Page 41 of Falling Like Snow

“It seems more likely that you’ll be dating before I will,” he says. “But, yes, you’re my best friend no matter what. Forever and always.”

“Okay,” I say, and he drops his hands from my shoulders. “Sorry I made you late. Mr. Winston is going to be pissed.”

“I’ll just tell him I had diarrhea,” Asher says, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

I shove him, laughing. “Disgusting!”

“Whatever! Teachers don’t question bowel issues.”

“Hmm… well, seeing as I’m also late, maybe I’ll try using that excuse too.”

He bumps my shoulder with his. “That’s my girl. Let me know how it goes.”

We part ways, and I’m halfway down the hall in the opposite direction when my phone buzzes.

Asher: My place after the hockey game? I’m thinking indoor double-decker s’mores and the next Nora Ephron movie?

Me: Yes please!

Me: Cut school for the rest of the day and do that plan now instead?

Asher: That’d have to be one nasty case of diarrhea. And you probably shouldn’t fall any further behind.

Me: Fiiiiine. Tonight after hockey it is.

Asher: Can’t wait

Chapter Eleven

“Hockey should be a summer sport,” Hannah says as she, Preeti, and I walk into the rink later that night. “Think of how nice it’d feel in here after being outside in the heat. Instead we just have to continue to freeze.”

I pull my hat off and run my fingers through my hair. “Whatever. It practically feels like summer in here compared to outside.”

The temperature dropped drastically while we were at school today, to the point where it’s even too cold for me.

“True,” she says, pulling each finger of her gloves and slipping them off. “I hate winter.”

I gasp. “I cannot believe we’re friends.”

“Spring, baby,” she says. “That’s where the joy is. When color returns to the drab outdoors and fifty-five degrees makes you feel like you can wear shorts outside.”

“Ew. It’s all rainy, though,” Preeti says.

I point to an empty spot next to some kids in the bleachers. “There?”

They nod and follow me up the steps and into the stands as the teams skate to their respective benches.

I love sports, but I’ve only been to one hockey game, when I was in middle school. I know the basics—getting the puck into the net to score, icing, penalty shots, fights—because Dad loved hockey, but it moves too fast for me to follow. By the time I figure out who has the puck, someone’s already slapped it to another player.

And even though I’ve been to a game, I don’t remember the palpable thrum of excitement present tonight.

“Thank you for coming,” I tell my friends as we take off our heavy coats and set them on the bleacher seats.

“Psh, I didn’t do it for you,” Hannah says. “This is like a teen rom-com. I want to see how things with Micah—” She abruptly stops talking, taking in my sweatshirt. “Sloane! What in Gammy’s name is that?”

My face heats as I look down at the hand-painted sweatshirt I made after school—a blue crewneck with stenciled white letters that say Don’t Puck with #16!

“That’s, like, girlfriend shit!” she exclaims, gesturing wildly at me.