In the off-season, which didn’t really exist with quidditch, Carter Beatleby liked to go out to the pub. This wasn’t a taboo thing to say, but when games were at their height it was pretty controversial. He needed some way to blow off steam, and he wasn’t as satisfied by extra work-outs as his teammates were. Cart had seen them in moments of drunken glory, sure, but they were just a little more serious about things than Cart was, apparently.

After a grueling practice, Carter decided that tonight was one of those nights. To blow off steam, and perhaps numb the nasty bruise he’d sustained. He hoisted his sack of bones onto a barstool, then picked up one of the small menu. He puffed up his cheeks in astonishment of the staggering prices. Despite the fact that he made a professional sports players’ salary -- which was more than adequate -- Carter never lost the sense for a good deal.

He was here now though, and a fairly recognizable face. He’d also come to discover, in his encounters with exorbitant prices, that sometimes a high price implied high  quality. This was a snazzy joint, far classier than the dives he inhabited before he ‘made it big,’ or when he just felt like he needed to be grounded. He was probably underdressed.

His knee nagged him to order something with some edge to it, so Carter ordered a beer. It was his go-to order, though he knew it wasn’t the best for his physique. There were times,, when games had been sparse, when Carter developed an unmistakable beer belly. That all turned to muscle once things picked up, but still.

Carter was just contemplating what he might order next -- something stronger for sure, but he couldn’t claim to be a big fan of hard liquor -- when suddenly his knee flared up with pain. Someone had rammed their barstool right into it. They were either ignorant to this fact or extremely rude, because they did not apologize or ask if he was okay. Mystified, Carter cleared his throat and moved the chair over a few inches. This was a tricky social conundrum.

With a name like Rover’s Fancy, Ambrose had thrown on a suit jacket in some blind attempt to guess the dress code. Granted, for the American man, a blazer was as good as casual wear, and he could have worn it anywhere with ease. The man absorbed the atmosphere of the pub, his socialite mode not quite engaged as he acclimated to the new surroundings. This place was near that bar that exploded, right? Oh, the wonders of the Wizarding World; the cleanup crew had made short work of the mess.

Ambrose adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, eyes scoping the area for anything of interest. He had wholly expected to spend some time alone until he could assimilate into a group; however, who was that? His eyebrows raised in interest as he spied a familiar figure at the bar. A sweet surprise, certainly! A toothy smile crept across Ambrose’s face, and he was quick to snake an arm around the warm shoulders of the man.

“Hey!” he chirped as he leaned his other elbow onto the bar, his chin in his palm, meeting the man’s brown eyes from a far-too-friendly proximity.

...

His grin pursed into a pensive expression, eyes narrowed and brows knit as he examined the man’s features.

...

Nope. Not who he’d expected.

Well! Ambrose suddenly laughed, not a single hint of sheepishness about him as he kept his eyes on the chaser.

“You look a lot like someone I know,” he said and gave the man a gentle clap to the shoulder, still smiling as he removed himself from the man's space. Ambrose hadn’t noticed how cold the air was until it was between them once again--- which meant he’d been clinging to this poor stranger for longer than he’d thought.

“Can I buy you a drink? As an apology for draping myself all over you, I mean.” Ambrose offered, giving a pointed motion to the open menu. “Anything you want, honestly. Unless you're waiting for someone?” As much as he wanted to take the easy opportunity to socialize, he didn't want to intrude on plans.

The chair-pusher in question turned and stared Carter down, which made Cart feel rather uncomfortable. He was slowly becoming used to people gawking at him as he passed by, astounded that a celebrity such as himself would stoop to walking down the streets or sitting in a pub. This man was doing a different type of ogling, though. Cart looked around warily, wondering if this guy was looking for someone else (even though he was gazing directly into Cart’s brown eyes).

“You look a lot like someone I know,” the dude finally explained. Carter nodded in understanding, although he assumed that this man just wasn’t recognizing the sports star before him right away. People often told Carter he was smaller in person than he looked on the field; Cart assumed that this was because he was the largest chaser the Cannons had for years. He stuck out among the smaller girls and boys. He was equally as swift and agile as they were, despite his size.

“Well - I play on the Chudley Cannons,” Carter revealed, casually as he could. “I’m Carter Beatleby. Are you a quidditch fan?” After all, it was possible that this man actually didn’t recognize him, and that Cart resembled one of the dude’s mates. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Carter was maybe getting a little too used to his status as a star athlete.

“Can I buy you a drink? As an apology for draping myself all over you, I mean…. Anything you want, honestly. Unless you're waiting for someone?”

It was Cart’s big night out, so if someone wanted to pay for one of his drinks, he would certainly let them do that. Who was he to stop people from getting what they want? “Sure, if I can get the next round,” Cart responded with a friendly smile. "I can't be drinking alone, now." He let out a stifled laugh. Despite having to play quidditch in front of thousands of screaming, passionate fans, Carter still had a shyness about him. Talking to new people made him nervous at first, as he wondered what they thought of him.

“I was just trying to figure out what poison I’ll be drinking tonight,” Cart informed him, picking up the menu that his new drinking buddy had gestured to. “Any recommendations?”

“The Chudley Cannons?” Ambrose asked, his features some cross of surprise and confusion. “Is that a quidditch team, then?" He gave a sheepish sort of smile, positive that was a stupid question to ask a professional presumably-quidditch player. Too late now.

“I’m Ambrose Darrion, it's nice to meet you, Carter."

He had a mile-wide grin as he looked at a menu. After all, Carter’s offer to pay meant that he would be around for at least two drinks! He gave an excited laugh at the thought. This pub had a delicate sort of atmosphere; Ambrose felt strangely at-home, and relaxed easily into his seat.

Any recommendations?

Ambrose shook his head.

“I was going to ask you that, actually. This is my first time here.” And one of his first times ordering his own alcohol, but that seemed like an uncool piece of information, so he held his tongue. “Honestly, I was planning to get whatever had the coolest name.” He wasn't sure if a place like this would have particularly "cool" names, but it an entirely truthful statement, regardless.

He realized he’d forgotten an answer: “I’ve never seen a quidditch match, though.” (Jeez, he might as well have admitted to being a muggle, he thought. It probably would have sounded the same.) “I grew up with quodpot, I mean. I only know a little bit about quidditch.” He wasn’t well-versed in quodpot, either, but that was beside the point. It didn’t take a genius to understand quodpot: put the quod in the pot. So simple, it could only be American.

Ambrose smiled over to Carter, trying not to come off too strong—he could sense a sort of aloofness to the man—but that was, admittedly, not a strong suit of his. He couldn’t help it! People gave him a unique energy that made him want to babble. Still, he made an effort to contain the word-vomit to a dull roar.

He glanced in the direction of some clinking glasses behind the bar. It was hard not to look around at the lovely area, but he remembered his manners, and stayed focused on his new companion.

“Do you like playing? That sounds like an incredibly cool job." Ambrose looked at him with a vicarious sort of excitement. "It must be rewarding, I imagine, with the teamwork, and the training, and the winning, and all.” He suddenly dropped his eyes to the menu, his words springing a thought about his own job. Curse random cognitive leaps. Well, nevermind. Ambrose resumed smiling as he pointed to something on the menu, which did indeed have a more unusual name.

“I think I want this,” Ambrose declared, completely ignoring its primary ingredient of whisky. "Have you decided?" He looked back to Carter expectantly.[1]

1.	Feel free to assume that Ambrose orders the drinks, if necessary.