by his presence. His arm brushes mine as he reaches past me for glasses, and my skin burns at the contact. When his gaze lands on me, the heat in it nearly melts me.

“And since I don’t know what you like, Thora, I got a few other things, too.”

The way he says my name, low and intentional, makes my stomach flip.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I pull open a drawer for chopsticks. “You didn’t have to bring dinner at all—I was just about to go grocery shopping.”

“I wanted to.” He starts unpacking containers, his large, strong hands making quick work of the knots in the plastic bags. “Though I did play it safe with the spice level. Wasn’t sure how much heat you can handle.”

I look up to find him watching me, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes my stomach flip even harder.

“I can handle my spice just fine,” I tell him, meeting his gaze with more boldness than I feel.

“Oh yeah,” Aiden calls from the couch. “Thora’s great with spice—she narrates romance books for a living.”

“You do?” Luke’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “How spicy are we talking?”

His curiosity makes me laugh as we carry everything into the living room. “I work on all kinds.”

“They can’t be that dirty though, right?” We settle near Aiden with the spread of containers. “I mean, I’ve seen those covers at the airport...”

“You’d be surprised.” I serve some noodles onto my plate and pass the container to my brother. “Even the ones with cute illustrated covers can get pretty explicit.”

“Yeah, I made the mistake of listening to one of the books she narrated.” Aiden shudders. “Never again. There are some things a brother doesn’t need to hear his sister say.”

Luke laughs and hands me another container. “Well, now I’m even more curious. What was the book?”

“Nope.” Aiden stabs a piece of pork on his plate with his chopsticks. “We are not discussing that. Ever.”

Throughout dinner, I can’t stop stealing glances at Luke. The way he laughs at Aiden’s jokes, the genuine warmth in his voice when he talks about their team—none of those viral photos captured this side of him. Every new glimpse of the real Luke hits me harder than his looks ever did. My attraction is shifting from pure physical heat into dangerous territory. He’s a pro baseball player who lives across the country from me. Wanting him is pointless. But watching him now, relaxed and real in my brother’s apartment, I know I’m already in trouble.

The conversation flows easily until our plates are empty and the sky outside has grown dark. Aiden settles back, grabbing a remote and turning on his TV to watch some game recaps. He yawns dramatically. “Sure wish I could help clean up.”

“Life’s hard.” Luke starts clearing the coffee table. “Need me to adjust your throne while I’m at it?”

I collect our plates and head to the kitchen, the sound of the TV growing muffled as I move away from the living room. Luke follows with an armful of takeout containers. We’re suddenly alone, the space feeling way too intimate. I focus on rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher while he finds space for the leftovers in the fridge.

“Hey.” He steps closer, his voice low enough that it won’t carry to the living room. “I know taking care of this guy might be a lot. If you ever need a break or feel overwhelmed, text me. I’m happy to help out.” He pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?”

My pulse quickens as I recite the digits. It’s such a thoughtful gesture, him offering to help, but standing this close to him in the quiet kitchen, watching his fingers move across the screen—I can barely focus on the numbers.

After Luke leaves, I help Aiden through his evening routine—teeth brushed, pain meds taken, extra pillows arranged just right. When he’s finally settled in bed, I curl up on the couch with a blanket and check my phone.

A single message waits: Hey, it’s Luk e. Just three simple words, but they send my heart into overdrive.