Summary:

"Rozanov?" he says, almost without meaning to. Surely he's mistaken and is about to be told to fuck off. Or, even more alarmingly, he is correct, and then he is certain to be told to fuck off, and possibly punched in the face. The man shifts, eyes drifting from his drink up to Scott and— well, there's no denying it. The captain of the Boston Raiders is drunk in Scott's neighborhood dive bar.

"Fuck," the response is slow, the delayed reaction of molasses spilling out of a jar carelessly knocked over on the kitchen counter. "I must have overdone it. I have summoned the Ghost of Hockey Past."

Scott could just leave. He could turn on a heel, and leave this drunk asshole to discover on his own what consequences are.

Because he's stupid, though, because he's nothing if not a responsible captain even when the drunken idiot in question isn't even one of his own teammates, and yes, because a small part of him can't help but love a good train wreck when he sees one, he sits down instead.

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Or, Scott Hunter runs into Ilya Rozanov sometime around midnight after a game, and the two saddest, loneliest, most closeted hockey players in New York end up sharing more than they mean to.