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  To everyone who needs a cheerleader, a strong arm, or an open heart every now and again.

  And to Yoni, for always being all three.

  Chapter One

  -AMBER-

  Ready, steady, go!

  I’ve heard those words so many times they’ve practically lost all meaning. But then again, I’m always ready and always steady. They’re requirements for an Atherton cheerleader, and that goes quintuple for an Atherton cheerleader with aspirations of getting a captain’s C on her sweater.

  This year, those words will be coming out of Crystal Miller’s lips every practice. Last year, they came out of Jamie Rhodes’s. The year before that? Tia Ferrera’s. And next year, unless I do something utterly egregious, like light a match within fifty feet of Sara Copeley’s hair spray nest, they’ll be coming out of mine.

  I crushed it at cheer camp this summer. The new tennis shoes I used all my birthday money on are so clean, you could lick the morning dew off ’em. (And I can name at least three football players who’d do it on a dare, too.) I’m one of the only two cheerleaders (the other being my best friend, Cara) who’s been on varsity since freshman year, and still I’ve watched videos of the routines at least once a day on my (refurbished, shhh) iPhone.

  It’s my first day as an official junior, the year everyone will be scrutinizing me to see if I have what it takes to be captain next year, and this feels like a test I’ve been studying for my entire life. (Honestly, the only one, some weeks.) Especially because, according to Crystal, she’s got big news.

  I instinctively double-check every inch of my body to make sure I’m in compliance with the squad’s No Jewelry rules, even though I know I have practice prep down to a science, and yank my long chestnut ponytail extra tight.

  A quick glance in the mirror reveals that I look like a flatter version of brunette Cheerleader Barbie, and that’s exactly how it should be.

  “Ammo!” A screech way too loud to come from such a tiny body breaks into my self-reflection. “Amber, come on. We’re gonna be late.”

  “I know Cara Whelan, Our Lady of Perpetual Tardiness, is not calling me out on matters of punctuality,” I shoot back, but I jog after her, because she’s right and because being my best friend means she’s genuinely watching out for me.

  Probably.

  Anyway, Cara is the squad’s smallest and highest-flying member, which means she can get away with pretty much anything. If she were remotely capable of organizing a damn thing, I’d be worried about her as competition for captain, but Cara readily admits she’d be a disaster at the job, if her parents would even let her do it. (Spoiler: Pastor and Mrs. Whelan absolutely would not let her do it.)

  We pile into the gym, and though most of us have been seeing one another all summer between cheer camp, shrimp boils, and road trips to the beach and Wakulla Springs, we fall on top of one another like it’s been centuries. “Your hair looks amazing!” I tell Ella Chow, who apparently chopped off about six inches since having us over for a barbecue last week. “I can’t believe you didn’t post a pic immediately.”

  “The surprise is so much better,” she says with a grin, twirling around while her cousin Virany whistles. “Of course, I just did it yesterday, since there was no way I was keeping it from y’all for more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Speaking of keeping things quiet,” Claire Marlow says with a pointed look at Taylor Broussard, who immediately blushes while everyone else laughs. Taylor and her boyfriend, Matt Devlin, captain of the Alligators, weren’t exactly private about hooking up at Diana Rivera’s pool party a few days ago.

  “Ahem.” It isn’t even that loud, but at the sound of Coach Armstrong clearing her throat, we snap to attention. “Welcome back, girls. Sounds like y’all had a fun summer. But I hope everyone watched the videos I emailed and y’all kept up your conditioning around all that partying. You made me proud at camp, and now it’s time to outperform yourselves. As y’all may have heard, there’s some big news today. Miller asked to be the one to tell y’all, and I think she’s earned it.” She gestures at Crystal, who flashes a bright white smile as she faces us.

  “Just please tell me we’re gonna get outside today,” Diana begs. “It’s actually halfway nice out.”

  I’d been hoping for the same thing, so I’m glad one of the seniors speaks up. While the Panhandle isn’t nearly as gross as South Florida during the rest of the year, August is like living in a sweaty gym sock. If we have to come in before school to practice today, the least we can do is take advantage of the fact that we’re only at about 80 percent humidity.

  “We’ll go out soon,” Crystal promises, smoothing down her already perfectly pressed black ponytail, “but first, we need to have a private team meeting.” The way she says it sends a little shiver down to my toes, and I throw up a prayer that she isn’t announcing she’s transferring. She’ll recommend me for captain for next year, I’m sure, but if she left early and someone else (her BFF, Nia Johnson, almost definitely) took her spot, who knows what would happen?

  Okay, I’m getting paranoid. I need to stop getting paranoid.

  “Well?” Zoe Remini asks when Crystal has drawn out more than enough suspense.

  Crystal huffs at her, as if her entire dramatic delivery has been ruined. “Well, as we all know, it’s been two months since Robbie’s, um, since Robbie.” A somber mood settles over the squad at the reminder of Robbie Oakes’s fatal car crash at the beginning of the summer, and even tough-as-nails Crystal can’t hide how Atherton’s still feeling the loss in more ways than one. But she presses on, captainly to the core. “And the Alligators’ attempts at a replacement haven’t exactly been cutting it.”

  That’s an understatement. We’ve all been watching the football team’s unofficial summer practices and pickup games at the park, especially since the backup quarterback, Drew Henley, up and moved without a word to anyone the week after Robbie died. Now everything rests on Tim Duggan, and everyone knows his throwing arm works for about three passes before it descends into limp noodle state.

  Robbie wasn’t exactly a superstar—the Alligators haven’t had a winning season since … ever—but at least he had endurance. And though the Spring Showcase game—Robbie’s last before hitting a tree with a blood alcohol level of twice the legal limit—proved that this coming fall wasn’t gonna be the season they finally made the playoffs either, news (and blooper videos) of Tim’s particularly atrocious performance at their week of two-a-days has been making the rounds.

  “So, what’s happening?” Sara Copeley asks, because the girl has the patience of a mosquito.

  “Sundstrom found a new quarterback at football camp.” Crystal smiles, her pride at having the scoop before anyone else glaringly obvious. “From Butler. He starts today.”

  The entire room erupts.

  “Is he hot?”

  “Is he single?”

  “What’s his name?”


  I let the voices wash over me as I pick at my laces. New guys don’t exactly get me excited any more than old ones, if you know what I mean. Even if I was interested, the quarterback is automatically the captain’s domain; the other girls only have a chance if Crystal decides she doesn’t want him. And Crystal’s been single and horny (she’s a good church girl, but we all know) ever since her boyfriend moved up to Virginia for college, so if the new guy is even a little hot, it’s hands-off for the rest of us.

  Besides, this is about more than just a guy—this is a whole shifting dynamic. How’s it gonna work, having someone new? How’s someone gonna join without having sweated it out with Matt Devlin, Dan Sanchez, and the rest of them all summer? And how the hell is this the first I’m hearing about it? What’s the point of having a boyfriend on the football team if he’s not gonna pass along insider info?

  Okay, so Miguel Santiago isn’t exactly my real boyfriend, but he’s still in big trouble.

  “His name is Jack Walsh. Isn’t that cute?” says Crystal, and the other girls agree that it is. “Anyway, that’s all the info I have for now; the team’s been really tight-lipped about it. But this is where y’all come in. We’ve gotta do up Jack’s locker just like we did the rest of them. Official Atherton welcome. Even if we don’t have time to make cookies at home. Let’s just split up and do what we can to make sure Jack Walsh is very happy here.”

  So, this is how I get to prove myself today—not with my splits or lifts or even my lungs, but with my impeccable puffy paint skills. No problem. My puffy paint skills are second to none. Whatever my squad needs.

  Gooooo Alligators!

  * * *

  We end up staying in the gym for the entire practice, and by the time I drag my butt to first period, I’m cranky from lack of my usual Monday morning endorphins. Apparently, it shows on my face, because Austin Barrett promptly looks over at me and says, “Hey, Ammo. I’d ask how your summer was, but, uh, looks like your morning’s been a little rough. You okay?”

  “You look like crap too, Barrett.”

  He laughs. I’d be more pissed, but Austin hasn’t exactly made it a secret he thinks I’m hot, and an extra bit of sleepiness in my eyes or whatever isn’t going to make that go away. Not that I’d mind if it did.

  “Ever the sweetheart. You okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I like Austin—something I feel lucky to say about a guy I’ve turned down at least twice—but rare is the nonathlete who understands the necessity of my active morning routine. “Just tired.”

  “You don’t look it,” he says seriously.

  “Too late, bro.”

  “Damn it.” He grins. “I tried.”

  I return the smile, then go back to pulling my books out of my bag. I like Austin, but he likes me, which is reason number one jillion for Miguel’s and my little fauxmance. Austin is such a sweetheart that sometimes I get tempted to slip in the truthier truth behind it all, but that would be a really, really bad idea. For so many reasons.

  “Who’s that?”

  I look up at the sound of Austin’s hushed voice and see a girl I don’t recognize stop in the doorway and glance around the room. “No clue,” I whisper, scanning the solidly built newcomer from head to toe. Her dirty-blond hair, still wet from a shower, is pulled back into a tight knot on top of her head, and she’s wearing a sleeveless hooded shirt layered over a tank top that shows off ridiculous arms—the girl’s got guns. There’s no other word for ’em. I’m a base, and I’ve got pretty strong arms myself, but she looks like she could throw me in the air with one hand and send me flying higher than Cara.

  I’m pretty used to the heat after living here for sixteen years, but I suddenly feel the need to fan myself.

  With the addition of her and the new QB, that makes two new kids joining our small class in one year, which is definitely not typical. But if the Walshes moved here for Jack to play ball, I guess he could have a hot sister who moved with him.

  She walks right past me and Austin and takes an empty seat in the back, paying no mind to how everyone’s watching her go. She pulls out a notebook and immediately starts scribbling while we wait for class to start, her biceps flexing lightly enough that I probably wouldn’t notice if I weren’t staring like a creeper. But I’m just curious what she’s drawing, obviously, because—

  “Good morning, class.” I whip around as Mr. Thompson drops his bag on his desk, the bell ringing. “Welcome back to Atherton. I trust y’all had wonderful summers during which you read and loved The Good Earth. Now, let’s see who I’m dealing with here. Aronson, Peter?”

  “Yo,” Pete calls from behind me.

  “Barrett, Austin?”

  “Heyo.”

  “Bates, Aisha?”

  It continues on down through “McCloud, Amber”—aka me—without the new girl speaking up, so my “new QB’s sister” guess is holding up pretty well. It’s confirmed when Mr. Thompson says, “And finally, Walsh, Jaclyn?”

  “Jack, please.”

  Mr. Thompson says something in response, but I can’t hear it over the sound of gears turning in my head, loud static in my ears.

  Jack Walsh. The new quarterback. Is a girl.

  A hot girl.

  Well then.

  -JACK-

  I’ve survived another night of sleeping in my new “bed.” I’ve survived my first practice with my new team. I’ve survived my first class at my new school. At this point, I should feel like I can survive anything.

  Instead, every minute of this day is just one wave of nausea crashing while another begins. If there’s one message everyone seems to be sending my way, it’s that I don’t belong here.

  Tell me something I don’t know, Atherton.

  Starting at a new school sucks enough. Starting at a new school where you’re walking onto their football team and replacing their beloved dead quarterback? That’s a whole other level.

  Not a single guy on the team made eye contact with me on Saturday. I’d think they didn’t even know I was there, except that ignoring me didn’t stop them from whispering, each one a bigger condescending shit than the last, betting on what would make me crack. Big money was on running lines, like I don’t wake up early to run around the nature preserve every single morning. The dicks who thought their little mat drills—burpees and high-knees and push-ups—were gonna do it clearly have no idea who they’re dealing with. And while it was fun to watch them gas out and get reamed for not keeping up with conditioning, it’s clearer than ever why they pulled in someone from outside Atherton to play QB.

  Class was the opposite—every single person in the room was trying to get an eyeful, judgy eyes burning through my shirt like laser beams, no one uttering a word. I woke up this morning determined to channel the nerves of steel my best friend Morgan used to march into their first day of junior high in Northern Florida and promptly declare their pronouns were they/them and they wouldn’t respond to anything else, but I can’t not give a fuck what people think about me when my being here depends on their ability to see me as a leader.

  At least I didn’t let Mr. Thompson call me Jaclyn.

  I’m out of my seat the second the bell rings, hoping I can grab a few minutes of texting Morgan and our other best friend, Sage, by my locker, but … huh. I thought my locker was third from the left of that bank, but that one’s covered in green paper and stripes of yellow ribbon. I definitely did not pretty up my new locker today.

  I step closer and see there’s a green number 6 right in the middle of the locker, my new number. (It should’ve been 1, which is Atherton tradition for QB1, but since that was Robbie’s, it’s been retired.) I approach slowly, like an actual alligator might leap out and bite my ass, and sure enough, the numbers on the lockers on either side of the decorated one confirm that this is locker 204.

  Which is exactly the number on the sheet of paper folded up and tucked into the back pocket of my cutoffs.

  Weird.

  I’d seen stuff like this at Butler—c
heerleaders doing all sorts of nice shit for football players—but it didn’t occur to me that might happen for me, too, especially after the cold shoulder from the guys this morning. It still doesn’t feel like this is my school, though I know I should be ridiculously grateful to them for taking me onto the team when Butler would never, ever entertain the idea of a girl on the field. I’ve wanted to play football—really play—since my dad taught me how to throw a spiral when I was four, and now, finally, I’m going to.

  I should be kissing the damn linoleum.

  I would be if “Are you fucking kidding me?” weren’t still ringing in my ears from practice.

  You knew it might be like this, I remind myself as I walk up to my glittery locker and spin the dial with my new combination. I’m about to yank it open when I see a flash of green out of the corner of my eye and hear, “Excuse me, that’s Jack Walsh’s locker.”

  “Yep, it is,” I say, pulling it open before turning toward what I now see is a group of three girls, all in cheerleader uniforms, led by a Black girl about my height with a C on her sweater and legs for days.

  The one next to her, considerably shorter and sporting the highest and longest ponytail I’ve ever seen, crosses her arms. “What are you doing at his locker?”

  “Who are you?” asks the third girl, who looks like she’s sending a spray tanner’s kids to college. “Don’t tell me he brought a girlfriend to Atherton.”

  “Don’t—What? Who’s he?” What the hell is going on here?

  “Okay, all y’all need to pause,” says another voice, and I turn to see yet a fourth cheerleader, and why are these girls all so pretty? This one’s white with sun-streaked brown waves and eyes the color of the ocean, and I swear they make cheerleaders look like this just to fuck with me. I’m about to pull my eyes away when I realize she looks … familiar. “This is Jack—Jaclyn—Walsh.” She offers me a small smile. “You’re in my English class. I’m Amber, and this is Crystal”—the captain—“Diana”—dead ringer for Ariana Grande—“and Zoe”—extra from Floribama Shore. “We’re all cheerleaders, obviously”—she gestures down at her uniform—“so you’ll be seeing lots of us. Welcome to Atherton!”