I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)

by Lauren Layne

  Worst of all, Jackson suspected that Mollie knew it. Knew that her sister had only asked her to be maid of honor because it would look bad if she hadn’t. Knew that her sister’s invitations on Christmas and Thanksgiving had come from Jackson. Knew, even, that the invitation to stay with Jackson and Maddie in the gap between undergrad and graduate school had also been Jackson’s idea. An idea that had backfired.

  Not that Jackson regretted it. If he could do it all over again, he would. Much as she had last night, Mollie had insisted on paying rent, even though he’d been making millions at that point.

  But Mollie’s determination to pay her own way hadn’t been the problem. The problem had been that at some point during the year Mollie lived with him and Maddie, Jackson had found himself turning to Mollie when he should have been leaning on Madison.

  When he’d come home from a shitty day at practice, needing to talk, Madison had laughed it off, reminding him of his paycheck, and telling him on more than one occasion to “suck it up.”

  And then there had been Mollie, who’d always known the exact right question to ask, the perfect thing to say to remind him of the reasons he loved the game. Soon he’d found himself seeking her out for everything. Her plucky pragmatism had been a welcome change from Madison’s chronic self-involvement.

  It hadn’t seemed dangerous. Not at first. He’d told himself that connecting with his sister-in-law was a good thing. Harmless.

  But then he’d found himself seeking Mollie’s eyes when Madison had come home from yet another day of shopping, the two of them struggling to keep a straight face as Madison raged about having to wait a full five minutes for the valet to bring her Mercedes around.

  Had found himself preferring the nights when it was just him and Mollie grilling steaks on the patio while Madison was out for a girls’ night, and dreading the fancy black-tie events Madison occasionally dragged him to.

  Despite what the tabloids believed, Jackson had never once cheated on Madison. He’d never even wanted to. Never been tempted. Even when his teammates were hooking up with every available piece of tail, ribbing Jackson for being the old man, Jackson hadn’t touched another woman. Hadn’t looked. Maybe he was old-fashioned, but he had far too much respect for his marriage vows to stray.

  Marrying Madison had been a mistake—he’d figured that out early on. But he’d had no intention of adding infidelity alongside stupidity on his list of flaws.

  The time spent with Mollie hadn’t changed that. It wasn’t as though he’d lusted after her. She’d been twenty-two to his twenty-nine, for chrissake, and had treated him like the big brother that he should have been.

  But his connection with Mollie, however platonic, had been the wake-up call he’d needed to realize that his marriage was seriously broken. The day after he’d dropped Mollie off at the airport on her way to Columbia University (Madison had been getting her nails done) was the day Jackson had contacted a marriage counselor.

  It was also the day Madison had signed a contract for Real Housewives, Sports Wives Edition, despite Jackson’s ardent protests.

  Desperate as he was to fix his marriage, Jackson wanted to do so privately. It had been enough of a stretch for Jackson to consider spilling his guts to a marriage counselor. He sure as fuck hadn’t been about to do it on national television. Not that it had mattered—Madison had refused marriage counseling outright. Anything that would threaten their reputation as America’s golden couple was out of the question.

  So on camera they’d pretended to be what everyone thought they were: two college sweethearts wildly in love. Off camera they’d been, well . . . broken.

  And then they’d splintered. On camera and off.

  Jackson swore and dragged his hands over his face, wishing he could banish all the memories.

  His phone buzzed at his elbow and he glanced down, somehow surprised to see that it was an incoming call from Madison. No doubt she’d sensed him thinking about her and mistakenly assumed they were good thoughts. They were never good thoughts, but that wouldn’t occur to Maddie.

  The phone eventually stopped buzzing, only to buzz once more with the voicemail notification. Jackson reached out a finger and spun his cell phone around on his desk, half hoping it would go crashing to the floor of his office and become unusable. He’d been dodging Madison’s calls ever since getting to New York. He hadn’t gone so far as to block her number—yet. But he’d gotten pretty adept at declining her twice-weekly calls the second they came in. He had nothing to say to her. And absolutely nothing that he wanted to hear from her.

  He shoved his phone in his desk drawer. He’d deal with it later. Jackson turned his attention toward his computer, toward the blinking cursor on a blank white page.

  Word count: zero.

  Jackson’s job security: nil.

  A year ago, Jackson had thought that being a star quarterback was a damn challenging job. The physical wear and tear. The memorization of plays. The constant pressure—not to always be at your best, but to always motivate your teammates to be at their best. Jackson had silently scorned all of his friends with “real jobs,” inwardly mocking their never-ending complaints about HR and micromanaging bosses and the “blue screen of death” on their corporate laptop. How hard could it be to sit at a desk all day and tap stuff on a keyboard?

  Now he had his answer. A desk job was fucking hard. Also miserable.

  Jackson had been staring at that blinking cursor for a good fifteen minutes when someone knocked at his office door. Shit. And it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  He hated interruptions—hated these well-dressed colleagues with their easy confidence and witty repartee who had him feeling helplessly out of place and longing for a beer and a porch swing like some sort of backwoods hick.

  He hated interruptions even more when they came in the form of his boss. His frowning boss.

  Jackson had played for some of the most hotheaded coaches in the NFL, and yet not a single one of them had made Jackson want to squirm in his seat like an underperforming third-grader the way the editor in chief of Oxford did.

  At first glance, Alex Cassidy shouldn’t have been intimidating. Jackson had spent most of his life bench-pressing among the beefiest of linebackers, and Cassidy’s frame was lean by comparison. Cassidy didn’t have tattoos, missing teeth, or even a scowl to be seen. But the man was intimidating as all hell, just by breathing.

  The dude radiated effortless confidence, and it was damn impressive. Plus Jackson couldn’t imagine Cassidy ever loosening his tie, much less taking if off. The man looked like he’d come out of the womb wearing one of those damn perfectly tailored suits. Alex Cassidy was a man who knew what he wanted and never once doubted that he’d get it.

  And a few months ago, what Cassidy had wanted was Jackson Burke as his fitness editor. The man had pursued him hard, and was so skilled in negotiations, Jackson had found himself signing the contract before he’d even registered that he wanted to. Hell, Jackson still wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted to.

  And looking at his boss’s expressionless face, Jackson was damn sure he wasn’t the only one who had regrets.

  “Can I come in?” Cassidy asked, leaning idly against the door jamb.

  Jackson shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “You’re the boss.”

  “Glad you remember that,” Cassidy said, ambling into Jackson’s office and taking a seat.

  Jackson tensed. “Meaning . . .?”

  Cassidy’s smile was humorless. “Meaning you come in late and leave early, and your email response rate is about fifty percent.”

  Jackson kept his features carefully calm, but inwardly he flinched. He’d had his fair share of criticism before, certainly, when tempers were high on the field. But never had the criticism felt quite so rightly deserved. And never had it hit quite so close to home.

  Which made no sense. He didn’t even want this job. He wanted to be playing football, damn it. He didn’t give a shit what Alex Cassidy or any of the rest of the Oxford crew
thought. He just wanted . . .

  Cassidy leaned forward. “I’m going to be straight with you, Burke.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Maybe he was getting fired. It was for the best, but damn—

  “You’re acting like a diva,” Cassidy said. The statement was issued in a matter-of-fact tone that made it all the more inflammatory.

  Jackson’s hand clenched into a fist. “Excuse me?”

  Cassidy gave him a half smile. “It burns, I’m sure. But someone has to call you on this bullshit.”

  Jackson gave a disbelieving laugh. “Screw you, Cassidy.”

  Cassidy didn’t so much as flinch. “Look. You’re miserable. Everyone knows you’re miserable. And believe it or not, I get it. I do.”

  “I doubt it,” Jackson muttered.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Cassidy said in an amused voice, sitting back. “This crap assumption that you’re the only one who’s ever suffered a career change, or an injury, or the treacherous creep of self-doubt.”

  “Hold on, I’m not doubting anything—”

  “I’m not going to pretend that I know what it’s like to have a half dozen Super Bowl rings,” Cassidy continued, as though Jackson hadn’t spoken. “But I do know what it’s like to sit in a doctor’s office and get that kind of news. I know what it does to a man.”

  “Yeah?” Jackson was intrigued in spite of himself.

  Cassidy shrugged. “I played soccer in college. Was considered a sure thing for the World Cup team. Thought I had it made. The next Beckham. Then, bam—one bad slide on already bad knees . . . it’s all over, you know?”

  Jackson grunted. “I know.”

  Cassidy leaned forward again, his green eyes earnest. “I did the pity party. I mean, I hid it better than you, definitely, but then I guess I lost less too. Still, a little part of me was dead inside, so I get it, Burke. I understand where you’re at.”

  “Why do I get the feeling a but is coming?”

  “Because you’re smart and you know what I’m going to say next—that you’re better than this.”

  “Am I?” Jackson asked, more to himself than Cassidy. “Because being a journalism major more than a decade ago doesn’t mean shit. And we both know the reason you had a burr up your ass to hire me was my celebrity status, not because I’m destined for a Pulitzer.”

  “Absolutely true,” Cassidy said, surprising Jackson with his honesty. “Having a household name on my staff in order to gain more readers was exactly my goal when I first approached you. But know this: you wouldn’t have gotten so much as an interview if the writing samples you submitted hadn’t been top-notch.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Cassidy dropped his head for a second in exasperation. “This is what I’m talking about, Burke. Your shitty attitude is getting on my last nerve.”

  “So just fire me already,” Jackson said, raising his voice. “I think everyone would agree that it’s not working out. I’m not cut out for this. Not the suit, not the high-rise office, not this fucking city or your preppy minions—”

  “Enough.” Cassidy’s voice was quiet, and all the more impactful because of it. “You want to insult yourself, go for it, but leave the men and women of Oxford out of it.”

  Jackson exhaled, trying to dodge the guilt that assailed him. Cassidy was right. So far, everyone he’d encountered had been perfectly nice. Had given him space. Hadn’t snapped pictures or asked for his autograph. Sure, Penelope Pope sometimes stared at him a moment too long, but it was with the admiration of a true sports fan, not a gawker.

  “Here’s the deal,” Cassidy continued. “I’m not going to fire your ass, although it’s tempting when you sit there and glower at me like a spoiled princess. Your writing’s good, and you deliver it on time. But Burke, no more lone wolf. You of all people know the importance of a team, and this—Oxford—is a team.”

  Jackson gave a rueful smile, because Cassidy was speaking a language he understood. “And you’re the captain.”

  “Damn straight. If you can’t handle that, then by all means let’s work out a transition plan to hire a replacement. But I do want you here, Burke. I think you’ll fit in if you give us a chance.”

  “So, what—you want me to hang out by the watercooler? Bring cupcakes on the copyeditor’s birthday?”

  “How about we start small? Ask someone to lunch. Say yes when one of the guys asks you out for a beer after work. Join the softball team.”

  “I don’t play softball,” Jackson spat.

  “Well, maybe you should start, because you’re not playing football again, Burke.”

  Jackson felt a flash of resentment so sharp he nearly stood up. He settled for clenching his fist again. Imagined driving it into Cassidy’s pretty-boy face . . .

  “I know,” Cassidy said, all the more annoying for the straightforward kindness. “Trust me, I know how that feels. But the sooner you accept it, the sooner you get comfortable with it, the sooner you can move on with your life.”

  Jackson slowly unclenched his fist. Clenched it again. “We done here?”

  Cassidy stood. “Yeah. We’re done. And since you didn’t take notes, I’ll recap. Quit being a diva. Get over yourself. And for God’s sake, quit being such an antisocial loner before you end up lonely.”

  With that, Jackson’s boss turned and walked out of the office, not bothering with so much as a backward glance. The door closed with a final click, an audible reminder that Jackson was the only one who kept his office door closed all the time. Jackson knew he should stand and open it—a gesture of goodwill indicating that he’d heard what his boss had said about being a team player and was making an effort.

  He just . . .

  He wasn’t ready yet.

  Cassidy might understand the pain of saying goodbye to your dream career because your body wasn’t cooperating, but what Cassidy didn’t seem to understand was that Jackson Burke didn’t know how to be anyone other than Jackson Burke, football player.

  Even his own parents, God love ’em, had recognized Jackson’s skill on the football field at an early age and nurtured the hell out of it. Family dinners had been 20 percent “How was math class?” and 80 percent “What happened with that interception?”

  Same went for his social group back in Houston. His friends were either football players or football fans. If Jackson hadn’t been playing football, he’d been watching football; if he hadn’t been watching football, he’d been talking about it.

  Even Madison, although not a football fan at the start of their relationship, had been focused on football, or at least the business aspect: when he was going to sign a new contract, and for how much, and had he decided which brewery he was going to be a spokesperson for, and how much would that pay?

  It wasn’t that Jackson didn’t want to make friends with these Oxford guys. If he was totally honest, he was a little sick of his own company. A little bit jealous of the groups that went out for lunch on Fridays, no longer bothering to invite him after nonstop rejections.

  What if they only wanted to talk about the accident and the Super Bowl and it was like pouring salt in the wound all over again?

  Or, worse, what if they wanted to talk about something else and realized that he had nothing to say? That he was an empty shell of a man whose own wife had been so desperate to escape his company that she’d invented a whole motherlode of lies that had spread through the media like toxic rain?

  He closed his eyes, just for a minute, feeling heavy with the pressure of it all.

  Jackson knew his life was nothing to be pissy about. He was a millionaire, for God’s sake. He had a penthouse. Could afford to go anywhere he wanted, whenever he wanted, on a fucking private jet. He could have women with the snap of a finger, a toothbrush made out of gold, a whole fleet of the most expensive cars on the market. He could have anything.

  Except the one thing he wanted: football.

  Unless . . .

  Jackson pulled out his cell phone from the desk drawer and hesitated
only a second before making the call.

  He got voicemail. Jackson cleared his throat and waited for the beep.

  “Yeah, Jerry, hi,” Jackson said, running a hand over the back of his neck as he left a message. “It’s Burke. Just wanted to know if you’ve had a chance to think over that assistant coach proposal. I’d be damn good at it. You know I would. I just . . . Call me.”

  Jackson hung up the phone but didn’t set it down. Held it, staring at the screen, willing the head coach of the Texas Redhawks to call him back.

  Although for the first time it occurred to Jackson that if his old life came calling, it would mean saying goodbye to his new life.

  A new life that, if he played his cards right, just might involve Mollie.

  Chapter 6

  “I seriously can’t believe you’re doing this,” Madison whined into the phone.

  Maybe you could seriously believe it if you’d bothered to pick up one of my phone calls before now, Mollie wanted to retort.

  She tucked her cell between her chin and shoulder as she used both arms to scoop out the contents of her underwear drawer, dropping a smattering of thongs before plunking her undergarments into a moving box.

  “I know it’s weird, Mad, but it’s only for a couple of months, until I find something else.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “Well, I would have,” Mollie explained patiently, “except the last time I even mentioned Jackson’s name, you got pissed and told me not to say his name to you because it was interfering with your new life.”

  A new life that involved Madison’s boyfriend moving into Jackson’s house. That was still a hard one for Mollie to swallow. Bad enough that Maddie had left Jackson for another man. But to bring him into the bedroom she had shared with Jackson just seemed wrong.

  Then again, Mollie moving in with her ex-brother-in-law wasn’t exactly right either.

  And yet Mollie couldn’t bring herself to regret saying yes. Not only because it was probably the one and only time she’d ever set foot in a penthouse, but because Jackson had somehow seemed so very alone.