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?”