The Seduction of Dylan Acosta

by Nia Forrester

  “Christ Dylan. I’m all for the ‘I-am-woman-hear-me-roar’ bit, but was that really a battle worth fighting? If he was that uncomfortable with it, and you two had already settled that he didn’t want you around this guy . . .”

  “You didn’t hear the way he was speaking to me, Ava. Like I was a kid; like I was his kid. I couldn’t just give in. And he doesn’t even have a clear reason . . .”

  At this Ava’s eyebrows shot up. “Have you seen the way Ray Hernandez looks at you? The way you look at him?”

  Dylan blushed. “That means nothing. It’s like meeting a movie star or something. It’s all stupid, meaningless . . .”

  “Well apparently not so meaningless,” Ava pointed out, holding up the iPad. “And here’s the photographic evidence to prove it.”

  “But Mark has to know that . . .”

  “What did he say when you came back from Palm Springs? When you guys drove down to Philly?”

  “Not much. He was still too angry. I said I was sorry, and . . .”

  And that it was stupid and boring. And she hadn’t mentioned a word about spending time alone with Ray Hernandez.

  “What?” Ava asked.

  “He’s going to think I lied to him,” Dylan said, her voice lifeless.

  “Did you?”

  “No! I didn’t mention this because it all seemed so inconsequential. So I spent fifteen minutes alone in Ray’s company, so what?”

  “This is so what. People take pictures. They make up stories. They spread rumors and innuendo. You can’t have been so naïve Dylan, could you?” Ava asked.

  “You’re not making me feel better,” Dylan groaned, falling back against the pillows.

  “Well, I’ll work on that,” Ava said wryly, “but honestly, right now, I don’t know how.”

  She spent the afternoon in bed, drifting in and out of a restless sleep, not wanting to get up for any reason. By the time she relented to Ava’s insistence that she at least shower it was well after five p.m. and the Phillies-Mets game had begun. There was no point watching it from beginning to end, but Dylan found that she was unable to resist checking in. The commentators were, thankfully, sticking to discussing the game. There was no mention of the interpersonal drama swirling about the Mets’ two star players.

  Sometime in the fifth inning, there was a shot of Mark in the dugout, sitting with his knees wide apart, his elbows on them, the brim of his cap low and obstructing his face. From the set of his mouth, Dylan could tell he was concentrating, but on what, she couldn’t even hazard a guess. While she wanted him to play well, there was a part of her that hoped he hadn’t been able to completely erase her from his thoughts, not even for the sake of baseball.

  “Watching baseball is almost exactly like watching paint dry,” Ava said as she entered the master suite, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  She grabbed the remote control off the bed and changed the channel to a reality television show that seemed to consist of women in cocktail wear screaming expletives at each other.

  “Gee, thanks,” Dylan said dryly. “This is way less stressful.”

  “Well at least you get to watch people whose lives are much sadder than yours at the moment.” She handed Dylan a glass of wine which she happily took.

  “I’m making us salmon for dinner,” Ava continued. “Which we’re going to eat at a table like civilized human beings.”

  Dylan said, sitting up in bed and taking a sip of her wine, grateful suddenly for her Ava, to whom she hadn’t always been the best friend these last several months. “I haven’t asked you a thing about how things are going with Max.”

  Ava sprawled next to her, facing the television and away from Dylan. “Which is just as well since things aren’t going with Max.”

  “Ava, I’m sorry . . .”

  “You’ll be happy to know that you were right. He isn’t divorced because he doesn’t really want to be.”

  Dylan reached out and touched her friend’s leg. “No. I’m not happy to know that I was right,” she said. “I just wish you would . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, grow up. I know.”

  “No. I wasn’t about to say that at all. I was about to say that I wish you would choose someone who’s worthy of you.”

  Ava looked over her shoulder and gave Dylan a small smile. “I wish I knew what that means,” she said sadly.

  Dinner was eaten at the dining table after all. The enormous formal dining room was a stunning space and one in which Dylan and Mark had never eaten, even when his family was over. It boasted a table that could comfortably seat thirty people and was flanked by French doors leading out onto a patio with an outdoor brick oven and grill. When she and Mark had first toured the house, he had been particularly excited by that feature, imagining summer evenings when he, his father and his brothers would grill for the family and throw open the French doors to catch the breeze.

  As Dylan picked through her salmon, Ava at her right, she thought about that, and about how all of those memories they had yet to make were now under threat. This was by far the most serious obstacle she and Mark had faced to date, and she had nothing to go on, no way of knowing how it might affect them, because their relationship was still so new. But she could hazard a guess.

  “I know what he’s thinking,” she said to Ava now.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mark. He’s thinking that he doesn’t know me. He’s wondering whether he does, or whether I would do what it looks like I did.”

  Ava touched her hand. “I don’t think he’s thinking that Dylan. Don’t get yourself tied up in knots guessing. When this series is over he’ll be home. And you can talk to him, and hear firsthand what he’s thinking.”

  Dylan laughed harshly. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “Dylan, wake up!”

  Dylan groaned and turned over, moving away from Ava who was next to her in the large master bed. They had been watching the game when she’d finally drifted off, convinced that there was nothing to see.

  “Wake up!” Ava kicked her in the shin.

  Dylan sat up and blinked to clear her vision. “What is it?”

  The sportscast was on and the announcer was sounding animated, though it took a few moments

  for the words he was saying to penetrate Dylan’s sleep-clogged mind.

  “. . .appears—at least according to reports we’ve been hearing—to have been initiated by Mark

  Acosta. And we don’t like to speculate but ahm, there have been press reports of late about a possible

  personal relationship between Mark Acosta’s wife and Mets star player Ray Hernandez.” The

  sportscaster paused as though regretful that he had to report on something so distasteful. “And again,

  we have no information at this time to confirm what may have precipitated this incident but what we

  do know is that there was an altercation in the Mets locker room immediately following the game,

  during which we are told Mark Acosta—and this is the quote we are getting—‘rained several blows’

  onto his teammate Ray Hernandez. We’re of course following this story closely but expect that the

  Mets organization and MLB will be responding shortly.”

  Dylan thought she could hear a roar in her ears and her body went completely cold. She wrapped

  her arms about herself and turned to look at Ava, trying to formulate something to say. Ava, seeing

  something in her face that obviously caused her concern immediately turned off the television. “What are you doing?” Dylan screamed at her, lurching for the remote.

  Ava held it out of her reach. “Dylan,” she said quietly. “This isn’t happening on television. It’s

  happening in real life. Your life. You need to call your husband.”

  Dylan nodded dumbly and felt the sudden hot tears streaming down her face. She wasn’t sobbing

  or making the noises of a cry, so it felt like she was bleeding. She wiped her face wi
th the back of a

  hand and grappled by the bedside for her phone. With shaking hands, she dialed Mark’s number. It

  rang several times and went to voicemail, and when she called again, someone picked up but said

  nothing.

  “Mark,” she said, her voice breaking. “Mark . . .”

  “It’s Corey, Dylan.”

  “Corey, let me talk to him,” she said. Now the sobbing had begun in earnest, just knowing that

  she might hear his voice, that he was within reach in some small way was both painful and a relief. “He can’t right now, Dylan,” Corey said, sounding angry.

  “Why? Is he hurt?”

  “No. Look, he’ll be on his way back to New York tonight, okay? But he can’t come to the phone

  right now.”

  “Corey, let me speak to my husband!”

  “Dylan,” Corey said. “I’m sorry, but he just doesn’t want to speak to you.”

  And then the line went dead.

  Dylan looked at the phone, wondering why she would be surprised. Of course he didn’t want to

  speak to her. Now, because of her, not only his personal life but his professional life might be in

  shambles.

  Mark Acosta was not this kind of professional athlete; everyone knew that. He was one of the

  steady and mature, the guy who didn’t bring anything to the game except the game. And she had

  ruined that. Now he was just another hothead with a tawdry personal life.

  Ava looked at her, her face pale. Dylan didn’t need to say anything. It was obvious what had

  happened. Looking as frightened as Dylan felt, Ava opened her arms and Dylan went to her, crying

  quietly into her shoulder.

  But there was only so much crying she could do. Though Ava held her until she was done, the

  unpleasant facts still remained once the tears were all shed. She lay on her side, her head in Ava’s lap,

  ignoring the phone that had begun to ring. Somehow, she knew that it was not Mark, though Ava

  leaned over to check the caller id just in case.

  “Do you want me to unplug it?”

  “No! Mark might . . .”

  “Okay. We’ll just keep checking it.”

  It rang on and off for the next several hours until Ava fell asleep. Next to her Dylan could only

  stare into the dark, wondering whether her marriage was over.

  Morning didn’t look much better than the previous evening had. Dylan knew she had fallen

  asleep again only because when she opened her eyes, Ava wasn’t next to her. She rolled out of bed

  and took a hot shower, dressing in jeans and a long gray sweatshirt that fell almost to her knees. It was

  one of her favorites because it was Mark’s and was so well-worn that it felt as comforting as a hug. When she emerged from the bathroom, Ava was back, and had brought with her a tray with

  coffee and a bagel. Dylan looked at both and shook her head, climbing back into bed. The shower felt

  like about all she would be able to manage in terms of activity for the day. And she definitely

  wouldn’t be able to get down anything to eat or drink.

  “Under normal circumstances,” Ava said, putting the tray aside, “I would be happy to encourage

  your pity party. Hell, I might even join you. But Dylan, you can’t. Not this time.”

  Dylan looked at her, almost angry, prepared to argue. How the hell could she not feel like shit? In case

  Ava hadn’t noticed, her life was falling apart around her.

  “Mark might not want you around right now, but he needs you to be there anyway. You need to

  get over yourself for a moment and find him.”

  Dylan said nothing. She was usually the one doling out advice, but maybe Ava was right. “He doesn’t know anything, Dylan. You know you didn’t mess around with Ray Hernandez but

  he doesn’t. Maybe even his family doesn’t. How do you think it looks that you’re not answering your

  phone, won’t see anyone . . .”

  Ava was right. Wherever Mark was, he had to be feeling confused, angry, and maybe even scared.

  For him to have lost his temper and actually hit Ray . . . she couldn’t even picture it. Mark, who was

  the very picture of self-control and poise. Even when he suspected Ray of flirting with her he had been

  unfailingly polite, a perfect gentleman

  “I have no idea where he might . . .”

  But that wasn’t true. He could only be in one of two places. At his parents’ house, or the condo in

  the city. She could find him if she wanted to; if she was brave enough to face him.

  “I want to check the news first,” Dylan said, clearing her throat. She was hoarse from all the crying

  the previous evening, but what Ava said had galvanized her. She at least had a plan of action now.

  Find Mark. The rest she would figure out once she had.

  Ava found the iPad and turned it on, while Dylan switched on the television and found New York

  1. There was a lot of news about a potential strike of sanitation workers, some other local spots and

  then the ticker tape ran across the bottom of the screen.

  “A press conference,” Dylan said, feeling a profound sense of dread. “In half an hour.” “That’s what it says online as well,” Ava said. “Mark’s going to speak to the press.” “Oh my god . . .” Dylan wrapped her arms about her abdomen. “What do you think happened?” “Maybe you could call his parents. I’m sure he would have called them.”

  “I don’t think I could stand to speak to them right now,” Dylan said. “They must hate me.” “Dylan, I’m sure they don’t. They’ve been calling all night.”

  “Maybe so they can tell me how much they hate me.” Dylan felt the tears coming again. She loved

  Mark’s parents, and his brothers. And Miri. God, especially Miri.

  “I could call Miri,” she said, straightening up. “She’ll know what’s going on. And she’ll . . .” “So call her,” Ava urged. “I don’t think I can last the half hour to Mark comes on either. This is

  excruciating.”

  Dylan sighed and picked up her phone, dialing the number and waiting tensely through the

  ringing. Finally, there was Miri’s voice. But she was keeping it low.

  “Give me a moment,” she said. Dylan heard sounds like she was walking away from a television

  and conversation in the background, and then the shutting of a door.

  “Miri, are you there?”

  “Dylan! We’ve been calling and calling!”

  “I know. I’ve . . .”

  “It isn’t true, is it?” Miri asked, her voice both hopeful and accusatory.

  “No, Miri, of course it isn’t. I love your brother more than anything. It isn’t at all what it looks

  like.”

  “It looks pretty bad, Dylan.”

  “I know,” Dylan said forcefully, surprised at the strength of her own voice. But it was important

  that Miri and the Acostas believe her. She could not equivocate with them. “And I have to answer to

  Mark for that before I answer to anyone else. But I did not kiss Ray Hernandez, I am not having a

  relationship of any kind with Ray Hernandez and anyone who says any different is a liar.” Miri sighed audibly. “I’ve been saying that for the last couple of days. Peter is pretty pissed at you.

  Matt is a little bit too but I think he believes it’s probably a misunderstanding.”

  “And your parents?”

  “They just don’t understand why you wouldn’t come here. You should come over, Dylan.” “I’m going to. But I need to find Mark.”

  “He’s on his way here,” Miri said.

  It was Dylan’s time to sigh. “Oh good. Do you know when?”

  “As soon as this press conference is over with.”

 
“Did you talk to him? Do you know what happened?”

  “No, my father talked to him. It’s what they said; he beat the crap out of Ray Hernandez.” “And what’s the press conference . . ?”

  “That we don’t know. He wouldn’t say. I’m not sure he knew completely . . .”

  “Look, someone’s coming on now . . .” Ava said from behind her.

  “Miri, I’ll call you back,” Dylan said. “Something’s happening.”

  Dylan hung up and turned her attention to television where a man she didn’t recognize was at the

  podium. He looked down and read from what appeared to be a prepared statement. “This morning, Major League Baseball and the New York Metropolitans reached an agreement

  which will result in the suspension of New York Mets player Mark Acosta for an altercation that

  occurred last night involving his teammate, Ray Hernandez. Mr. Hernandez will not be suspended as

  we have determined after speaking with several witnesses—including Mr. Acosta himself—that the

  incident was unprovoked.

  “As a general matter, the league joins the Mets in their expectation that its players uphold not only

  the rules of the game, but comport themselves with the utmost of respect for teammates and members

  of opposing teams. Mr. Acosta did not meet that standard last night. His suspension will commence

  immediately, and will be for ten games. That concludes my statement. A printed copy is available, and

  I’ll take your questions now.”

  There was a flurry of reporters all speaking at once. Dylan grimaced and let her head drop. Ten

  games. This was the start of Mark’s career in the Majors and he was being suspended. His rookie

  season would be tarnished and his stats would take a serious hit because of this. And it was all her fault. And now she was going to have to face his family. She thought of how proud his parents had been when they went with him to the Dominican Republic, and of all the people in his neighborhood

  who had come out to celebrate his signing with the Mets.

  “Was anyone injured during the fight?” a reporter asked.

  “There were minor injuries to both men,” came the answer.

  “Game-threatening injuries?” someone else called out.

  “We feel the game was threatened by virtue of the dispute and certainly the Mets will be deprived