OFF CAMERA CRAVING

Chapter 2

The team bus smelled like sweat, protein shakes, and barely contained testosterone. I sat near the front with the other accredited media, notebook balanced on my knee, pretending to review quotes from the press conference. In reality, my mind kept replaying the way Colton’s gaze had pinned me in that empty room—like I was the only thing that still made sense in his perfectly controlled world.

Rico Morales dropped into the seat across the aisle from me, all six-foot-four of him folding awkwardly into the space. He flashed a grin that could charm sponsors and start bar fights in equal measure. “So, Monroe. You and Cap go way back, huh?”

I kept my face neutral. “Ancient history, like he said.”

Rico snorted. “Ancient history doesn’t make a man look like he wants to either kiss you or punch a wall. I’ve known Colton since juniors. That look? That’s new. Or maybe old. Real old.”

Before I could deflect, the bus doors hissed shut and Colton climbed aboard last. He didn’t glance my way. He moved down the aisle like a king inspecting his domain—shoulders squared, jaw set, every inch the captain the Storm had built their franchise around. When he reached the row behind Rico, he dropped into the seat without a word, earbuds already in, eyes locked on the window.

But I felt it. The heat. Even with his back to me, the air between us crackled like the moments before a lightning strike on the ice.

The bus pulled out of the arena lot, heading toward the hotel where the team would bunker down before Game One. Chicago’s lights blurred past the windows. I forced myself to focus on my notes: Ramsey – professional, guarded, zero personal insight. My editor wanted depth. She wanted the man behind the mask. What she didn’t know was that mask had already slipped once tonight, and the glimpse underneath had left me unsteady.

Twenty minutes into the ride, Rico leaned over again. “You covering the whole run? Practices, games, media scrums?”

“Every day until they hoist the Cup or get eliminated,” I said.

“Brave. Most reporters tap out after a week of Coach’s yelling.” Rico’s voice dropped. “Watch yourself with Cap. He’s been different since… well, since whatever happened back then. Plays like a demon, but off ice? Locked tighter than a shutout.”

I wanted to ask what “different” meant. I wanted to ask if Colton still woke up at 3 a.m. from nightmares about missing the net, the way he used to when we were together. Instead I nodded politely. “Noted.”

The bus slowed for a red light. In the sudden quiet, Colton’s low voice cut through from behind us. “Morales. Leave the reporter alone.”

Rico raised both hands in mock surrender, but his eyes danced with mischief. “Just being friendly, Cap.”

“Friendly gets us headlines we don’t need.” Colton’s tone was flat, professional. The same voice he’d used in the press room. But underneath it, I heard the strain—the same strain I’d heard when he told me five years ago that the draft was coming and he couldn’t afford distractions. Distractions like me.

The light turned green. The bus lurched forward. I kept my eyes on my notebook, but my skin prickled with awareness. He was watching me again. I could feel the weight of that storm-gray stare on the back of my neck, tracing the line of my shoulder, the curve of my ear. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t distant. It was possessive. Hungry. Furious that I was here at all.

My phone buzzed in my lap. A text from my editor: First dispatch by midnight. Give me something juicy on Ramsey. The fans smell blood after that “no distractions” line.

I exhaled slowly. Juicy. Right. Tell the world that the golden boy still looks at his ex like he wants to devour her in the dark. That would go over well.

We reached the hotel—a sleek downtown tower reserved for the team during the Final. Security cleared the entrance. Players filed off the bus in a loose pack, laughing, trash-talking, already mentally skating the next game. Colton moved with them, but slower, like he was forcing himself not to look back at me.

I grabbed my bag and stepped off last. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the river. As I headed toward the media entrance, a deep voice stopped me.

“Paige.”

Just my name. No Ms. Monroe this time. I turned.

Colton stood under the awning, separated from his teammates by twenty feet of concrete. The team had already disappeared inside. Only Rico lingered near the doors, pretending to check his phone but clearly eavesdropping.

Colton’s suit jacket was gone, tie loosened, top two buttons of his shirt undone. The bruises on his forearms stood out under the hotel lights—purple reminders of the body checks he’d taken last night. He looked exhausted and wired at the same time.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

My pulse spiked. “About what? The interview answers you already gave?”

“Don’t play games.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to that gravel-rough register that used to melt me. “You being here… it’s messing with my head. I can’t have that right now.”

“Funny,” I replied, lifting my chin. “I was assigned. Not exactly my dream reunion either.”

His eyes darkened. That burning gaze pinned me again, screaming everything his public face refused to admit. I want you. I hate that I want you. I never stopped. The air between us thickened until breathing felt optional.

“You think I don’t remember?” he murmured, so low only I could hear. “The way you used to laugh when I scored and ran straight to you after games. The way you tasted after you stole my hoodie and wore nothing else. Five years, Paige. I still wake up reaching for you some nights.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. My body responded before my brain could shut it down—tightening, aching, remembering. “Stop.”

“I can’t.” His hand flexed at his side, inches from touching my arm. “In there, with the cameras, I have to be the captain. Out here… f**k, I look at you and all I see is the girl who promised me forever right before I signed my first pro contract. The girl I let walk away because I was too scared the spotlight would burn us both.”

My throat tightened. “You didn’t let me walk. You pushed.”

“Because I knew what was coming.” His jaw clenched. “Endless road trips. Women throwing themselves at me. Reporters digging for dirt. I didn’t want that life touching you. But now you’re here anyway, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t still crave every inch of you.”

Rico coughed loudly from the doorway. “Cap, Coach wants a quick meeting in ten. Something about defensive zones.”

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

Rico hesitated, then shrugged and disappeared inside.

Silence stretched. Colton’s chest rose and fell faster now. “Stay away from the locker room after games. Stay away from me when the lights are off. For your sake.”

I laughed softly, bitterly. “You think I can just switch it off? You’re the one who keeps looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he challenged, stepping so close our breaths mingled.

“Like you’re starving and I’m the only thing that can feed you.”

His eyes flashed. For a heartbeat I thought he’d close the last inch, press me against the hotel wall, and kiss me until the five years dissolved. Instead he exhaled sharply and backed up one step.

“Game One is in two days. I need my head straight. If you write one word about anything but hockey…” He let the threat hang, but we both knew it was hollow. He wasn’t threatening me. He was warning himself.

“I write the truth,” I said. “Whatever that turns out to be.”

Colton’s gaze lingered on my lips one second too long. Then he turned and walked toward the entrance, shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides.

I watched him go, heart hammering against my ribs. The automatic doors swallowed him. Rico shot me a sympathetic look before following.

Alone on the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone and started typing my first dispatch. Captain Ramsey remains laser-focused ahead of the Stanley Cup Final, delivering polished answers and zero personal insight…

But my fingers trembled. The truth burned hotter than any headline.

Inside the hotel, somewhere above me, Colton was probably pacing his room, fighting the same war I was. Public ice. Private fire. The championship run had barely started, and already the real battle was off the ice—between the man the world saw and the one who still looked at me like forever might be salvageable after all.

I hit send on the safe version of my article.

Then I looked up at the glowing windows of the team floor and whispered to the night air, “What the hell are we doing?”

My phone buzzed again. Another text from my editor: Good start. Dig deeper tomorrow. I want the man, not the myth.

I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

Deeper.

That was the problem.

Every layer I uncovered with Colton Ramsey threatened to pull me under.

And the worst part?

Some reckless, aching piece of me wanted to drown.