OFF CAMERA CRAVING

Chapter 3

The hotel gym at 5:30 a.m. smelled of rubber mats and determination. I’d slipped in with my media credentials before most of the team woke, hoping for quiet time to organize notes and maybe catch an unguarded moment. Instead, I found Colton already there.

He was alone on the far side, shirtless, sweat glistening across the broad planes of his back as he powered through pull-ups on the rig. Each rep was controlled fury—muscles bunching, veins standing out along his arms, the same arms that once held me like I was the only steady thing in his chaotic world. The bruises from the last game had darkened to deep purple, but he moved like pain was just background noise.

I froze in the doorway, notebook forgotten in my hand. He hadn’t seen me yet. For a few precious seconds I watched the man behind the captain mask: jaw tight, eyes focused on some internal battle, breaths coming sharp and rhythmic. This was the Colton I remembered—the one who trained like the ice owed him something personal.

Then he dropped to the floor, turned, and our eyes met in the mirrored wall.

The temperature in the room plummeted and spiked in the same instant. His expression shuttered instantly—cold professionalism slamming down like a visor. But not before I caught the flash of raw need that made my stomach tighten.

“Morning, Ms. Monroe,” he said, voice flat as he reached for a towel. “Didn’t realize media had gym access this early.”

“Perks of the assignment,” I replied, keeping my tone light even as my pulse raced. “Trying to get a feel for the routine before Game One.”

He wiped sweat from his neck, the motion drawing my gaze to the strong column of his throat. “Routine’s simple. Skate hard. Win. Repeat.”

I stepped further inside, pretending to jot something down. “And off the ice? Any rituals the fans should know about?”

Colton’s laugh was short and humorless. “Fans don’t need to know everything.”

The door behind me opened. Two younger forwards—Jax Harlan, the speedy winger with the cocky grin, and Marcus “Tank” Delgado, the quiet giant on defense—walked in, laughing about something from last night’s video review. They spotted us and the energy shifted.

“Cap! You beating the sun again?” Jax called, slapping Colton on the shoulder. Then his eyes landed on me. “Oh, hey—new reporter lady. Paige, right? You here to watch us suffer or write poetry about our abs?”

Tank rolled his eyes and headed straight for the weights without a word, earbuds already in.

I smiled politely. “Just observing. Don’t let me interrupt.”

Colton’s gaze flicked to me once more—burning, intense, screaming the words he couldn’t say in front of his teammates: Get out before I forget why I have to stay away. Then he turned to Jax. “Focus on your edge work today. You were sloppy on the backcheck yesterday.”

Jax saluted mockingly and moved to the bikes. Colton grabbed a water bottle and headed for the treadmill, deliberately putting distance between us. But the gym wasn’t large enough to escape the tension. Every time I glanced up from my notes, I felt his eyes on me—hot, frustrated, possessive.

I tried to concentrate on drafting questions for the next press availability. How does the team chemistry feel heading into the Final? Any concerns about fatigue after the long playoff run? The words blurred. All I could think about was the way his voice had dropped last night outside the hotel: I still wake up reaching for you.

Twenty minutes later, Coach Harlan—Jax’s uncle and the Storm’s no-nonsense head coach—strode in, clipboard in hand. “Ramsey. My office in five. Bring your head, not whatever’s distracting you this morning.”

Colton’s jaw flexed. He nodded once, then shot me a final look as he passed. Close enough that I caught the faint scent of his soap mixed with clean sweat. Close enough that his arm brushed mine accidentally-on-purpose. The contact sent electricity straight through me.

“Stay out of the way today, Ms. Monroe,” he murmured under his breath, so low only I heard. “Some things are better left off-camera.”

Then he was gone.

Jax whistled softly from the bike. “Damn. Cap’s usually locked in tighter than Fort Knox. You got him rattled, new girl.”

I shrugged, cheeks warm. “Just doing my job.”

Tank glanced over from the bench press, grunting as he racked the weight. “Job’s one thing. History’s another. Whole team knows something’s up. Cap doesn’t slip. Ever.”

I didn’t answer. Instead I packed up my things and headed out, needing air. The hallway outside the gym was quiet, carpet muffling my steps. I leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly, trying to steady the chaotic beat of my heart.

Footsteps approached. I looked up expecting security or another player. Instead it was Colton again, now in a Storm hoodie and shorts, fresh from Coach’s quick meeting.

He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved in the hoodie pocket like he didn’t trust them not to reach for me. “You shouldn’t be in there alone with us.”

“I had credentials,” I said defensively. “And I wasn’t alone.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean. Every second you’re around, it’s harder to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” I challenged, stepping closer despite every warning bell. “That we’re strangers? That five years didn’t happen? That you don’t look at me like you still—”

“Like I still what?” he cut in, voice rough. The hallway felt too small suddenly. “Like I still crave you so much it’s messing with my game? Like every time I close my eyes I see you in that old apartment, wearing my jersey and nothing else, laughing when I told you I’d love you even if I never made it pro?”

My breath caught. “Colton—”

“Don’t.” He closed the distance in one stride, towering over me but not touching. The burning gaze was back, full force—no teammates, no cameras, just us. “Don’t say my name like that. Not unless you’re ready for what happens next.”

The air thickened with everything unsaid. I could see the war in his eyes: captain who needed focus versus the man who had never let go of the girl he lost. His chest rose and fell rapidly. My own body responded with a rush of heat I couldn’t suppress.

A door down the hall opened. Voices spilled out—Rico and a couple of trainers heading to breakfast. Colton stepped back instantly, mask sliding into place like armor.

“Morning skate in an hour,” he said loudly enough for them to hear, all business again. “Make sure your story stays on the ice, Ms. Monroe.”

He walked away without another glance.

Rico slowed as he passed me, eyebrows raised. “You two okay? Cap looked ready to either score a hat trick or commit a penalty.”

I forced a smile. “Just pre-game tension.”

Rico chuckled. “Yeah. Tension. That’s what we’re calling it.” He clapped me on the shoulder lightly. “Watch your back, Monroe. Championship runs bring out the best and the worst in people. Especially when old ghosts show up.”

He continued down the hall, leaving me alone with the echo of Colton’s words and the ghost of his almost-touch still tingling on my skin.

I headed back to my room on the media floor, mind spinning. The core of the story was shifting under my feet. This wasn’t just about a hockey team chasing silver. It was about two people chasing closure—or maybe something far more dangerous: a second chance that fame had already proven could destroy them.

By the time I sat down at my laptop to expand my notes, my phone buzzed with a team-wide alert: Morning skate open to select media. Bus leaves in 30.

I stared at the screen. Another opportunity to watch Colton in his element. Another chance for that off-camera gaze to undo me.

I typed a quick reply to my editor: Digging deeper. Tension high. Ramsey focused but carrying something personal.

Then I closed the laptop and grabbed my press pass.

The real game was accelerating.

Colton’s cold interviews were one thing.

His burning stares when no one watched were another.

And I was caught right in the middle—heart racing, professional walls crumbling, wondering how long we could both pretend the fire between us wasn’t about to consume everything the championship stood for.

As I stepped onto the bus for the arena, I caught Colton’s eye through the tinted glass. He looked away first.

But not before I saw the hunger.

Not before I felt the silent promise: This isn’t over.

The Stanley Cup Final waited on the ice.

Our unfinished forever waited in the shadows.

And neither of us was ready for what would happen when the two worlds finally collided.