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I happily sit wedged in between my Sharks family, my heart full because it feels so good to be back around this group of women and sweet Amelia.

When I found out that my brother’s team was traveling to Florida for a game this weekend and that Gemma and the other wives and girlfriends I loved were coming, too, I knew since I already had the weekend off, I just had to join.

All I did was mention to Smith that I was probably going to come out to it, and before I knew it, he had my plane ticket booked and sent me an address to where we’d be staying.

Making me feel even worse for screwing his best friend.

Multiple times.

I’ve been in South Carolina for weeks now, and as much as I like it, I really do miss being around this group so much—even though I worry that some of these people might have seen that video of me.

I have FOMO every time someone posts a picture on Instagram of them all together at team events or games, so I knew I just had to crash this party.

It’s been great too.

I got to stay in a house with Gemma, Paige, and Poppy and even had the pleasure of hanging out with Maci and Amelia for a bit before the game.

The best part of it all is that we haven’t had to be around the boys, though that’s going to change tonight because everyone is going to an exclusive club.

I’d be lying to myself if I said I haven’t thought about Ryder since the last time we hooked up.

How could I not think about a man who made me orgasm that many times?

It’s just not possible, so I’ve given myself some slack.

It’s just his beautiful penis and the way he operates it, not because I have feelings or anything—I’m sure of it.

If I was going to be here later tonight, I’d probably worry about falling into another one of his traps and letting him take me home.

Luckily, I have to catch a red-eye back home tonight to work a shift tomorrow afternoon.

My plan is to go to the club for an hour, tops.

Have one, maybe two drinks, and then Uber off into the night to the airport.

Get in. Get out. No beautiful penises or delicious tongues involved.

It’s a foolproof plan that even I can’t screw up.

“I’m so glad you came this weekend,” Gemma says, leaning her head against mine.

“Me too,” I say, gazing out at the ice.

“You seem good, Gem.”

“I’m doing okay,” she says, her tone warm and hopeful.

“Your brother—despite still being the asshole that I know he is—has been incredibly helpful and patient.” She pauses.

“I’m very grateful for that.”

I knew Smith was the one she should live with because he’d take care of her.

After all, he loves her more than anything or anyone else on this planet, but it’s nice to hear it from her lips.

My best friend isn’t the girl she was when she left for California, before she met her ex—that’s still true.

I don’t think she’ll ever be that bright-eyed, overly trusting woman again, to be honest. But she also isn’t the scared, defeated girl she was when she showed up at my house all those weeks ago, on the run.

Slowly, she’s finding her peace.

I knew it wouldn’t happen overnight, and that’s okay.

Just as long as Gemma knows she has people she can lean on—that’s what matters most.

She seems to be doing better, and seeing that selfishly eases a little of the guilt I’ve been carrying because I left her.

I snap my attention back to the game in front of me, staring at a certain player, and instantly, flashbacks of the incredibly hot times we’ve had come into my brain.

Even when Ryder Cambridge does something as simple as skate, it sends electric shocks between my legs.

He carries himself with such confidence that it would be annoying—if only it wasn’t so freaking hot.

I watch as he jerks his chin upward to get a teammate’s attention before the puck goes back into play, and it’s almost as if it happens in slow motion because I’m drooling over every move.

I haven’t hooked up with anyone since him because I’ve made a pact with myself that I don’t need a man’s touch to fill whatever void I’ve always felt.

I can fill it with other things that aren’t penises because a penis may fill it for an hour—if I’m lucky—but when he pulls out, I’m usually back to feeling empty again.

Sometimes emptier.

So, I’ve taken up hobbies that involve me keeping my clothes on when I’m not at work.

I watched a YouTube video on crocheting—tried it, hated it.

I went to a paint and sip, but my painting was the only one that looked nothing like the instructor’s—at all.

In fact, mine looked like a blob instead of a fox looking up at the moon.

And here I thought, those things were idiot-proof.

I did take an online cooking course, and while I’m not Martha Stewart, I’m confident I can make a total of three meals now—which is enough to get by on, in my opinion.

Especially since all I really need is cereal because at least fifty percent of my meals are just that.

The last thing I did—or attempted to do—to pass the time was try something on my list. Stand-up comedy—I went to a small club, thinking I’d love it.

Turned out, I’m actually not that funny.

Well, not in the way you have to be to pull that shit off.

Jokes that had had Gemma in tears from laughter got crickets.

I knew right then that I was no comedian at all.

I’m so entranced in my own thoughts that I’m startled when everyone I’m surrounded by shoots out of their seats, bursting into cheers.

The Sharks all gather up, throwing their arms around each other’s shoulders and putting their sticks up as they celebrate their win.

Ryder lifts his chin, looking in my direction, and even though he’s wearing a helmet and full gear, my breath still hitches.

One thing is for sure: I can’t hang out with the team for too long tonight.

After all, if I do …

my panties will be off, and so will his briefs.