Her eyebrows shoot up high enough that I can see them over the frames of her sunglasses, and I realize that sounded like a come-on that it absolutely was not. Great. The literal last thing I need is a cheerleader thinking I’m trying to get under her skirt.

Her whole body shifts then, and it hits me as she tilts her head that whomever she’s waiting for is coming, and I only have a couple of seconds; I can’t waste them on reassuring her that I’m not a perv. “I really, really need the guys on the team to listen to me, and I’m hoping you can somehow help. That’s all.”

“Me?” She sounds completely puzzled, but I have no time to get into it, because when she speaks again, it’s to yell, “Cara, do you even know how late you are?” She turns back to me. “We have to run.”

“No problem,” I say, quickly stepping away before Cara—the tiniest of the cheerleaders, I recognize now—stomps on my foot in her rush to Amber’s passenger seat.

I’m not nearly far enough away yet when I hear Cara say, “What the hell did she want?”

And I’m still close enough to hear Amber reply, “Just the English homework. Chill out.” For the first time all day, I get to breathe a sigh of relief that someone somewhere is kind of listening to me, and hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell something can actually change for the better.

Chapter Three

-AMBER-

Jack and I don’t exchange a word the next day, but I’m still thinking about it over smoothies at Diana’s pool with the rest of the squad after practice. It was just so sad. Like, I’m her best bet at getting taken seriously? We’ve barely exchanged five words, and they haven’t exactly been nice ones. Does this mean she realizes I’ve been checking her out? Does she think I’m an easy mark because she’s spotted me mentally licking her biceps in English?

Or is she serious that I’m literally the only one who’s been nice to her for even point-five seconds?

It doesn’t matter, the more responsible part of my brain, which doesn’t get hung up on strong, sad girls with incredible arms, demands. I readjust the edges of my leopard-print bikini and shift on the chaise I’m sharing with Cara to take a long sip of strawberry-banana deliciousness. Forget Jack Walsh. You are not friends. These are your friends.

“I think you’re starting to burn,” Cara observes, lifting up her sunglasses an inch and poking at my shoulder. “Hand me the sunscreen. I’ll do your back.”