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—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?