The Big Fat Book of Hockey Imagines {REQUESTS OPEN}

She Knows Hockey - Panarin (CBJ | 9)

This is just a quick one requested by me haha... I thought of this idea and starting running with it :P Enjoy (sorry if it's a little boring...)

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"You want another one?" Jason asked from behind the bar. I didn't even have to look up to realize it was him. After all, this was the bar I'd been coming to every night for basically the past year. It's safe to say I know Jason's voice when I hear it. He brings me beer. He's like a god. 

I just wave my hand, motioning for him to bring me another beer. I had my head on top of my arms, face down on the bar. I'm too tired and too drunk and too damn sad to look up. It's almost closing time after all. I can tell there's only about one or two other people in the bar at this hour besides me and Jason. And, to be frank, I don't give a damn if I look like a drunken hoe to them. They didn't just have the day I had. 

"Wow, today must have been a real killer," I hear Jason mumble as he digs around behind the bar to find me another beer. I hear a poo as the cap comes off the bottle, and a clink as Jason sets the beer down in front of me. I'm forced to look up as I take a very long drink from the dark bottle, enjoying every drop of the smoked ale that makes its way down my throat. 

"Thank god for whoever created beer," I slur, tiredly, glancing up at the small TV behind the bar. It's replays from the CBJ-TB Game 4, first round series from 2019. 

"What an epic fail that was," I huff, my eyes glued to the screen, after rubbing them repeatedly so they'd focus. 

"You think so, too?" I hear a voice say from behind me. Its deep, so it must be a male voice. It's also not American; 

"No American pronounces 'think' like 'szvink'," I grumble, not bothering to turn around to look at the owner of the mysterious voice "who the hell are you? You're not a regular." 

"You got all that from four small words?" The voice questions with a slight chuckle. "Damn. I'm impressed." 

I sort of shrug, without much of a response. I don't really care what this dirtbag has to say. Let me drink my beer and watch my hockey in peace, would you? 

"Oh, Jesus," I mumble after a few minutes, when I see CBJ score their fifth goal, "what a pity blown coverage can do to a team." 

"A pity or a favor; but damn, most people don't pick up on that type of detail," the same Slavic-sounding male voice says from behind me. 

"Why do you keep offering up your comments? No one asked for them," I groan, finally taking the time to spin around on my bar stool and get a good look at whoever this guy is that keeps yapping off. 

"Whooaaaaaa," my eyes widen in my drunken stupor, "you look a hell of a lot like Panarin, dude." 

I rub my eyes, blink at this guy a few times, and slap the side of my head a couple times. 

"You still look like Panarin," I say, astonished, after my little display. 

"Well I hope so, I am him after all," the man chuckles and takes a seat on the bar stool immediately to my left. 

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back in Russia or something?" I ask, propping my head up with my hand, though not very productively. 

"Layover on my way back," Artemi shrugs. 

"But why this dump? It's just some lame sports bar," I persist. 

"It was the closest to the airport." 

"Where's all your luggage though??" 

"Why do you want to know?" He asks with a small grin. "Hey Jason, I'm gonna give this one a ride home."