Chapter 23 Bella
Bella
Spring Training: Week Two
Ihad never understood the appeal of spa days.
Paying too much money to have strangers in white coats poke at my dehydrated, decidedly unglamorous skin while I tried to identify which pop song had been flattened into elevator music didn’t exactly scream “relaxation.” On the contrary, it was a sensory nightmare waiting to happen.
But this was different.
The steam from the warm towel draped across my chest carried the faint scent of lavender and something earthier, like fresh-cut herbs. I was laid out on the fold-up massage table Parker had lugged into my living room, one sturdy enough to hold bodies of all shapes and sizes.
The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the makeshift oasis she had created. Bowls of creamy mixtures were strewn about my coffee table, a diffuser hummed quietly in the corner, and a playlist of sultry lo-fi music crooned from the Bluetooth speaker.
Parker’s fingers moved in gentle circles over my temples, applying some kind of mask she’d whipped up from yogurt, honey, and oats. “How does that feel?” she asked, her voice soft.
I exhaled slowly, sinking a little deeper into the table.
“Sooo good. I wasn’t sure I would like the mask part because they’re usually too cold and slimy.”
She chuckled, the sound light and reassuring. “That’s because most places use stuff straight out of the fridge. I warmed this up a bit, so it should feel more like hot oatmeal . . . in the best way. But if it gets too much, just say the word.”
“No, please keep going.” I closed my eyes tighter under the towel, letting the warmth seep in. “You’re a wizard, Parker. That’s a gender-neutral term, right?”
“I think so. But I prefer enchantress,” she teased.
This was a first for me, really letting someone pamper me like this. I had always shied away from facials and massages—even pedicures were a gamble. It wasn’t the idea of relaxation that turned me off, but rather the overload.
Just last year, Jared had gifted me a massage and facial at a hip place in Portland. Sadly, the appointment had ended prematurely, with me bolting from the room mid-facial because the esthetician’s gloves had squeaked like balloons rubbing together.
I couldn’t help it. Certain textures and sounds had a way of sneaking up on me, turning what should be bliss into emotional warfare.
When Parker had offered to give me a trial run of her esthetician services a few days ago, I’d hesitated.
Saying no outright would have felt like kicking a puppy, and I hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings.
Especially when she was pouring so many resources into our business venture, including her heart.
She’d seen through my hesitation right away.
Parker was good like that, sharp-eyed under all the rockabilly flair. “You look like I just asked you to go skydiving,” she’d said.
“It’s not you, I promise. I just have a lot of issues with textures, sounds, smells even.”
Her face had softened. No judgment, just curiosity. “Well, let’s talk about them. We can customize the perfect experience for you.”
We’d talked it out right then and there.
No cold applications; warm everything where possible.
Skip the gritty exfoliants for something smoother, like a gentle enzyme peel.
Keep the lights dim and focus on the natural lighting.
Before we’d known it, our chat had turned into a full-blown brainstorm session with Parker scribbling things down on a napkin.
“This is gold,” she’d said. “Just one more thing for me to offer when I open the spa space: customizable and accessible treatments.”
I’d laughed, the knot loosening. “You're turning my weirdness into a business model.”
“Not weird,” she’d corrected firmly. “Just human. Self-care isn’t created equal, but we can make it equitable. We all have different needs and preferences. Mine is no patchouli. It smells like my ex.”
And now, here we were, her hands working methodically, gently rinsing the mask from my face with a warm cloth without dripping all over the floor.
Parker patted my skin dry with a soft towel and smoothed a light cream over it.
One that smelled like fresh laundry and .
. . clean man? Well, clean Bennett, at least. Generally, I didn’t go around smelling men straight out of the shower, but this particular scent hit the same notes as his skin after he’d washed and thrown on one of his soft, worn T-shirts he loved.
Like the one I had stolen from his room the other night when I’d been missing him. It was comforting in a way that made my chest ache a little.
Parker must’ve noticed my expression shift. “Too much? I can wipe it off.”
“No, it’s not that.” I touched my cheek again, the cream absorbing fast, leaving my skin soft and plump. “This probably sounds silly, but it smells like Bennett. And I know it’s probably just some generic fresh linen kind of thing, but my brain went straight to him.”
She laughed, low and delighted. “Damn, you got it bad, girl.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the small smile. “Yeah, I do.”
“How’s everything going out there with spring training?”
“Good, I think.”
I didn’t tell her that I hadn’t heard from him since yesterday morning. Not since his customary good morning text.
That wasn’t like him. Bennett was the king of check-ins. Spring training was intense, sure, but so far, we had made a point of keeping in touch and carving out time when we could. One day of quiet could’ve been chalked up to postgame fatigue, but two?
My stomach twisted a little.
“All done. Take your time sitting up so you don’t get dizzy.”
I eased upright, blinking as the room came back into focus. My skin felt tight but refreshed. “Wow, that was amazing. Thank you, enchantress.”
Parker beamed, genuine pride lighting her up. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
She started packing up her supplies, humming along to the music. We both turned when my phone buzzed across the coffee table. Once. Twice. Then a third time in quick succession, vibrating hard enough to skitter an inch toward the edge.
“Somebody’s popular today.”
I reached for it, hoping for an end to my butterflies.
Hoping it was Bennett finally surfacing from whatever black hole of drills and team meetings had swallowed him for the last thirty-six hours.
Hoping the screen would light up with his name and one of those sweet messages he sent when he was thinking of me.
Or even just a photo of his cleats in the dirt with a caption like “I’m alive. ”
But it wasn’t him.
Instead, the screen lit up with notifications from the Bitchcraft group chat. The first was a photo of Clarke in head-to-toe red-and-white Roasters’ gear. Dani stood beside her in black, flipping off the camera with a sleeping baby strapped to her chest.
Clarke
Will somebody please talk Dani out of wearing all black in this heat? I’m worried she’s going to get heat stroke.
June
Not it.
Jo
Me neither.
Dani
I told you, it’s not my clothes. It’s the adorable, twenty-pound meatloaf strapped to my chest.
Nessa
Now, now. Don’t let Coach Daddy hear you talk about Baby B that way.
Dani
You’re right. She’s a VEGAN, adorable, twenty-pound meatloaf. Though, is she really vegan if all she eats is breast milk?
I smiled at my phone. Coach Ward was a vegan, and we all knew that if he had it his way, their daughter would be, too.
Clarke
BTW, Belles. Your man was showing up all the guys during warm-ups.
My stomach lurched when I clicked on the attached video clip of Bennett doing push-ups with a medicine ball.
Dani
He and Matty tore the rest of them up.
Nessa
Not fair. Both of them are from hot, humid places.
Dani
Don’t be jealous just because Pinkalicious couldn’t cut it.
Another photo popped up. Bennett mid-rep, focused and lethal in that quiet way of his. And beside him? Jared, fully pancaked, face buried in the grass like he was contemplating his life choices.
I snorted out a laugh before I could stop myself.
Me
Tell him I said hi and to hydrate before he turns into a raisin.
Dani
Bennett or your hothead brother?
Me
The latter. Bennett can handle himself, but Jared needs a little hand-holding. No offense, Ness.
Nessa
None taken. I love holding his hand . . . and other things.
Me
Eww.
Clarke
Hells bells, Soren just hit a triple. That means I owe him a postgame blow job.
June
For fuck’s sake, I’m calling a subject change. I’m still waiting for your final headcount, Clarke.
The chat seamlessly shifted gears into wedding logistics. Dani sent a poll about bachelorette party options, Nessa dropped a link to a florist mood board, and Jo complained about Clarke’s selection of bridesmaid dress colors.
I let the messages scroll past, still stuck on the photos of Bennett working out earlier this morning.
It was good to know he was okay. He wasn’t hurt, just . . . busy. I’d seen it before with Jared, the way the world narrowed to drills and film sessions, to the point where phone calls home became afterthoughts.
Still. Two days.
The ache was quiet but persistent.
The group chat kept pinging, but suddenly, I wasn’t in the mood to discuss the differences between blush and rosé pink.
My thoughts circled back to the same loop—Bennett was fine, Bennett was busy, and he would text me back soon.
“I’m just going to go clean up,” Parker announced.
“Help yourself,” I told her, pointing toward the restroom before turning back to the group chat. I had just finished typing out my lengthy explanation for why I preferred rosé when my phone rang.
And this time, it wasn’t a text.
It was Matty’s name flashing across the screen. In the middle of a game? I swiped to answer before the second ring finished.
“Matty?”
His voice came through tight and breathless. “Bella, it’s Bennett.”
The room tilted. The glow from Parker’s facial faded to nothing.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. Heat stroke, maybe? Or an anxiety attack. Team doc is taking him to the hospital just in case.” He lowered his voice before adding, “Bella, he didn’t want me to call, but he needs you. Just please, get to Arizona as soon as you can.”
Anxiety attack. Hospital. Arizona. The words didn’t fit together.
I was already on my feet, racing for the stairs.
“I’m on my way,” I said.