“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.