I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2) (5 page)

When Jackson had first seen Madison Carrington, he’d thought her the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

He’d been a senior in college, and as starting quarterback, he’d been the big man on the Texas State campus. He’d dated whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. And he wanted to—often.

Madison had been a senior too, but not part of the football groupie crowd. A quiet English major with a perfect GPA, Madison was about as far from the usual girls he dated as it was possible to get.

In fact, the first time he’d worked up the courage to talk to her, the pretty brunette had confessed she’d never even
been
to a football game. And then she turned down his invitation to dinner. Multiple times. No matter how nicely he asked, no matter how extravagant the floral arrangement, she’d politely refused to go out with him.

And Jackson had fallen. Hard.

His friends had tried to tell him that it was a classic case of wanting what he couldn’t have—had warned him not to fall for the girl who played hard to get.

But Jackson had been determined, and halfway in love. Or at least lust.

Madison with her dark ponytail, wide blue eyes, and shy smile had reeled him in one rejection at a time. And by the time the rejection had finally—
finally
—turned into a yes, Jackson had been so relieved, his heart maybe a little bit weary, that he didn’t think to look for any warning signs. Didn’t think to look for anything other than another date and then another, until suddenly college was over.

Jackson had gotten the girl.

And Madison had gotten herself a number one draft pick.

It would be years later before Jackson realized maybe that’s what she’d been all along, and she’d played him brilliantly. Years before he finally acknowledged that the girl he’d fallen in love with had been a mirage—a perfectly crafted shell designed to be everything he wanted on the outside.

And completely rotten on the inside.

Interestingly, it hadn’t been Madison’s treatment of him that had awakened him to the woman beneath the sweet smiles. It had been the way she’d treated her sister.

For whatever reasons—sibling dynamics, perhaps—it had been Mollie who’d brought out Madison’s true colors. Sure, on the outside she’d been all doting sister and tolerant saint to Mollie’s sometimes quirky “outsider” ways, but by the time he and Maddie had gotten engaged, the veneer had started to chip. He’d gotten glimpses of how Madison
really
felt about the younger sister she’d had to help raise.

Resentment
.

Resentment that she’d had to move home her junior year of college to care for Mollie rather than live near campus with her friends. Resentment that Mollie wasn’t a “normal” kid who was content to hang out at the mall on Saturday afternoons, and instead wanted to go to museums and music performances and bookstores.

Their mother had died just a year before Jackson met Maddie—a lethal drug and alcohol overdose that Madison had claimed surprised no one except Mollie, who’d been thirteen when she’d come home from school and found her mother dead at the kitchen table.

Jackson would give his ex-wife credit: she’d stepped up to the plate. Madison had moved home and played the role of mom as best she could at the age of twenty.

But the more time he’d spent with the two sisters, the more Madison’s resentment seeped through, and the more he’d realized that Madison’s love for her sister was obligatory. Hell, sometimes he wondered if the word “
love”
even applied at all.

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.”