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THORA

“ E xcuse me. Sorry. Coming through.” I clutch my nachos to my chest, trying to squeeze sideways between rows without covering anyone in cheese sauce. The woman in Seat 14 pulls her purse aside with a sympathetic smile—she probably knows the middle-seat shuffle all too well.

When I finally drop into my seat, my nachos are only slightly traumatized. I scan the field for my brother, finding him near third base going through his warmup routine. There’s no trace of the knee injury that had me flying out here in a panic two months ago. My heart lifts seeing him like this—confident, strong, ready for the Stallions’ season opener. The game wouldn’t be the same without him, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

While I wait for the game to start, the energy of Opening Day sweeps over me. Kids bounce in their seats, hands stuffed in baseball mitts and faces sticky with cotton candy. The big screen flashes player stats and crowd shots, drawing cheers with each new face. Hot dogs, popcorn, and that distinct smell of stadium beer fill the air, mixing with the early spring breeze.

And then there’s the sea of jerseys around me. A lot of different players’ names and numbers are represented in the crowd, but one appears more than any other—Luke’s. My stomach flips every time I spot his name stretched across another set of shoulders.

I’m here for Aiden. That’s what I keep telling myself, even as my traitor heart speeds up at the thought of seeing Luke again. We haven’t spoken since that day in the parking lot, since one kiss turned into a viral photo that blew everything apart.

Since then, I don’t think I’ve gone half an hour without thinking of him.

Movement catches my eye as Luke jogs onto the field, and my heart stutters hard. He and Aiden start throwing a ball back and forth, and suddenly I can’t look anywhere else. Luke’s perfectly fitted uniform shows off every muscle, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and arms with each throw. There’s something devastating about the way he moves—that easy athleticism, the natural grace of someone completely in their element. Even from here, I can see the grin he gives my brother between tosses, all relaxed confidence and charm.

“God, he’s gorgeous,” someone sighs behind me. “But what’s with the beard? He looked so much better clean-shaven.”

“I know, right?” another voice answers. “Like, who approved that decision?”

My fingers tighten around my nachos. I want to turn around, tell them they don’t know the first thing about him. But drawing attention to myself is the last thing I need—that viral photo might have faded from people’s minds, but I’m not taking any chances. Instead, I focus on my food and try to lose myself in the pre-game energy.

When the game starts, the first few innings fly by in a blur of quick outs and missed opportunities. The home crowd’s excitement dims as the other team racks up runs, the scoreboard a growing reminder that Opening Day isn’t going as planned.

By the fourth inning, the tension in the stadium is palpable. When Luke steps up to bat, the crowd surges with renewed energy—everyone desperate for something to cheer about. The first pitch comes in fast. Strike one. The second pitch curves wide. Strike two. My heart sinks as some drunk guy behind the dugout starts yelling about overpaid players who can’t even hit the ball. I dig my nails into my palm, wishing I could make him shut up.

The third pitch comes in fast. The ball cracks off Luke’s bat and soars high into the crowd—right toward me. For a split second, I freeze. Then pure instinct takes over. I thrust my nachos aside and reach up, my hand somehow finding the exact right spot as the ball smacks hard into my palm.

Holy shit. I actually caught it.

The people around me burst into excited cheers before their attention snaps back to the game. I stare at the baseball in my hand, a distinctive mark on it where it met Luke’s bat. Of course it would be Luke’s fly ball that found its way to me. The universe clearly has a sense of humor.

A small movement catches my attention. The kid in front of me keeps sneaking glances at the ball, his eyes wide with barely contained longing. When he notices me looking, he quickly turns back to the game. I tap his shoulder.

“Hey,” I say, holding out the ball. “I think this belongs to you.”

His whole face lights up as he takes it, handling it like it’s made of gold. The way his eyes shine makes my heart melt.

Luke is still at bat, the count full. The final pitch comes in—a fastball right down the middle. The crack of Luke’s bat echoes through the stadium as he makes perfect contact. The ball rockets toward center field, sailing over the wall. The crowd explodes as Luke rounds the bases. My heart races watching him touch home plate, a burst of fireworks lighting up the early evening sky as his teammates crowd around to congratulate him.

The stadium is still buzzing when my brother steps up to the plate. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout as loud as I can. “Let’s go, Aiden!”

The first pitch connects with his bat and takes off, following almost the exact same path as Luke’s home run. I jump to my feet, screaming my throat raw as he circles the bases, the whole stadium electric with back-to-back homers. As his teammates swarm him at home plate, I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

“Thanks again for coming to the game, T.” Aiden picks up his burger, studying the layers of bacon and cheese. The restaurant bustles around us with post-game energy. “You really didn’t have to fly out, though. You know they invented this thing called television, right?”

“And miss seeing that home run in person?” I steal a french fry from his plate. “Not a chance.”

“So tell me more about this catch you were bragging about earlier.” He grins. “Hard to believe my little sister managed to snag a fly ball.”

“Oh, it was mostly luck.” I focus intently on swirling the fry through some ketchup. “Right place, right time.”

“Whose ball was it?”

“Luke’s.” I keep my tone casual, like it’s no big deal.

Aiden sets his burger down with a sigh that sounds more like surrender than disapproval. “You two really are meant to be together, aren’t you?”

“Because I caught a fly ball?” I roll my eyes. “That’s not exactly destiny. Just basic probability—someone in that section was bound to catch it.”

“Sure, but what are the odds it would be you?” His eyes gleam with amusement. “Out of thirty thousand people in that stadium, Luke’s ball finds its way right to you? That’s some serious romance novel energy right there.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Look.” My brother’s expression turns serious as he meets my eyes across the table. “I don’t want to be the reason you two aren’t together. I said my piece about why I thought it was a bad idea, and the last thing I want is to see you get hurt. But I also don’t want to keep you from something you really want.”

“It’s not about that anymore.” I straighten my napkin. “The timing’s all wrong. He’s starting a new season, I’ve got audiobook deadlines coming up. Plus the whole living-on-opposite-coasts thing.”

“Right.” Aiden’s voice carries a knowing edge. “All very practical reasons that have nothing to do with how you actually feel.”

“The practical reasons matter.”

“Sure they do.” He takes a long drink of his beer. “But they’re not the whole story, are they?”

I stay quiet, nudging a wayward pickle slice back into my burger.

“Just think about it, sis,” Aiden says gently. “That’s all I’m saying.”

I’ve just landed in Boston when Luke’s name lights up my phone screen. My heart trips over itself, but I force myself to wait until I’m settled in the back of a cab before opening his message.

I heard you caught my fly ball.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as the city flashes past the window. Before I can respond, another message appears.

Aiden told me about your conversation, too. What do you think about all that?

I watch familiar buildings slide by, thinking about how to answer. The city feels both comforting and somehow emptier than when I left.

I think , I type carefully, that I’m still very interested in you. But maybe we shouldn’t pursue anything.

Why not?

The cab turns onto my street. A lot of reasons.

What if I told you I have a plan for how we can make it work?

I dig through my bag for my keys, intrigued despite myself. I’m listening.

First, log out of all your social media. Let people say what they want—their opinions don’t matter. Though maybe we should avoid any more parking lot make-out sessions.

A laugh bubbles up as I head toward my building. Probably wise.

As for the distance, I’ll fly out to see you in Boston whenever my schedule allows. And I’ll fly you out to SF, or to any away games you want to come to. We can hang out before and after. I’ve already looked up the schedule—I’ve got plenty of opportunities to see you.

I pause in the middle of unlocking my door, warmth spreading through my chest. Luke has really thought about this. Mapped it out. The idea of him planning ways to be together makes my heart swell.

The familiar scent of my apartment wraps around me as I push open the door. Everything is exactly as I left it—my reading nook by the window, my little herb garden out on the balcony, my recording booth in the corner with its sound-dampening panels and professional mic setup.

I drop my bag and sink into my favorite armchair, looking at the booth where I’ve brought countless love stories to life. In every single one, the couple has to work for their happiness. Distance, timing, circumstances—there’s always something standing in their way. But they find a way through it, around it, over it. Because that’s what you do when you can’t get someone out of your head.

Okay, maybe you’re right , I text Luke. It’s like in all these romance books I narrate—the couple always finds a way to make it work, no matter how many obstacles are in their way.

Yeah? Tell me more good stuff from those books. What are the most romantic moments you’ve read?

I bite back a smile, dropping onto my couch. You’ll have to listen to them to find out.

Challenge accepted. Send me your favorites. I’ve got a lot of travel time to fill.

You sure you can handle the spicy parts?

I have something to admit, Thora. The day I met you, I started listening to one of your books. Damn, girl. You weren’t kidding about the spice.

Heat rises in my cheeks as I think about Luke listening to me narrate some of those scenes. Told you. Pretty hot, right?

So hot I almost combusted. Well? What do you say, Thora? Can I come see you?