I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)(53)

He stared at her. “A chance for what?”

She licked her lips nervously. “A chance for us.”

Hell. He couldn’t say he was surprised. He’d known on some level that this was coming. But hearing it out loud he felt…nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Your new guy dump you?” he asked.

She ignored the question. “I love you, Jackson. I’ve always loved you. And you love me.”

“So far from it, Maddie.”

“I think you’re wrong,” she said quietly. “We’ve both made mistakes, but doesn’t every couple? Doesn’t every love story go through a rough patch?”

“A rough patch?” he asked incredulously. “You slept with my best friend and God knows how many others. Then when you got caught, you tried to dodge that scandal by making up a different one. You told the media I was the one having an affair. Dozens of them.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare lie to me about this. Everyone from your sister to my own mother thought I might have been having an affair. Do you have any idea what that does to a man?”

“But—”

He leaned forward, giving vent to some of his anger. “You wanted to talk, let’s talk. Here’s something I’ve always wanted to know: how is it that the very same women you named came forward and confessed to an affair? Women I’d never heard of, much less met. Much less f*cked.”

She swallowed.

“Did you pay them, Maddie? Did you pay women to say they’d slept with me?”

She didn’t answer, but to her credit, she didn’t look away, and he knew he was right.

“Fuck,” he breathed slowly. On some level he’d always known that was how it had gone down. It was the only explanation. And yet having her all but confirm it…“You hate me that much?”

“No,” she said, scooting to the edge of her chair and putting her hand out toward him before letting it drop to her lap. “I made a mistake. A horrible mistake. And I am sorry, so sorry—you have no idea. But I panicked. You were pulling away, our marriage was falling apart.”

“I was pulling away?” he asked. “When? After I saw you sucking my best friend’s dick?”

She winced. “No, before that. You were always busy, and you only cared about football. And then you’d get home and be distracted. It got better for a while when I had the show—”

“God,” he muttered. “Not that f*cking show.”

“That show was the only thing that made me happy!”

He stared at her. It shouldn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt. And yet…“Jesus, Mad.”

“You know what I mean,” she snapped. “At least then I could be someone other than Jackson Burke’s wife.”

“You were only on the show because you were Jackson Burke’s wife! The show was literally about being the wife of a famous athlete.”

“I didn’t come here to fight,” she said, pressing her lips together.

“I know. You came here to get me back, and I’m trying over and over to tell you that it’s not happening.”

She glanced down at her lap. “You’re not blameless in all of this, Jackson. The man that I agreed to marry—he was a football star, yes, but he was also my friend. He was a man as well as an athlete. But then you quit seeing me.”

Jackson itched to call bullshit. Madison had always been skilled at playing the victim card, and he was sick of it. And yet…

In this, at least, there was a sting of truth to her words.

He wasn’t taking blame for her actions. Not for the affairs or the lies or the way she’d served him papers while he was in the hospital. But Jackson was man enough to admit that she was right about him being self-absorbed toward the end.

“Fuck,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s too late for all of this, Mad.”

“Why?”

Because I think I might be falling for your sister. “That part of my life is done,” he said quietly.

“What if it doesn’t have to be?”

“What?”

Her eyes dropped to his shoulder. “You may not be able to play, but you can still be a part of that world. You’d be a fantastic coach.”

Jackson froze. How had she known? How, of all the people in his life, could it be his ex-wife who was able to zero in on his deepest, most gut-wrenching desire? He hadn’t told a soul about the possibility of going back to the Redhawks as a coach. Not his parents. Not his former teammates. He’d even gone around his agent.

He hadn’t told Mollie. He couldn’t tell Mollie. He couldn’t possibly tell the woman he’d practically begged to give him a chance that he checked his personal email account twenty times a day in hopes that his old coach would give him the green light. That he lived in fear he’d never set foot on a field again—and was hoping against hope that he would.

But Madison…Madison knew.

And suddenly he was desperate to talk to someone about it. Anyone.

Even her.

“I’m trying to be,” he said gruffly.

Her nose wrinkled. “Trying to be what?”

“A coach.”