"Those grandmas are pirates?" she asked skeptically.
"Yep." He pointed to a woman in the picture with a scowl on her face. "That was the mother of our team's first owner," he explained. "During prohibition, she and her friends would smuggle alcohol from Canada to stock up her son's restaurants in Detroit. So when Walt started the team a few years later, he named it in honor of his pirates."
"So he named the team after a bunch of old-lady bootleggers," Charlotte said.
"A bunch of badass old-lady bootleggers."
She laughed, and he couldn't help but feel the need to turn up the charm higher if he could that kind of response from her again. So Jordan kept going, pointing to a 50-year-old photo on the wall with a grin on his face. "That's the last Pirates team to win a cup, and against your New York Admirals no less."
"And I don't see any photos after that," she replied, easily matching his teasing banter.
He smiled and ducked his head. "I like you, Charlie."
He wasn't sure how serious he was when he said it, but he knew he was playing with fire at this point. At any moment, he could say something and light a spark that he hoped she would be more than happy to let burn. He had never felt that about another woman, and he wasn't sure if that made him feel more brave or more nervous.
Jordan led them down another hallway, this one lined with wood paneling and more photos of the teams from the past. Players with no helmets, goalies with no masks. The photos became more modern as Jordan and Charlotte walked, first changing from black and white to color. Then the hockey equipment began to transform into something more recognizable. Right at the end was a photo of Jordan, looking a bit younger, with a triumphant fist in the air.
"My first hat trick," he said from beside her.
Charlotte turned and gave him a warm smile. "That must have been quite a night."
"It was," he replied quietly, remembering how special that game was for him. Then he nodded his head towards a nearby room. "C'mon. Tour isn't over and the best is yet to come."
He slipped his hand into hers and gently pulled her forward, congratulating himself when she didn't pull it away from him. The team's locker room was empty by now, free of any last personnel and sound that would break the solace from standing in such a revered room. Jerseys were all lined up with the name placards and numbers facing out. Pads and skates were set up just right for a game the next day. The ceiling's lights were dimmed slightly to give the whole place a more magical feel.
He watched Charlotte slowly move forward, taking it all in before he realized she was walking into dangerous territory. He gave her hand a gentle tug, pulling her slightly off balance in her heels. She fell directly into Jordan's chest, his arm instinctively going around her waist to keep her upright.
"Sorry, couldn't let you step on the logo," he explained.
She looked down to see the team's trademark skull with crossed hockey sticks on the floor. "Another superstition?"
He gently slid his hand from her waist. "Ritual, not superstition," he said.
She flashed him a flirtatious smile, then turned to look at the room, giving him time to try and compose himself. He needed it considering the improper thoughts that were going through his mind now that he accidentally had his hands all over that gorgeous woman.
"Is that your locker?" she said, walking towards the number 61 jersey in the middle of the room.
"That's me," he said quietly as he walked over and stood next to her.
She grabbed the arm of his jersey hanging there, gently letting the fabric slip through her fingers. Seeing Charlotte delicately run her hand over his jersey in his locker didn't light a spark in him. It started a fire that he couldn't control anymore.
Jordan instinctively mirrored Charlotte's movement, reaching out and running his hand along the arm of her black cashmere sweater.
"So soft," he whispered against her ear.
He couldn't remember what had been stopping him from doing this. What about his determination to stay focused on hockey? He didn't care. The only thing he was thinking about in that moment was Charlotte's lips, red and plump and so close to him. He needed them.
Jordan nudged her shoulder, turning her slowly as his arm snaked its way around her waist so he could pull her closer. He looked into her eyes for just a moment and then he kissed her, tentative at first before she became more brazen as he pulled her closer. Charlotte's fingers threaded through his hair, making him groan into her mouth as his arm began to move up her bare skin under her sweater. She responded under his touch, arching her back to get closer to him, her teeth nibbling at his bottom lip, urging him on. This was more than fire. This was fireworks lighting up every part of him, urging him to keep going. Every response from her — every moan, every squeeze of her hand, every nibble on his lip — told him she didn't want him to stop. And dammit, he was going to give her what she wanted.
Loud voices from the hallway outside suddenly filled the room, and she quickly pulled away from him, the moment between them coming undone. Then it was quiet again. He would've cursed his bad luck but standing away from her, he could see the flush in her cheeks and the redness that was now on her lips. It made her look amazing. Charlotte caught him staring, and the nervous smile she gave him made him feel something amazing.
She ducked her head and ran her fingers through her hair to smooth it out. "I'm sure I look a bit disheveled," she said quietly.
"You look beautiful," he answered.
"Listen—"
"Before you say anything, let's have dinner."
