OFF CAMERA CRAVING

Chapter 5

Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of my hotel room, casting pale stripes across the rumpled bedsheets. I hadn’t slept more than an hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Colton’s forehead pressed against mine, heard the raw strain in his voice as he admitted he couldn’t stay away. The ghost of his fingers on my jaw lingered like a brand.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my laptop screen where the cursor blinked mockingly over an unfinished dispatch. Captain Ramsey projects calm confidence ahead of Game One… The words felt hollow. How could I write about focus and preparation when the man at the center of the story had stood in this very room last night, unraveling both of us with nothing but a look and a confession?

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A team notification: Optional morning skate followed by media availability. All credentialed reporters welcome. I dressed quickly dark jeans, a simple blouse, and my press lanyard trying to armor myself with professionalism. But as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, my reflection in the mirrored walls showed flushed cheeks and eyes that betrayed the sleepless night.

The ride to the United Center was quiet. Most reporters chatted about Boston’s defensive weaknesses or speculated on injury reports. I stayed silent, notebook clutched in my lap like a lifeline. When we arrived at the arena, the familiar chill of the rink hit me immediately the crisp scent of ice, rubber, and anticipation.

On the ice, the Storm moved through drills with sharp precision. Colton skated at the center of everything, barking adjustments, demonstrating plays with powerful, economical strides. In his practice jersey, helmet, and pads, he looked every inch the captain the city worshipped. Focused. Commanding. Untouchable.

From my seat in the stands, I watched him closely. He never glanced my way during the open portion. Not once. Yet I felt the undercurrent of tension radiating from him. When Rico made a crisp pass during a breakout drill, Colton caught it effortlessly and fired a shot that rang off the post with explosive force.

“Damn,” a reporter beside me muttered. “Ramsey’s got extra fire today.”

If only he knew why.

The optional skate ended, and players began filing off toward the locker room tunnel. I made my way down to the mixed zone for post-skate interviews, heart rate climbing with every step. Several players stopped for quick comments Jax cracking jokes about Boston’s goaltender, Tank offering his usual stoic one-word answers. Then Colton emerged.

He wore a fresh hoodie and track pants, hair damp from the shower. Cameras clicked. Microphones thrust forward. In public, the mask was flawless.

“Captain Ramsey, how’s the team feeling with Game One tomorrow night?” one reporter asked.

Colton’s smile was polite, camera-ready. “We’re ready. Boston’s a strong opponent, but we’ve prepared for this all year. Next question.”

His answers stayed clipped and professional. When my turn came, our eyes met for the briefest moment.

“Paige Monroe, Chicago Sentinel. Any concerns about fatigue or external distractions this deep in the playoffs?”

The question carried more weight than the others realized. Colton’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“No concerns,” he replied evenly. “We control what we can control. Distractions aren’t part of the equation.”

The words landed like a warning directed solely at me. Cold. Professional. Yet as the other reporters drifted away and the hallway began to clear, that mask fractured the second we were relatively alone.

Colton’s gaze shifted. The burning intensity returned, pinning me against the concrete wall with such force that my breath hitched. No words. Just that stare dark, desperate, screaming five years of craving and the fresh memory of how close we had come to crossing the line last night.

Rico appeared at the end of the hallway, slowing when he spotted us. “Cap, Coach wants the full group in the video room in ten.”

Colton didn’t look away from me. “I’ll be there.”

Rico hesitated, then gave a knowing nod and retreated, though not before shooting me a sympathetic glance that said good luck with whatever this is.

The moment we were alone again, Colton stepped closer, voice dropping to that gravel-rough whisper that undid me. “Last night… I shouldn’t have come to your room. But I couldn’t stay away. And now I can’t stop thinking about how you felt under my hand. How close I was to kissing you.”

Heat flooded my body. “You’re the one who keeps saying we can’t do this.”

“I know.” His hand flexed at his side, inches from reaching for me. “But seeing you here, watching me skate like everything’s normal… it’s driving me out of my mind. I need my head on the ice tomorrow, Paige. Not on how much I still want you. Not on how good it felt to finally touch you again, even for a second.”

I swallowed hard, fighting the pull. “Then maybe we should keep our distance. You have a Cup to chase. I have a story to write. Last night was a mistake.”

His eyes flashed with something fierce. “Don’t lie to me. You felt it too. The second I touched you, it was like no time had passed. Like we were back in that dorm room making promises we both believed.”

A door opened further down the tunnel. Voices echoed more players and staff heading to the video session. Colton straightened immediately, the captain’s armor locking back into place. But before he turned away, he leaned in slightly, his burning gaze locking onto mine one final time.

“Meet me after tonight’s tactical meeting,” he murmured. “Somewhere private. We need to talk about what happens next. Because pretending is becoming impossible.”

He walked away without waiting for my answer, shoulders squared, every inch the focused leader his team needed. But I had seen the truth beneath the surface the man who was unraveling just as badly as I was.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of interviews, strategy breakdowns, and quiet moments where I tried to regain my composure. My editor texted twice, pushing for more personal insight into Ramsey. Readers want the man behind the captain, she wrote. Dig deeper.

If only she knew how deep this story already ran.

That evening, as the arena lights dimmed and the city prepared for what could be the start of a legendary series, I found myself standing outside a quiet auxiliary press room, pulse racing. Colton had sent a single text ten minutes earlier: Back hallway. Third door on the left. Now.

I shouldn’t go. Every professional instinct screamed at me to turn around, file my safe story, and protect what was left of my heart.

But when I opened the door, Colton was already waiting in the dimly lit space, the burning gaze hitting me the moment I stepped inside.

He closed the distance in two strides, cupping my face with both hands this time, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with trembling restraint.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, forehead once again resting against mine. “Tell me this is too dangerous.”

I couldn’t.

The Stanley Cup Final loomed less than twenty-four hours away.

But in that quiet, off-camera room, the only game that mattered was the one we were playing with fire and it was rapidly spinning out of control.