I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)(14)
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.”