OFF CAMERA CRAVING

Chapter 1

The press room smelled like stale coffee and desperation. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, turning every face into a washed-out mask. I clutched my notebook like a shield, heart hammering so hard I was sure the sound technician clipping a mic to my collar could hear it.

Five years.

Five years since I last stood in the same room as Colton Ramsey, and now I was the one who had to ask him questions while the entire NHL world watched.

“Paige Monroe, Chicago Sentinel,” I muttered under my breath, practicing the line I’d said in the mirror this morning until it sounded professional instead of broken. “No shaking. No staring. No remembering how he used to say your name like a prayer.”

The double doors at the far end opened. Cameras clicked like locusts. And there he was.

Colton Ramsey—captain of the Chicago Storm, two-time Hart Trophy winner, and the man who once promised me forever while we lay naked under a dorm-room blanket that smelled like cheap detergent and his cologne. He was taller than I remembered, shoulders broader under the sharp navy suit, jaw sharper, eyes… colder. The same storm-gray eyes that used to light up when I walked into a room now looked straight through the crowd like we were strangers.

He took the podium. Flashbulbs exploded. Reporters surged forward. I stayed rooted at the back, pulse roaring in my ears.

“Captain Ramsey,” a guy from ESPN shouted, “after that overtime winner last night, are you feeling the pressure of the Stanley Cup Final yet?”

Colton’s smile was camera-ready—polite, empty, practiced. “Pressure’s part of the game. We’re focused on the next shift.”

His voice was deeper, rougher around the edges, like gravel dragged across ice. I hated how it still scraped over my skin and left goosebumps.

Another question. Another polished non-answer. He was ice incarnate—untouchable, untouchable, untouchable. Exactly what the Storm’s PR team had drilled into him after the scandals, the tabloid photos, the endless parade of models on his arm that had shredded our “forever” into confetti.

I waited for my turn, throat dry. When the moderator finally pointed at me, Colton’s gaze flicked my way for the first time.

Our eyes locked.

For one heartbeat the mask cracked. Something raw and hungry flashed across his face—gone so fast I almost believed I imagined it. Then the professional smile snapped back into place.

“Paige Monroe, Chicago Sentinel,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Last season you told reporters that personal distractions were behind you. With the Final starting in two days, has anything—or anyone—changed your mind about keeping that focus?”

The room went quiet. Everyone smelled blood.

Colton leaned toward the mic. “Distractions don’t win championships, Ms. Monroe. I keep my eyes on the ice.”

Ms. Monroe.

Not Paige. Not the girl he used to call “my forever” while he kissed the inside of my wrist like it was sacred. Just Ms. Monroe.

The press conference ended ten minutes later. Reporters packed up. I stayed behind, pretending to check notes while my editor’s voice echoed in my head: Get the off-camera stuff, Paige. The real story. The world wants to know what’s under that armor.

The room emptied until only the cleanup crew, a couple of PR interns, and Colton remained. He was shrugging out of his suit jacket, rolling shirtsleeves up corded forearms still marked with fresh bruises from last night’s game. When the last intern slipped out, he turned.

And looked at me like a man dying of thirst.

No cameras. No mic. No audience.

His gaze pinned me against the back wall—dark, desperate, furious. The same look he used to give me right before he’d back me into a corner and kiss me until I forgot my own name. Heat slammed into my stomach. My knees actually weakened.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, low and rough. Not the polished captain voice. This was the voice that once growled my name against my throat at 3 a.m.

“I didn’t ask for the assignment,” I shot back, stepping closer even though every survival instinct screamed to run. “My editor pulled strings. Apparently the world loves a redemption arc. Lucky me.”

He laughed once, bitter. Closed the distance until only three feet separated us. Close enough I could smell the faint trace of wintergreen gum and the sharp scent of victory sweat still clinging to his skin. Close enough to see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow—the one I gave him when we were nineteen and I threw a textbook at his head after he missed our anniversary for practice.

“You think this is funny?” His voice dropped another octave. “Five years, Paige. Five goddamn years of me trying to forget the way you taste, and now you’re standing in my locker room like you still belong to me.”

“I never belonged to you,” I whispered, even as my body betrayed me and leaned in. “You made sure of that when you chose the spotlight over us.”

His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for me. Instead he shoved it into his pocket, knuckles white. “You left.”

“You let me.”

The air crackled. For one insane second I thought he might kiss me right there against the press-room wall, cameras be damned. Then the side door banged open and a massive defenseman—Rico Morales, the Storm’s enforcer and Colton’s best friend—strolled in, whistling.

“Cap, bus leaves in ten—oh.” Rico’s eyes bounced between us. “Didn’t know we had company. Paige Monroe, right? The new beat writer. Heard you used to date my boy back in the day.”

Colton’s jaw flexed. “Ancient history.”

Rico grinned like he knew better. “Sure, sure. Well, ancient history better get on the bus before Coach loses his mind. Final starts in forty-eight hours, and you two look like you’re about to start a different kind of overtime.”

Colton didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on mine, burning with everything he couldn’t say in front of cameras or teammates. I felt it like a physical touch—down my spine, across my lips, lower.

Rico cleared his throat. “I’ll wait outside. Two minutes, Cap. Don’t make me drag you.”

The door clicked shut again.

Colton exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw me. “Stay out of my way, Paige. For both our sakes.”

I lifted my chin. “I have a job to do. Same as you.”

He stepped so close our shoes touched. “You have no idea what you’re walking into. This isn’t college anymore. The fame doesn’t turn off when the lights do. It eats you alive. And if you get too close again…” His voice cracked, just barely. “I won’t survive losing you twice.”

My heart stuttered. Before I could answer, he turned on his heel and walked out, shoulders rigid, leaving me alone in the empty press room with shaking hands and the ghost of his gaze still scorching my skin.

I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breathing.

The championship run had just begun.

And so had whatever this was—revenge, redemption, or the slowest, most painful kind of foreplay the NHL had ever seen.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit, pulse racing.

Outside, the team bus idled under arena lights. Colton stood at the door, staring straight at me across the parking lot like he could see every secret I’d buried for five years.

He didn’t wave.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked at me the way a starving man looks at the last meal he swore he’d never touch again.

And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that the real game wasn’t on the ice.

It was between us.