1
Thora
My 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.”
