Page 3 of Home Field Advantage

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 doit clearly have no idea who they’re dealing with. And while it was fun to watchthemgas 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—cheerleaders 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—reallyplay—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 aCon 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’she?” 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. “ThisisJack—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 fromFloribama Shore. “We’re all cheerleaders, obviously”—she gestures down at her uniform—“so you’ll be seeing lots of us. Welcome to Atherton!”

Human beings can’t seriously be this peppy, can they? But at least Amber is trying to be nice, which is more than I can say for the three looking at me like they have no idea what to do with a new human in their midst. “I’d introduce myself, but it seems like y’all have already gotten that memo.”

“You’re the new quarterback?” Diana asks, arching a razor-sharp eyebrow.

Despite the derision in her voice, it still gives me a thrill to hear those words. “I’m the new quarterback,” I confirm. “I don’t suck. Promise.”

Amber laughs. No one else does.

“Of the boys’ team?” Zoe’s eyes widen.

“Of the only team, as far as I know.”

The girls all exchange glances I don’t know how to read. “Okay,” Crystal says slowly, and the others look deferentially to her as if it’ll tell them how to feel about this. “That should be interesting. We have to get to class, but enjoy the cookies, I guess.”

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