“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.”