OFF CAMERA CRAVING

Chapter 4

The arena ice gleamed under the bright morning lights like a frozen battlefield waiting for war. I sat in the stands with a small group of select media, notebook open, pen tapping nervously against the page. Below, the Chicago Storm moved through their optional morning skate with military precision. Colton was at center ice, barking orders, his voice echoing off the empty seats.

“Harlan—tighten that gap! Tank, watch the neutral zone. We’re not giving them anything cheap.”

His commands were sharp, captain-mode fully engaged. No trace of the man who had cornered me in the hallway hours earlier, eyes blazing with five years of suppressed want. On the ice he was pure focus—skating with powerful, economical strides, stickhandling the puck like it was an extension of his body. The bruises on his forearms were hidden under practice gear, but I knew they were there, reminders of the physical toll this run was taking.

I tried to concentrate on the drill: power-play setups, penalty-kill rotations, the small adjustments Coach was yelling from the bench. My editor expected tactical insights mixed with human interest. What she didn’t expect—what I couldn’t yet write—was how every time Colton glanced toward the stands, even briefly, the air shifted.

He never looked directly at me. Not once. But I felt the pull anyway, like an invisible thread stretched between us, taut and humming.

Rico skated past the boards near my section, tapping his stick twice in greeting. “Morning, scribe. Getting the good stuff?”

“Trying,” I called back. “How’s the mood in the room?”

“Electric. Cap’s got us believing we’re unstoppable.” Rico’s grin faded a fraction. “Just hope whatever’s eating at him doesn’t leak onto the ice.”

Before I could probe, the whistle blew for a water break. Players coasted to the benches. Colton removed his helmet, running a gloved hand through damp dark hair. Sweat plastered his practice jersey to his chest, outlining every hard-earned muscle. He took a long drink from his bottle, then turned—accidentally or not—toward the stands.

Our eyes locked for the briefest second.

The mask slipped.

That burning gaze hit me like a body check: raw, desperate, furious at its own existence. It screamed across the distance: I see you. I still crave you. Get out of my head before I lose this game before it even starts.

Then Jax slapped him on the back, breaking the moment. Colton’s expression smoothed into captain neutrality as he listened to whatever the winger was saying.

My heart hammered. I scribbled nonsense in my notebook to hide the tremble in my hand. Ramsey leads with intensity. Team responds to his command presence. Safe words. Professional distance. Lies.

The skate ended thirty minutes later. Players filed off the ice toward the locker room tunnel. I packed my things slowly, giving the others a head start. As I reached the concourse level, a security guard nodded me toward the mixed zone where post-skate interviews sometimes happened informally.

Colton emerged last, hair still wet from the shower, wearing a fresh Storm hoodie and track pants. He was surrounded by a couple of local TV reporters, answering questions with clipped efficiency.

“…feeling confident about the matchup against Boston?”

“Boston’s tough, but we’re prepared. Next question.”

I hung back, waiting my turn. When the others drifted away, I stepped forward.

“Paige Monroe, Chicago Sentinel. Captain Ramsey, any concerns about fatigue this deep in the playoffs?”

He looked at me—public mask firmly in place. “We manage recovery. The body’s trained for this.”

Cold. Professional. Exactly what the job required.

But as the camera crew packed up and the hallway cleared, he lingered. The last reporter disappeared around the corner. Suddenly it was just us again, the distant hum of Zambonis resurfacing the ice the only sound.

Colton’s shoulders dropped a fraction. The burning gaze returned, pinning me against the concrete wall without him taking a single step closer.

“You’re killing me,” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion and something darker. “Sitting up there watching me like you still belong in my life. Like I didn’t spend every night after you left wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my career letting you go.”

I swallowed hard. “You chose the fame, Colton. The contracts, the endorsements, the life where ‘forever’ had an expiration date the moment the draft happened.”

His eyes flashed. “I chose survival. For both of us. You think I wanted the groupies, the fake smiles, the constant scrutiny? I pushed you away so the spotlight wouldn’t chew you up the way it chews everyone else.”

“And yet here I am,” I whispered, “chewed up anyway because my job dragged me back into your orbit.”

He took one step closer, then another, until the scent of his fresh soap and the faint wintergreen gum filled my senses. No touching. Just proximity that felt more intimate than any kiss we’d shared years ago.

“Every time I look at you off-camera,” he murmured, “it’s like the five years never happened. I see the girl who believed in me when I was nobody. The one who stayed up studying while I was at the rink until midnight. And I hate it. Because I can’t have you and keep my head in the game. Not with the Cup this close.”

My breath shuddered out. “Then stop looking at me like that. Like you’re one second from backing me into this wall and reminding me exactly why we promised forever.”

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling as if fighting the urge to reach for my waist. “You think I don’t want to? God, Paige… one taste of you and I’d forget Boston, forget the scouts, forget every reason I had for letting you walk away.”

Footsteps echoed from the tunnel. Rico’s voice carried ahead of him. “Cap, Coach wants the full line meeting in fifteen. Something about power play adjustments after last night’s film.”

Colton straightened instantly, the captain mask snapping back. He gave me one last scorching look—full of frustration, longing, and a silent warning—before turning toward Rico.

“On my way.”

Rico appeared, eyes bouncing between us with open curiosity. “Everything good here? Or should I pretend I didn’t interrupt whatever this is?”

“Interview over,” Colton said flatly. “Ms. Monroe has her quotes.”

He walked away without another glance, Rico falling into step beside him. But Rico shot me a quick thumbs-up over his shoulder, mouthing “good luck” before they disappeared.

I leaned against the wall, legs unsteady. The concrete was cool against my back, a stark contrast to the heat still flooding my veins. My notebook felt heavy in my hands. I opened it and stared at the blank page where I was supposed to capture the essence of the morning skate.

Instead I wrote a single line I could never publish: He’s colder than the ice in public. Off-camera, his gaze burns hotter than the spotlight that once destroyed us.

The rest of the day blurred—team meetings I wasn’t allowed into, strategy sessions, light workouts. By evening, the hotel buzzed with pre-Game One energy. I filed my safe dispatch: tactical observations, quotes from Colton about focus and preparation. My editor replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a note: Keep pushing. Readers want the personal side.

Personal.

If only she knew how dangerously personal it was becoming.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I paced my room on the media floor, the city lights of Chicago glittering beyond the window. My mind replayed every stolen moment: the gym, the hallway, the mixed zone. The way Colton’s control frayed the second the cameras left.

A soft knock sounded at my door.

I froze.

It came again—three measured taps.

Heart in my throat, I crossed the room and peered through the peephole.

Colton stood in the hallway, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and sweats, hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. No security. No teammates. Just him, shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes already locked on the door like he could see straight through it.

I opened it before I could talk myself out of it.

He didn’t step inside. He just stood there, burning gaze pinning me in the doorway, the same desperate hunger from every off-camera moment now filling the small space between us.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said, voice low and strained. “But I can’t stop either.”

The championship run had only just begun, yet the real stakes were already higher than any Stanley Cup.

One wrong move off the ice, and everything we’d both fought to rebuild could shatter worse than before.

He waited, silent, the unspoken question hanging heavy: What happens when the lights go out and we finally stop pretending?